#i gave them colours just in case i do end up colouring the comic (doubt)

[tatck]

The ships in the vagabond comic concept art.

[teawaffles]

There’s No Business Like Show Business: Chapter 6

As Moran and the others each supported the players in their own way, Bond, Maya and the company ran the length and breadth of London, staging scenes of their play as they went.

At Westminster Bridge, Alice, played by Maya, ran a Caucus race with the Dodo and his friends. At Bloomsbury, she kicked Bill the Lizard out of the chimney. At Southwark, the Caterpillar taught her how to grow and shrink her body at will. At Knightsbridge, she met the Duchess and her household, and asked the Cheshire cat for directions. At Marylebone Road, she joined a mad tea-party where the time had stopped at six o’clock, then played croquet with the Queen of Hearts in front of Buckingham Palace. After that, she listened to the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle’s exchanges at Billingsgate—— and then, near the Old Bailey, she gave her testimony at the Knave’s trial.

They played a host of strange and fascinating characters, across a medley of scenes and a variety of places. Tonight, the whole of London had become a wonderland of their very own making.

The performance went well, just as they had practiced, and the response was more than satisfactory. The audience only expanded as the play progressed, and the sounds of the cheers and applause growing louder made their hearts leap for joy.

However, on the other hand, a suffocating anxiety had begun to build up within Maya.

The final act was approaching.

A story about a dream, which in itself was like a dream, was nearing its end.

The scene of the trial. The Queen of Hearts jabbed a finger at Alice, who had taken the witness stand, and screeched an order.

“Who cares for you? You’re nothing but a pack of cards!” Maya — Alice — said.

Immediately after she’d said that, countless playing cards were sent fluttering in the air. They reflected the light from the street lamps, sparkling beautifully like snowflakes as they settled onto the stage.

Blackout. Dark curtains were drawn across the stage, such that the audience could not see what was happening on it.

The crowd waited in silence for the next location to be announced, but meanwhile, in the wings, the players were growing agitated.

“……What? The actress playing Alice’s sister hasn’t arrived yet?”

Hearing the report from the crew in charge of carriage transport, Bond was stunned.

“By sheer bad luck, her carriage is stuck in a jam……”

“I see…… This is bad.”

They had considered the possibility that the crowds may hinder their movements across the city. But fortune had favoured them thus far — the fact that it had went so smoothly till now had made them careless.

“What should we do? Of all times, it had to be at such an important scene…”

“——I’ll do it.”

A hush fell over the players. Bond’s snap decision had astonished everyone.

However, the man himself proceeded to put on a wig, and began to pull on his costume without hesitation. Of course, he made sure not to resemble the former actress Irene Adler. Thinking of the comicality of dressing as a woman on top of his current dress as a man, he stifled a giggle.

Having Bond stand in for an actor was one plan they had prepared in case of emergencies. But as he wanted to let the company showcase their own talent, he saved it as a last resort for situations when they were absolutely trapped.

Seeing his resolve, the company members shook off their doubts, and steeled their hearts to see the last scene to the end.

“Maya, are you ready?”

“……Y-Yes.”

Something seemed to be on her mind.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re able to concentrate?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

Having confirmed that Maya had switched her full attention to her role, the two of them ascended the stage.

It had only been twenty seconds after the problem was found. The blackout curtains opened, and from a dream, the story returned to reality.

As Alice, played by Maya, lay on his lap, Bond slowly shook her shoulder.

“Wake up, Alice!”

Then Alice rubbed her eyes and sat up.

Bond continued.

“Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!”

Although it had been a sudden substitution, as a former professional, he was right in his element. Watching from the wings, the company members gasped.

“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice.

Then, buzzing with excitement, she told her sister all about the adventures she had in her dream.

When the story ended, Alice’s sister patted her head fondly.

“It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.”

Nodding, Alice got on her feet and prepared to dash off the stage. Now Alice would leave the scene, and Maya’s part would end—— or at least, that had been the plan.

Just before she left the stage, Alice — Maya — suddenly stopped.

“……Maya?”

Her colleagues murmured in hushed tones at the strange sight unfolding before them.

On stage, Bond had been inwardly shaken by her act, but kept up a smiling face as Alice’s older sister.

Maya remained where she was, silent and motionless. As the actors on stage stood at a standstill, and the scene began to diverge from the original story, the audience also began to grow restless.

Then, Alice turned to face her sister.

“I had a dream.”

“………?”

An unexpected ad lib. Hearing Alice veer off from the script, Bond’s heart began to thump loudly in his chest. But Maya continued to speak in the role of Alice.

“In my dream, there were many strange animals and people, and I kept getting pushed around. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and they all said selfish things. I journeyed through all that. I didn’t understand any of it until the end…… But it was a wonderful and jolly dream to have.”

Then, Alice looked straight into her sister’s eyes.

“Do you think, I’d be able to dream it again?”

She tilted her head to the side in a cute manner.

To the audience, these were just the gestures of a little girl; But Bond understood the true meaning behind those words, and his heart ached.

After the players left the stage, and the curtains fell, would they ever be able to step into the limelight like this again? Even though their performance tonight was undoubtedly a success, there was no way they would be able to use this extraordinary technique again and again. Moreover, Bond’s support would end here as well.

After this dreamlike night ended, what awaited them was their cruel reality, of life amidst the discrimination and prejudice this society held for the poor.

“When I grow up, will I never be able to dream like this again?”

Alice — Maya — rocked on her heels and toes as she asked this question. To the unknowing audience, this also seemed like nothing more than the actions of an innocent child.

While playing the role of Alice splendidly, Maya was also appealing to Bond.

Could we ever become a distinguished theatre company, and be recognised by the wider world?

They had poured their heart and soul into that cry, and Bond had received it. While staying in character as Alice’s sister, just as Maya did, he wore a sincere expression as he replied.

“Think about it for yourself, and act accordingly.”

His voice was gentle, yet stern.

“Whether you’ll be able to dream like this from now on: that’s for you to think about. Decide on your own. By no means should you constrain yourself by thinking that adults should act like adults.”

Bond had taken Moran’s words and altered them slightly. They now took on a different meaning, but that was alright. Just like how one could interpret an inescapable tragedy as a happy ending, Bond had also given a new meaning to Moran’s words.

The poor should live their lives as befits their station—— to Maya, who’d ridiculed her own way of life as an actress, Bond contended that being born into poverty was no reason to give up on your dreams.

However, even after hearing her sister’s words, Alice was still unconvinced.

She pouted. “But when I grow up, there will also be difficult things waiting for me.”

Even if one were to dream, reality would not allow them to happen. Having experienced this for herself many times over, Maya launched her rebuttal.

To that, Alice’s older sister walked up to her, and gently placed a hand on her cheek.

“Alice, I was so moved by your story. If you just close your eyes…… See, there’s the White Rabbit. And there’s the drowning Mouse. Over there’s the Queen of Hearts, screeching away, and the Cheshire cat, as well as the Duchess.”

Her sister closed her eyes and pointed, and Alice followed her movements with her eyes.

At last, she pointed at the audience: the tremendous crowds, who had been watching their performance with fervour.

“………!”

That very instant, Maya had forgotten about Alice. Enchanted by the crowds, it was this young woman whom Bond spoke to.

“Alice, your story was able to add such wonderful colours to my world. Your dreams, have the power to shape reality.”

Her dreams could change the real world.

Bond’s words pierced straight through her heart.

“If you meet difficult obstacles, remember this sight: for it was created from your dream.”

Then, for one final time, Bond showed Alice the audience watching the stage.

It didn’t matter where you stood in life. Everyone had the right to live their dreams.

Saying his lines in the role of Alice’s sister, Bond conveyed these thoughts to the players.

The crowds watched their improvisation with rapt attention, so much so they even forgot to blink. It seemed this audience, coming from all walks of life, had resonated with their exchange.

Once again, the message exchanged beneath this impromptu performance enveloped the stage and the surrounding crowds in a quiet stillness.

Having understood her sister’s words, a smile rose on Alice’s face.

“——Thank you. Well then, I’ll be off to tea.”

With light steps, she skipped off the stage.

With a peaceful smile, Bond watched her figure disappear, and slowly, the curtains were lowered onto the stage.

Immediately after, a sea of applause thundered like a storm. Joyous whistles and ovations poured forth from the crowds, their deafening cheers rocking the very cobblestone streets.

Then the curtain rose once again for the curtain call, with all the actors lining up on stage and giving a bow. The applause grew even louder.

As the audience showered them with praise, the chairwoman, Maya, shouted over the cheers.

“With that, our play has come to an end. To everyone who has stayed with us all this way — thank you very much!”

She was so moved that she’d forgotten to put on her theatrical tone from the beginning of the play — this was her honest, heartfelt gratitude.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you! Until the day we meet again, goodbye!”

With those closing words, the players bowed in unison once more, and the performance came to an end.

Just as the curtains fell, from the roof of a faraway building, Bond caught sight of Moran giving him a thumbs-up. To his senior, who had been watching over them all this time, Bond responded with a contented smile.

Just like this, the play that had rocked the capital of the Empire for one night only, drew to a close.

Translator’s notes

A rough map of the play’s route across London

At the start of this chapter, the sequence of events described actually follows the exact storyline of Alice in Wonderland. From Chapter 5, we also know that they began at Piccadilly Circus and moved on to Trafalgar Square — again, the respective scenes they acted out are the first two chapters of Alice in Wonderland. I’ve traced their rough route here:

Also, if you recall that in Chapter 5, Part 2, Fred tells the policemen that the next venue is the British Museum, when they were really going to Knightsbridge. From the map, the company had probably just left Southwark at this time — you can see that he really threw them for a loop.

[gb-fics]

A Useful Gift

Fanfiction:

Kiryuuin Shou x Kyan Yutaka (Golden Bomber)

Note: It’s Shou’s birthday! (^-^) The fic is set during Gekkan and no one has to keep social distance ... because it’s funnier that way :D

„Now, let’s get to the good part”, Shou announced and eyed the three gift bags piled up in front of him. “Though your presents are usually shit. You never get me anything useful.”

Yutaka thought of rolling his eyes, but decided that it would be a little over the top. He felt self-conscious when the cameras were on them and tried to keep his expression as indifferent as possible. The viewers were supposed to laugh about the presents without getting distracted by their bickering.

He rolled his eyes mentally, though, because Shou always overdid it with the usefulness of his presents.

“Well, we’re only allowed to spend 1000 yen!”, Jun defended himself. “You don’t really get anything good for that.”

“I think you just suck at picking gifts”, Shou muttered and grabbed the first gift bag.

For a moment, Yutaka felt nervous that Shou would pick his one first, although he had put it out of his reach further than the others on purpose. But Shou seemed to understand the hint. Yutaka felt confident, that he had come up with something funny this year and they usually tried to put the most ridiculous gift last for the joke to hit harder.

Shou fumbled with the bag.

Yutaka hoped that neither Kenji nor Jun would steal the show, but he doubted they had thought of anything nearly as good. He had really outdone himself this year. He couldn’t wait to see Shou’s face.

“Oh, great”, Shou said dryly and held up a book. “Another photobook by Kenji. I can add it to my collection.”

“The new one was released after your birthday, so I thought you might want a copy!”, Kenji chimed. “It contains pictures of me. Isn’t that an amazing present?!”

Shou looked down on the cover with slight disdain.

“Because I don’t see enough of you on tour”, he said and put the book down.

Yutaka knew that he wasn’t going to open it. Shou felt that looking at his bandmates’ photobooks was somehow inappropriate. Which was ridiculous in case of Kenji specifically, because they had all seen plenty of nude pictures of him already. Sometimes, Yutaka thought that he knew Kenji’s body better than his own.

“Aren’t you happy?” Kenji was shouting. He sounded cheerful and it was hard to tell if he expected Shou to be overjoyed for real. His voice was teasing yet proud at the same time. Kenji loved showing off his body.

“I’m delighted”, Shou said sarcastically.

“If you liked that, you’re going to love my gift”, Jun said.

Shou made a face, indicating that he was expecting the worst.

He picked up Jun’s bag.

Yutaka licked his lips nervously. He really hoped the gift was going to be as unspectacular as Kenji’s photobook.

Shou reached into the gift bag, making a big show out of feeling around in it.

“There is nothing in there!”, he complained. “Did you get me something this small?”

“It’s not about the size”, Jun said.

Yutaka smirked, but refrained from making a joke.

Finally, Shou pulled something from the bag and held it up. If anything, his expression was even more grim this time.

“Thanks, Jun”, he said without any enthusiasm. “Just what I needed.”

Yutaka looked at the acrylic stand in Shou’s hand, that showed Jun mostly dressed in white.

Shou placed the item on top of Kenji’s photobook and looked down on them for a moment.

“Do you really hate me this much?”, he asked.

“Oi, those are good presents!”, Kenji shouted.

“You can put it on your shelf, so I’ll always be watching over you!”, Jun added.

“Sounds like my personal nightmare”, Shou muttered and pulled the last gift bag towards himself. “This better be good, Yutaka. If it’s something with your face on it, I’m going to scream.”

“Don’t worry”, Yutaka said with a grin. “This one is going to be good.”

Shou gave him a doubtful look, before he put his hand into the bag.

Yutaka’s heartbeat picked up pace. He really hoped this was going to turn out as funny as it had in his imagination. Shou talked about his AV watching habits openly, yet he got flustered by things like looking at a bandmate’s photobook. Yutaka was curious into which category this gift would fall. A part of him really was curious how Shou felt about these things, although that intention had been secondary of course. Yutaka was mostly aiming for a laugh here.

Shou felt around and his eyes widened in a comical expression. He was clearly putting on a show for their viewers, but it still made Yutaka feel giddy with anticipation.

“Well, I know exactly what this feels like”, Shou observed. “But I doubt …”

He pulled the gift out of the bag.

“Oh, never mind”, he said and held the flesh-coloured dildo up for the cameras. Yutaka wondered, if they were going to blur it. He had gone for a naturalistic look. “This is exactly what it felt like.”

“You said you wanted something useful”, Yutaka said, pleased with himself. Even from where he was seated, he could see that the comment section was going wild. “And this is the only one of the gifts you can actually use.”

“Oi!”, Jun protested.

Yutaka looked at him with a stern expression.

“Name one thing you can actually use an acrylic stand for”, he challenged him.

“That … that thing isn’t much better”, Jun said and pointed to the dildo, that Shou was still weighting in his hand.

“Well, I can name one use for it at least”, Yutaka countered. “If you want me to elaborate …”

“Shut up!”, Jun shouted and nearly broke down on his table with laughter. He always laughed harder, when he felt embarrassed.

Kenji was cackling as well.

Shou put the dildo down on Kenji’s photobook quite carefully.

“I thought the other presents were giving me the finger already, but this one takes the message of ‘Go fuck yourself’ to a whole new level.”

Yutaka couldn’t help laughing. This was what he had always liked about Shou. He was funny, not just when it came to writing shows and developing concepts, but he was also spontaneous and never missed a beat. Secretly, Yutaka had hoped he would get a little more flustered about the present, but he took it with dignity; not giving away how he felt about this kind of toy in general.

“You’re welcome”, he said.

“But isn’t it too big?”, Kenji chipped in. “I mean, look at how big it is! And Shou is so small!”

“Fuck you too, Kenji”, Shou huffed.

“Seriously, get up, get up!”, Kenji shouted.

Shou sighed loudly but got up from his seat.

Yutaka snatched the dildo and held it up next to Shou’s hip for comparison.

“Kenji’s right”, he agreed. “If you shove it up your ass, it’s practically going to come back out of your mouth.”

“Oh god, do you have to talk like that!”, Jun complained hysterically. “Just put that thing away.”

Yutaka noticed that he eyed the dildo as if it was a weapon that might attack him anytime.

“There is no way it will fit!”, Kenji repeated. “It’s even bigger than Jun. Look at the girth. And Shou’s anus is so small!”

“Could we not discuss my asshole in public?”, Shou asked and sat down again.

Kenji leaned over the table and formed a small circle with his fingers, that he held right into the camera. “It’s this tiny!”, he shouted.

Yutaka turned and slapped the dildo right into Jun’s face.

Jun started screaming.

Yutaka laughed maliciously.

“Kenji, stop that, put your hand down”, Shou scolded, but he had to laugh in spite of himself.

“Take that thing out of my face, you are being gross!”, Jun shouted, while Yutaka still tried to rub the toy against Jun’s face. Jun raised his arms to defend himself, but he did it so uncoordinatedly, that he nearly fell off his chair.

“It’s not gross. It hasn’t even been used”, Yutaka disagreed. “Yet.”

“Don’t make me think of it!”, Jun protested.

“He’s not going to use it. It’s too big”, Kenji insisted once again.

The only one, who didn’t say anything about possibly using it or not, was Shou himself. It only made Yutaka more curious.

Jun finally lowered his arms to stop fighting and Yutaka lost interest immediately. He put the dildo back down onto the photobook. He still wondered, if they had blurred it. If so, his attack on Jun must have looked pretty ridiculous to the audience.

“You still have to chose your favourite”, Yutaka pointed out.

“Right!”, Kenji agreed. “Please pick your favourite gift.”

“It’s really going to be a tough decision”, Jun said. As usual, he sounded nervous for no specific reason.

Shou stared down on his gifts with an indifferent yet somehow resigning expression.

Yutaka licked his lips. He wasn’t sure what Shou was going to pick. Of course, it would be the gift of which the choice would be funniest to the fans. Shou was that type of person. Yutaka felt oddly stressed, because he himself wouldn’t know how to play off any of the choices as a joke. Maybe he’d pick Jun’s acrylic stand and claim it was at least good for throwing things at.

“I pick the dildo”, Shou finally said after a long pause. “It’s an awful present, but it’s the only one where I don’t have to see one of you idiots.”

“I knew you’d like it, homo”, Yutaka said smugly, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a little surprised. He would have expected Shou to be too uptight to even joke about it. Just sometimes, he wondered about Shou sexual orientation, but he had never dared to ask.

One of the staff members rushed in to collect the items from Shou’s desk to create space for him, although they had already reached the end of the stream anyway. The opening of the gifts had been the climax so to speak.

“That was it for today”, Shou started and Yutaka tuned out while he continued talking next to him. Shou talked a lot on these programs. Occasionally, Yutaka felt like he might as well stay home. A nap would have been a nice alternative.

He only sprung back into life to wave everyone goodbye and wish them a good night. He himself had to suppress a yawn.

“Ah, today was fun, wasn’t it?”, Jun asked as the cameras stopped running. He seemed to have forgotten that someone had slapped a dildo into his face earlier.

“Did you enjoy your birthday, Shou?”, Kenji asked.

“You could have tried a little harder with the presents”, Shou pointed out. “But thank you for participating.” He always scaled down his grumpy act when they were in private as if he was worried it was his duty to motivate them and tell them they did a good job as their band leader. Neither of them had ever viewed Shou as that type of leader, though, and he always seemed a bit helpless when he tried to thank them. Yutaka thought that it was somehow adorable, though.

“Well, I’m going to remove my paint before we leave”, Kenji announced.

“I’m coming with you”, Jun agreed and jumped up.

The staff members were busy carrying the camera equipment out of the room. Yutaka always felt a little uncomfortable watching them do actual work, while he just earned his money sitting around and letting Shou do the talking. He felt useless, but if he offered to help, he’d mostly be in the way, because he never knew where to put the equipment and one time, he had even dropped a pretty expensive mic.

Shou got up and stretched himself. He always seemed bothered by sitting for too long, but it was probably only because of his bad posture.

He looked around the room.

“Did you see where they put the gifts?”, he asked.

“What?”, Yutaka teased. “Are you that eager to look at Kenji’s nudes at home? Just follow him on Instagram like everyone else.”

“No, of course not, I want the dildo”, Shou said. He spoke seriously and not like he was joking at all. It was hard to tell, though, because he was still looking around the room instead of facing Yutaka.

Yutaka’s throat felt oddly tight.

“You do?”, he asked, keeping his voice flat to not give away his emotions.

“Sure”, Shou confirmed. He walked around the tables and started checking the floor as if the staff might just have dropped his gifts.

Yutaka got up awkwardly as well, leaning against the table as he watched Shou. He didn’t really know what to do with his body, but it felt wrong to just remain seated.

“I wasn’t lying, it’s the best present. I mean, I always wanted to get a proper dildo, but then couldn’t bring myself to actually spend the money. I’ve been using a plug for years.” Shou was just rambling on while walking the room that was now empty aside from them. He didn’t look at Yutaka. “Not one of those small, glittery ones, mind you. You know, the mean-looking, black ones, that are more spikey.”

He turned around and indicated a quite impressive size considering he was only talking about a plug.

“You know?”, he repeated and looked at Yutaka so expectantly, as if he really assumed he knew exactly what kind of sex toy Shou was talking about. He’d probably seen it in AVs before and assumed the rest of the world watched as much porn as him.

Yutaka shrugged, hoping to look more knowledgeable than he was.

He tried not to imagine Shou using anything dildo-like on himself. How flushed he would be and how aroused and how naked.

“Glad my present turned out to be …” He cleared his throat. “… pleasing.”

Shou turned around again, continuing his pacing through the room.

“I just wish you hadn’t picked one that’s the size of Godzilla’s cock”, he complained.

“Oh no, it’s not. Godzilla’s cock was too expensive”, Yutaka said dryly.

Shou laughed.

“Seriously, I wonder if Kenji is right though. I might not be practiced enough to make it fit.”

Yutaka licked his lips. Shou’s casualness made him insecure. He did not want to think about how practiced Shou was in this regard or what that practice looked like in detail.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you were actually into gay sex toys”, he huffed out to defend himself.

Shou turned around again and frowned.

“What are you talking about?”, he asked, sounding annoyed. “It’s a toy. It doesn’t have a gender. It says nothing about your sexual orientation. It’s gay when you are with another man. But when I’m doing it by myself, there is no other man involved. There is nothing gay about enjoying some additional stimulation. It’s physically pleasing regardless of whom you are attracted to.”

As much sense as Shou’s words made, they still confused Yutaka. He felt a disappointment, that surprised himself. He hadn’t gotten the gift with a certain intention after all. It had been meant as a joke, something that would make the fans laugh.

“If you say so”, he mumbled, making it sound sarcastic. He felt like he wanted to avenge some sort of hurt that he couldn’t quite name. Shou’s statement hadn’t invalidated him in any way after all. “I just wasn’t expecting it from you.”

“Oh, trust me, if you can do it by yourself, I’ve tried”, Shou said.

Yutaka tried to laugh, but his throat felt too tight for it to come out naturally. It sounded as if he was coughing.

“Whatever”, he said, scared that Shou would offer any more details that he wouldn’t know how to deal with.

“I didn’t take you to be this prudish”, Shou bit out sharply, seemingly aware that Yutaka was trying to change the topic.

He had crossed the room completely now and had stopped short in front of the tables again.

His words were clearly meant as an accusation. Yutaka felt like they were fighting, but he didn’t know about what. He felt angry at Shou, although he couldn’t explain what kind of reaction he had been hoping for. And Shou seemed angry at him, although Yutaka felt like he had stayed pretty neutral.

“Well, not all of us need to stick to toys to enjoy themselves”, he said, although he knew it was Shou’s weak spot. He was sensitive about not feeling attractive enough to be desirable to others. It was the kind of comment, that was aiming to hurt Shou, even though Yutaka still couldn’t explain his reasons for that.

“So, you prefer real cock?”, Shou shot back immediately.

The question came so unexpectedly that it left Yutaka speechless.

It wasn’t what he had meant to say, but he didn’t know if he was supposed to deny it either. Shou had sounded angry, but also a little insecure. Yutaka couldn’t tell what answer he was hoping for. The mood shift had come too suddenly.

“I …”, he stuttered. “I mean … I did before, yes. Sex with men, I mean. By no means often, though. I …”

He broke off, because he didn’t know what else to say. He had wanted to tell Shou for a long time already, but he had never known how to bring it up. He hadn’t been sure about his reaction. Whenever it was not outright introduced as a joke, the topic of homosexuality always seemed to make Shou somewhat uncomfortable.

Shou nodded.

“I thought so”, he said quietly. He no longer sounded angry at all. “I’ve always wondered.”

“I was wondering how you would react to the dildo”, Yutaka confessed. “I was curious.”

Shou walked towards Yutaka and sat down on the table next to him. His feet were dangling just a few centimetres above the floor. Again, he was sitting hunched over.

“How does it feel?”, he asked. “Sex with another man?”

Yutaka shrugged. Both of them were looking into the same direction instead of facing each other.

“Good.” He paused. “I mean, it’s much the same as sex with women. It depends on the partner and the situation. But generally speaking, it’s good.”

“I always felt silly”, Shou confessed. Yutaka didn’t know when their conversation had turned this quiet and serious. Shou right next to him seemed fragile all of a sudden and Yutaka wanted to hug him, and was scared he’d fall apart under his touch all the same. He remained sitting still.

“I’m attracted to men like I’m attracted to women, but I never had sex with a guy. I just don’t know how to get there. It’s like I’m still the same sad virgin I was in my early twenties. Like, a half-virgin. I turned 37 today and still haven’t unlocked half of my sexuality.”

Yutaka snorted with laughter, although he knew that Shou was serious.

“I thought I’d feel less stupid if I used a proper dildo at least. Like, less as if it’s all just in my head.”

Yutaka snorted again and shook his head.

“You define your sexuality yourself. It’s nothing you have to unlock”, he pointed out. “And what happened to toys being inherently genderless?”

“It’s a silicone cock, Yutaka”, Shou said. “That’s gay.”

Yutaka burst out laughing. Suddenly, he felt very affectionate towards Shou.

“I should probably ask the staff where they put it”, Shou added and sighed.

“Really?”, Yutaka mocked. “You’re just going to ask where they put the sex toy you were meaning to stuff up your ass?”

Shou groaned and made a face, that caused his nose to wrinkle. He still wore his makeup, which usually made him more conventionally attractive, but once he made faces, he looked more like himself again. In Yutaka’s opinion, that made him a lot cuter too.

“You are right, I should just write it off as lost. Too bad, tonight promised to be fun.”

Yutaka’s neck felt hot at the thought of Shou actually planning to use the dildo tonight.

He pushed himself off the table, so he could face Shou, who kept his eyes lowered.

“You know you don’t need to have sex with another man to validate that part of your sexuality or your identity, right?”, Yutaka assured.

Shou nodded reluctantly.

“Yes, intellectually, I know that.”

“And you wouldn’t do anything stupid you’d regret just to prove something to yourself, right?”, Yutaka carried on.

Shou nodded again.

“I’m not stupid”, he muttered.

“And it still means so much to you?”, Yutaka asked.

Shou finally looked up. He wasn’t wearing contact lenses tonight and his eyes were dark and clear.

“It does”, he confirmed. “I’m curious. But I don’t just want to do it with anyone. Then it wouldn’t be so hard. I want it to be with someone I feel comfortable with. Someone I care about and who’s willing to put up with me when I’m being awkward.”

“Yes”, Yutaka confirmed. “Sounds like a dildo alright.”

Shou reached out to slap him.

“Asshole”, he said with a slight smirk.

“Seriously, though”, Yutaka said. “It’s my present that got lost, so I feel like I have to compensate you.”

Hesitantly he reached out and took hold of Shou’s hand. It felt warm and Yutaka hoped that his palm didn’t feel sweaty. He was nervous.

“Let’s go home and celebrate your birthday properly, what do you say?”

He looked at Shou and for a moment feared that he would pull back and get angry at him. Not for liking guys, at least in that regard they seemed safe now. But for risking their band and their friendship and offering something to Shou he might not even want.

“You know, the dildo was nice”, Shou said and broke into a wide, unashamed grin. “But I told you, it seemed too big for me anyway.”

[such-a-melt]

➳reluctant

Pairing: Bobby x mc

Summary: you’ve convinced yourself that Bobby is too perfect to be true, and with thoughts of a single tweet fueling your paranoia, it’s hard not to be wary of the hypothetical player. (Takes place on Day 8, after the mean tweets challenge)

Warnings: a lot a bit of angst turned fluff, cheating, Bobby is sad:(

Note: REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! Bobby mentions that he’s been burned in the past but it’s never specified, so I assumed he got cheated on. And in this the mc also got cheated on in the past, cus what’s better than bonding over mutual suffering?

ps. I was listening to Blue by Troye Sivan on repeat, which makes this 100 times more emotional.

pps. thank you for all the lovely responses on my other fic! You guys really made my day and the comments encouraged me to finish this faster, so thank you again!

You didn’t think being alone with Bobby would ever feel like a punishment.

And yet you found yourself sitting across from him, a heavy silence hanging over the two of you. The heated water of the jacuzzi lapped across your skin, bubbles dancing across your legs before rising to the surface in a flurry of air. A sweet fizz invaded your tastebuds as you downed your glass of champagne, and from the corner of your eyes you saw Bobby enjoy his own glass, only more leisurely than you had. The two of you were meant to be bonding, relishing in the reward of winning the afternoons challenge, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start a conversation.

‘Calling it now, Bobby is the biggest player on this year’s Love Island.’

Every thought you had centred around the one phrase that managed to flip your world upside-down. Okay, maybe not your whole world, but it still stung. Your mind seemed to be mocking you in a masochistic melody, ‘he’s a player! he’s a player!’; the cruel voice sung out.

You knew you shouldn’t trust a random tweet from a random person online. It was so stupid. Not only that, but the tweet said ‘calling it’, so nothing had actually happened. ‘Yet,’ your paranoia replied.

But what if? What if this random person happened to have an intuition so strong they could tell he was playing you from a single glance? Doubt filled you to the brim, clogging your throat, clouding your common sense, sealing your mouth shut. You recognised these strong emotions, but you didn’t think you’d feel them around Bobby, at least not so soon. You felt like you were drowning in a sea of your own feelings, your life line waiting for you just out of your reach, but all you could do was drown.

“What’s on your mind?” Bobby asks, effectively snapping you out of your thoughts. You looked up at him with a shy smile, almost guilty for the thoughts that seemed to take your mind over. He had no fault in this, really. He had been completely loyal, even when he was picked by Priya; one of the most stunning women you had seen, may you add.

“Just the challenge, I guess,” you responded, leaving out your less than stellar thoughts about his intentions, “it gave a lot to think about, didn’t it?”

Bobby hummed in agreement, “it gave me an idea of what the public thinks of us. It’s weird, you kind of forget about all the cameras in here, but now I’m suddenly aware of them again. Especially after that tweet about Hope and Noah.”

You scoffed, pouring yourself another glass of champagne, “I mean I was surprised at first, but after thinking about it for a while...”

Bobby gave you a look of disbelief, but if the smirk on his lips was any indicator, he was more amused than shocked, “So you actually think Hope is playing him to get to the final?”

“Well, not necessarily..” you sighed, taking some time to phrase your next words carefully, “they’ve got issues. And they’ll have a lot more. Hope is too bossy and Noah’s too reserved. They seem like a good couple.. but it makes you think. What are they like when we aren’t watching?” You took a sip of the cold bubbly, “it’s funny. People on the outside see more than we do, but they don’t see everything either.”

Bobby gave a sound of understanding, taking your words into consideration, “So you reckon those tweets were onto something?”

You took note of how carefully Bobby was watching you as he waited for your answer. Were they all true? Even the one about Bobby?

Looking into those gorgeous eyes, you almost wanted to slap him. God you liked him so much, but why was everything so complicated all of a sudden? Within just a week, this man had managed to become a very important part of you life. His affections seemed to grow on you, and he crept his way through your defences, a hefty root burying itself in the soil of your heart. Your instincts were telling you to run, to shut him out, that he was too good to be true. You wanted to believe that he was genuine, that he liked you just as much as you liked him. But what if? What if the tweets were all true?

“Oh, definitely.”

Bobby snickered, “So you think I’m actually a player?”

“Are you?” Your eyes stared straight into his, almost challenging, but he remained unfazed.

“Only time will tell..” he giggled, fingers wiggling in an attempt to be comically mysterious.

The uneasy feeling settled in your stomach once more. You knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but you broke the eye contact to look away, anywhere else. Tired of his cryptic answers, you just gave a thoughtful hum, not knowing how to reply.

He appeared to sense the mood turning sour, because his smile faltered slightly. You felt his feet poke yours through the warm water, tickling yours teasingly. You hated how you couldn’t stop yourself from cracking a smile.

“Hey.. are you mad at me?” He asked so innocently, like a little child getting scolded for the first time. As if he couldn’t get any more adorable, he pouted his bottom lip out, eyes pleading with you. He was giving you the most adorable puppy eyes, and you could tell he was trying his hardest not to laugh.

“I don’t appreciate the emotional manipulation,” you joked, but he could tell your heart wasn’t into it.

“I’m gonna keep annoying you until you tell me..” he grinned, and it become harder and harder to avoid the way his feet tickled yours beneath the water.

You groaned, looking up in exasperation, “fine,” you huffed childishly, “you’re a little leach, you know.”

“One of my many talents,” he retorted, “now are you gonna tell me?”

You hesitated, but knew it was best to just tell him. It was now or never.

“I know it’s dumb, but that tweet actually got to me,” you sighed, “I know it shouldn’t have, and I do trust you, but there’s just that doubt, you know?” Your voice suddenly took on a softer tone, exposing a vulnerability Bobby hadn’t seen up until now, “I guess it just reminded me of the way things ended with my ex. We had been together for a long time, and trust me I’m over him, but the way things ended..?” You sighed and stared into your glass of champagne, circling the rim with the tip of your finger, not knowing how to finish your sentence.

“It just makes you second guess everyone’s intentions,” he finished for you. You felt the water swish as he placed his glass on the side and moved to sit directly next to you, “I get it.”

He hesitated slightly, but eventually his hands clasped yours under the water. You felt him trace faint shapes with his thumbs, the simple touches comforting you. Your drink was long forgotten as you relished in the simple affection he provided.

You met his eyes, and just like that, you knew he understood.

“I was dating this girl, and I was convinced we’d be together for a long time. Turns out she had been cheating on me for months with a guy I thought was one of my best friends.” He sighed sadly, “and same as you, I am over her. But it still left a mark on me. And I guess... it’s since then that I’ve found it really hard to see anyone as more than a friend. Maybe because it was hard for me to accept that anyone could actually have real feelings for me.”

You were left stunned, anger bubbling up in your chest. Tears gathered in your eyes at the way he spoke, at just how broken his heart had been. The fact that anyone would dare wrong him so deeply -and more importantly, the fact that you had doubted him so hard- hurt you more than you thought it would.

“Fucking shit Bobby...” you wanted to find words to comfort him, but they seemed to get stuck in your throat. Instead, you leaned over and wrapped your arms around his torso, enveloping him in the warmest hug you could muster. Without hesitation he returned the gesture, arms wrapping around you securely. You leaned into his warm embrace, cheek flush against the skin covering his heart.

“I’m sorry. I was dumb and doubted you without thinking..” you whispered.

Incredibly, he still mustered up a dry laugh, “you don’t have to be sorry, MC. I wasn’t exactly helping my case either, was I?”

You smiled softly, leaving the softest peck on the freckles across his chest. The two of you remained that way as the sky’s colours shifted to an array of pinks and purples, the full moon watching over you, and in that moment you knew you had nothing to worry about after all. You suddenly felt really lucky to just be able to hold him under the night sky, a gesture more intimate than the most desperate kiss.

//

note: damn I really am a fool, making myself cry like that

[aweebwrites]

Celestial Influence 7 pt2

Part 1 Of This Chapter

_________

"I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna come back." Cole says cheekily and Kai huffed. 

"At least we know it works." Kai says, placing his hands on his hips as he looked at his friends.

They all shared a look before they vanished in plumes of sand, mist, snow and gold. They returned moments later and Nya narrows her eyes.

"Hey. Why haven't you told us about this before?" She asked, looking between Jay and Lloyd.

"We kinda had our hands full with a lot of stuff if you can recall." Lloyd shrugs.

"Oh right." Kai says, surprised he somewhat forgot about that.

He could never forget what had happened but it wasn't in the forefront of his mind like it had been for the longest while. It was… Strange. Good strange.

"So. What's next on the list?" Lloyd asked and they all blinked at him.

"You're the head honcho. We should be the ones asking you that." Jay pointed out.

"Oh. Right." Lloyd says with a sheepish grin. "In that case, we wait." He says and they all immediately knew what he meant.

"It's not guaranteed it worked Lloyd. Our powers may not stretch that far." Zane reminded him.

"Yeah. I mean, it's a whole nother realm after all." Jay added.

"The only thing that isn't possible for us right now is that which we haven't thought of. It's just a matter of being patient." Lloyd says, tucking his hands into his pockets as he headed towards the Monastery.

"Is this something I should know about?" Garmadon asked his son as he walked by.

"You will soon." Lloyd hummed as he headed towards his room, content to read his comics until it was time.

Meanwhile, the other ninja shared a look.

"I guess we'll have to trust him and wait." Nya says and they all nodded, following after him. 

"What do you think that was all about?" Garmadon asked Wu, both brothers content to enjoy the fresh air of the outside.

"Wait and see." Echo says as he got up, Tai-D beeping curiously in his arms as he followed after his brother, smiling once Zane offered him one. 

___

Hours passed uneventfully with Zane making large snowflakes for Echo to marvel at, Kai and Cole training outside, Nya using her powers to see what kind of new technology she could create, Jay playing video games and Lloyd meditating outside in the meditation area. Kai grunts as he pulled off a spin kick, the blow connecting solidly to the side of Cole's head that made the larger male stumble to the side but he only stood straight again, rolling his shoulders as if he was never hit.

"You're really built like a brick wall." Kai huffed and Cole smirked.

"Not to brag but I did stand up to the giant stone warrior after taking him head on." Cole says proudly and Kai laughed.

"Of course you did." He says, amused as he and Cole called it quits for today.

"Hey Lloyd-" Cole was cut off once he picked up something.

Both he and Kai looked to the sky at the same time, watching as seconds later, a vortex opened overhead. They weren't surprised at who came through. Not in the slightest. They were just amazed it worked.

The synced roars of the formerly deceased Ultra Dragon sounded as it circled over head, landing shortly after in the large training yard.

"It worked! Rocky!" Cole yelled, rushing over to hug one of the four heads the dragon has. 

Cole was rewarded for his hug with eager nudges and licks that had him laughing up a storm.

"Woah! It worked!" Jay yelled as he ran out, jumping midstep so he could land on Wisp's head, hugging the dragon he missed so much. "Oh man you don't know how much we missed you guys!" He yelled as the Ultra Dragon wagged their tail happily.

"Flame! I've missed yah!" Kai grinned then laughed as he was nudged hard enough to leave him toppling over.

"Shard!" Said ice dragon head perked update the familiar voice then roared eagerly yo see Zane quickly making his way over, hugging his snout immediately.

"Warms your heart, doesn't it?" Nya says to Echo who watched with wide eyes, having never seen a dragon before.

Wu and Garmadon whom were also witnessing the reunion watched marveled as they interacted. There was no doubt about it. That dragon is indeed the very same Ultra Dragon from past, its soul brought back from the Departed Realm and its decayed body restored.

The Ultra Dragon spent a few moments to reconnect with the original Ninja before turning to Lloyd where he was still meditating somehow. The others let them go,  standing back as they walked over to where Lloyd was, grins still present on their faces.

It was great seeing them again but the Ultra Dragon, all of their individual dragons as one had always belonged to Lloyd. He's the one that missed them the most after all. The Ultra Dragon walked up to Lloyd then stood behind him, waiting to be acknowledged. It took a moment but Lloyd does come up from his meditation, smoking as he looked over his shoulder at them.

"Hey boy…" Lloyd says softly then stood, facing the large Dragon that stood before him.

He walked forward then reached both hands out, petting two of their four heads, smiling wider as they purred, leaning into his touch. He couldn't resist. He hugged one of their snouts tightly, heart filled with happiness. It felt as if everything he's ever wanted, he can finally keep. Friends, his father, UD… He hasn't felt this happy in… Ever. The world around bum reflected his happiness, flowers blooming anywhere there was soil, the sky clearing up, revealing a clear afternoon sky and a brightly coloured rainbow stretching from both ends of the sky. His friends watched with grins on all of their faces. They've never seen their leader, their brothers this happy before. It was a good look on him. And in a way, everything they've went through, all the destruction and loss, all the constant fighting, all of it was worth getting to this point. Garmadon walked over then, resting a clawed hand on his son's head and he grinned up as his father, green eyes bright with joy. It was enough to melt the coldest of hearts. Garmadon only smiled and hugged his son, his happiness contagious.

Yeah, today's a good day.

______

Loud clangs echoed through the brightly lit volcano, the bright glow of magma creating a large, winged shadow against the wall of the volcano, the shadows hand wielding a hammer, bringing it down repeatedly. The shadow belonged to whom nearby villages and towns called the God of Fire. Kai wasn't so sure about that title bit they kept calling him and all his friends gods. In fact, the term god was universally used by everyone in Ninjago. It's just, most consider them evil, vengeful gods whom will bring Ninjago to ruin if anyone so much as met their eyes. The nearby settlements knew that wasn't true but they weren't very cozy with him either. They were wary and that was understandable. Expected even. Though he can't complain too much about it. Because of their wariness, the Forest of Tranquility that held his Fire Temple and where his dragons play and grew was left alone, considered his territory. No-one so much as walked close to the forest itself, fearful of both him and his dragons. Especially his 5th dragon. A massive four headed beast that could swallow man in one bite. Or so the tales say. In reality, Solaris, Heath, Flare and Spark would never harm a fly without them proving themselves threatening. And his fifth dragon wasn't his to begin with. It was UD, Lloyd's dragon. He just liked to visit, with or without Lloyd to play with and help raise his Ninjago-borne kin. Kai was perfectly fine with UD playing babysitter. It gives him a moment for himself. Plus watching then romp and frolic was a heartwarming sight.

Right now, he was working on a new weapon. A sword to be exact. He's made weapons like this for the other elemental masters before. They weren't too keen to take them but they didn't push, knowing well enough that they relied on their powers more than they did weapons. They didn't want to run the risk of offending or angering them further after all. Not that Kai and the rest of the Pantheon would ever strike them down for something like that as everyone outside of their small family had believed. The elementals would use them on their own either way. Shade was most stubborn for reasons they knew and understood but even he had to wield them when facing tough enemies. 

Kai lifted the bright red glowing sword then ran his fingers along it to make sure it was properly made. He nodded at it and put out the heat it held, leaving a dark silver coloured sword in its wake. He set it down on the weapons rack he had embedded into the side of the volcano thanks to Cole. Those are his own swords he kept for the sake of keeping them. He couldn't make such enriched iron ore go to waste after all. He wiped his hands into his smith's apron as the wings behind him flexed.

"Come on Solaris. Enough shadow play." Kai says with a smile as he closed the panel then looked at her from where she still had her wings opened. "Today's my day for observation and patrol." He says,  heading out, taking off his apron and tossing it aside.

Solaris gave a low whine as she followed him and Kai huffed.

"Cheer up. Today's your day to come with me." He says lightly as he reached across to run his hand along her neck as they walked, Solaris much taller than she was just a few weeks ago, much like the rest of their siblings. They'd be big, UD had told him once. He didn't care much for some, as long as they were happy and healthy.

"Kai!" The ninja paused at the entryway of the temple that connected both the temple and the volcano's main chamber.

Said entryway also connected to the path to the Underworld. He looked back then grinned to see Cole, God of Earth himself making his way towards him, his sole dragon he decided to make not too long ago next to him that held the name Bolder.

"Fancy seeing you here." Kai teased lightly and Cole huffed.

"Going out on patrol?" Cole asked as he came to a stop before him. 

"Yeah. Care to join?" Kai asked as Solaris nuzzled Boulder in greeting. 

"Sure. I was gonna let Boulder stretch his wings a little anyway." Cole shrugged and Kai nodded.

"Alright. Then let's go." Cole says and Kai lead the way, their dragons following after them.

Their dragons were too young to carry their weight for long but they were great company. This is what their day consists of. Scheduled patrols, spending time with the small families they've made on their own and the even stronger family they all made together. Walking out into the open, Kai takes a deep breath of fresh air. Things were rough before but moments like these reminded them that it was all worth it to get here. Now that they are here, they'd do their part and keep Ninjago safe.

No matter what.

___________

(Tada! Finally done! And at over 9k too! So! I have two more pieces to add to this before the series is complete! For now, I'll be giving it a break for a while and pick up back on oneshots. I've been focusing on series for too long after all. I'll still update Move on Dragons, H&F, etc but I'll be dropping one shots in-between. Well! Thanks for reading!)

[hollywayblog]

How “The Umbrella Academy” Surprised Me

In many ways, good and bad.

This is a spoiler-free review of season one of The Umbrella Academy

I remember when The Umbrella Academy comics came out. It was 2007 and I was a broke thirteen-year-old living in suburban Australia (a cultural wasteland!) so I never actually read them, but as a rabidly obsessed My Chemical Romance/Gerard Way fan, I managed to fold The Umbrella Academy into my identity anyway. I’m not sure exactly how that works, but hey. Adolescents are powerful creatures.

As a distinguished almost-twenty-five-year-old (I’d like to acknowledge that I took a small break here to have an existential crisis) my walls are free of band posters and my eyes are no longer encircled with that thick black eyeliner that always managed to look three days old and slept in, but I still got kind of a thrill when I learned that The Umbrella Academy was being adapted into a Netflix show. It was something I had always assumed I would end up reading, back in the depths of my emo phase (which is probably more accurately defined as a My Chemical Romance phase) but then just kind of forgot about. So, great, I’m simultaneously being reminded that this thing exists, and freed of the nostalgic obligation to go seek out the comic and read it. As much as I love reading, comics have just never been my thing.

Then the trailer came out. Honestly, it kind of killed my enthusiasm. It just looked kind of generic. Apocalypse. Superpowers. Bold characters. Lots of action. My takeaway was a big ol’ “Meh.” Frankly, without my pre-existing attachment to Gerard Way and the very idea of The Umbrella Academy, I highly doubt I would have given it a chance - not because it looked inherently bad, but just because I’m a hard sell on the kind of show it appeared to be.

But it’s Gerard Way, man. I had to watch at least one episode.

The Umbrella Academy centres around the famous-yet-mysterious Hargreeves family. The seven children - six of whom have special powers - were adopted by Reginald Hargreeves, a cold and severe patriarch who didn’t even deign to name them. He made them into “The Umbrella Adademy,” a crime-fighting squad of tiny children who would later dissolve after a tragic incident. Now they’re grown up, and Dad’s dead. His spare and tense memorial is what brings the adult Umbrella Academy back together, and this is where the show kicks off.

We’re treated to a rather clumsy beginning; a gripping opening scene followed by an unimaginative montage. We get a glimpse of each of the Hargreeves’ regular lives, leading up to and including them learning of their father’s death. It’s a heavy-handed introductory roll-call, complete with on-screen name cards. It’s a baffling waste of time, considering we don’t learn anything in this montage that isn’t later reiterated through dialogue or behaviour. We don’t need to see Klaus leaving rehab to know he’s an addict. We don’t need to see Allison on the red carpet to know she’s a movie star. It dragged, even on a first watch not knowing that the whole thing would be ultimately pointless, and I’m surprised no one thought to cut it and let us go in cold with everyone arriving at the mansion for the memorial - an opening that would have both set the tone and let us get to know the characters much more naturally. Maybe it feels like I’m focusing too much on this, and that’s only because it gave me a bad first impression - and I want anyone who reacts the same way I did to stick with it. It really does get better.

The further we got from the montage the less gimmicky it felt, and I started to sense some sort of something that I liked about this show. Stylistically it was interesting, and there seemed to be an underlying depth; room for these characters to be more than brooding ex-vigilantes with daddy issues. I was intrigued enough by the end of episode one to keep watching, and was gratified as the series went on and truly delved into those depths. There was a memorable turning point for me around episode five, where Klaus (the wonderful Robert Sheehan) was given space in the runtime to visibly, viscerally feel the effects of something he had just been through. It sounds so obvious, and so simple, but it’s something that is frustratingly glossed over so often in fiction. You know. Fallout. Feelings.

It wasn’t just that moment, though. Prior episodes laid the groundwork, developing not just Klaus but all the Hargreeves. Each character feels real and grounded, each of them uniquely good, uniquely bad, uniquely damaged by their upbringing. It’s this last point I particularly appreciate, this subtle realism in the show’s execution of abused characters. We see how siblings growing up with the same parents does not necessarily mean they got the same childhood, endured the same abuse, or that their trauma will manifest in the same ways. And certainly, it’s important to see the different coping mechanisms each of them have developed. Furthermore, there is a lot more to each of these characters than just their trauma. There are seven distinct personalities going on, and I have to applaud the writers for this commitment to character. It was largely this that kept me hooked (I’m such a sucker for good characters), and to my own surprise very invested in the way things unfolded.

I love the tone, which found a cool rhythm after the pilot. The pacing was decent and the character development balanced well against the plot. I like the little quirks that remind you of the show’s comic book roots, like Pogo, the talking ape and Five, the grouchy old man in a teenager’s body.

Weirdly, I like the apocalypse stuff, which they managed to put their own spin on despite it being such a played-out trope at this point. I like that the show found small ways to go in unexpected directions, even if the overarching plot and big twists weren’t all that surprising. And most of all I love that in a world saturated with forgettable media, I woke up today still thinking about this show.

Even if not all of my thoughts were so generous.

See, for everything I love about this show, there are also quite a few things that rubbed me up the wrong way. I can’t list them all without going into spoilers, but I think it needs to be said that there are like, a fair few problematic elements in this show. I couldn’t help but notice that while women and people of colour are the minority in this cast, they also seem to cop the worst abuse. Only two of the Hargreeves siblings are female. One of them has no powers and the other’s power is influence (a non-physical power). Their “Mom” is literally a robot created for the sole purpose of caregiving; she dresses and acts like the epitome of a submissive 50s housewife. The Hargreeves sisters are also the ones most likely to be left out or ignored when it comes to making decisions, with one of them even literally losing her voice at one point (yikes!). Beyond that we have some truly disturbing imagery of violence being inflicted on women of colour almost exclusively by white men, and the fact that the only asian character is um… well, he’s literally dead. Before the show even starts.

Overall the problem is not just insufficient diversity, with white men taking up most of the screen time, dialogue and leadership actions, but the way that the few female and non-white characters are depicted.

These are all depictions that, in a vacuum, would be innocuous. I mean, just looking at the root of many of the show’s problems exemplifies that - the root being that all of these characters were white in the source material (uh, a problem in itself, obviously). It wasn’t a problem, for example, when Dead Ben was not the only Asian character but just another white Hargreeves sibling. And wouldn’t it be nice if we lived in a world where you could race or gender-swap any character and have everything mean - or not mean - the same thing. But life is more complicated than that. Art is more complicated than that.

Honestly, I’m not sure if we should give props to the developers of The Umbrella Academy for diversifying their cast when the fact is they did so - and I say this gently - ignorantly and lazily. Race-swapping willy-nilly and leaving it at that ignores a lot of complex issues surrounding the nuances of portraying minorities in fiction, and leaves room for these kinds of harmful and hurtful tropes to carelessly manifest. So many storytellers don’t want to hear it, but let me tell you writer to writer that it does matter if the person being choked is white or black, male or female, trans or cis. It does matter who’s doing the choking. Camera angles matter. Dialogue matters. It’s all a language that conveys a message - about power and dominance and vulnerability in the real world. Because art doesn’t exist inside a vacuum, as inconvenient as that might be. Having the empathy to recognise that will actually make us better storytellers.

In shedding light on these issues, I am not dragging this show. I am not condemning it. And although it is problematic in itself, I’m not even saying it’s problematic to enjoy it. I’m pulling apart the lasagne, looking at the layers, poking and prodding at the individual ingredients and saying, “Hey, the chef probably should have known better than to put pineapple in here. Maybe let’s not do that next time.” I’m also saying, “When I get a mouthful with pineapple in it, I don’t enjoy that. It’s jarring and unpleasant. But it doesn’t ruin the whole meal for me.”

I’m getting better at allowing myself to dislike something on the basis of its shitty themes. To not have to justify myself when something is problematic in a way that just makes it too uncomfortable for me to watch. That wasn’t the case here. I won’t lie; the bad stuff was no afterthought for me. That kind of thing really gets to me. It does ruin a lot for me. But in this case, the show redeemed itself in other ways; mostly by just being a compelling story with characters I liked. I’m trying not to justify that too hard either.

So I liked The Umbrella Academy, and I hope it gets a second season. I also hope that the creators will listen to people like me who want to be able to enjoy their show even more and create more consciously in the future.

And please let Vanya be a lesbian.

The Umbrella Academy is out now on Netflix

Watch this show if you like: witty characters, iconic characters, complex characters, mysteries,  dark themes, superpowers, vigilantes, comics, dark humour, epic stories, shows about families, stylistic TV shows, ensemble casts, character dynamics, dramedies

Possible triggers (don’t read if you care about spoilers): suicide, child abuse, claustrophobia, addiction, violence, violence against women, violence against women of colour, death, torture, incest, self-harm, pregnancy/childbirth, kidnapping/abduction, blood, mental illness, medication/themes of medication necessity, blood, manipulation/gaslighting, homicide, forced captivity, guns, hospitalisation, medical procedures, needles, PTSD, prison rape reference (1).

Please feel free to message me if I failed to include a relevant trigger warning and I’ll include it.

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Chapter 33: Amulet of Deceit

Becoming The Mask

In addition to their permanent collections, the Museum of Arcadia played host to a rotation of touring exhibits and collections throughout the year. Geology collections were especially common, since Arcadia Oaks had begun as a mining town during the California gold rush, and humans loved interesting rocks.

One of these shows was opening the weekend after the weekend where the world had been supposed to end. Since the world had not ended, Jim and Toby were there, metaphorically drooling over the mineral samples.

"I bet I could eat that," said Jim, about a chunk of torbernite. The interfolding swirls of green crystals resembled a head of cabbage. "If it wasn't radioactive." Torbernite contained uranium. Probably not enough to actually kill someone, since it was on public display, but eating it would be an entirely different degree of exposure than simply standing by the case.

Jim took a selfie, angling his phone so the glass case wasn't creating too much glare, and opening his mouth like he was about to nom the rock. Toby, in the background, pointed at Jim, his other hand on his cheek, mouth and eyes wide in comically exaggerated shock.

"Remember the April Fools' jawbreakers?" said Toby. In elementary school, Steve Palchuck had given a jawbreaker to everyone in class and claimed they were gumballs. Jim had crunched right through his. "They might have some stone orbs in the gift shop if you wanted to recreate that."

"Or I could just get some marbles from the dollar store. You know, cheaper."

It was a safe conversation for a public space. Two teenagers, talking about stupidly eating things they shouldn't, possibly to film for the internet, possibly as hypothetical boasting they would never follow through on. Nothing suspicious there.

"Whoa, check out that chrysocolla formation!" Toby moved on to some blue-green spikes. "The nodes don't usually get this long before something happens to break them off. This probably has a higher ratio of silicates; that would make it harder. Or maybe it's mostly quartz, with chrysocolla inclusions for colour."

The chrysocolla made Jim think of Draal, except for the rounded points. Maybe Draal once he reached Vendel's age? Did trolls' facets lose sharpness as they got older, the way humans got wrinkly?

Toby was examining an emerald in pyrite from various angles when Jim started to feel watched.

Had the museum gotten its security cameras back up and running now that Bular was out of the picture? … No; well, maybe; but Nomura was on the other side of the room. When she saw Jim look her way, she titled her head in a 'meet me outside' gesture.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

"I really am just here for the rock show."

"Of course you are." Nomura rolled her eyes. "If you were here to check up on me, it would be as a distraction while someone with actual subtlety searched my office."

A plan which would have already failed, since Jim and Nomura were in her office now.

"… Okay, feeling like I should be offended by that, but I really can't argue."

"And because you have no subtlety, I thought I'd help you out, in case the next agent to catch you isn't as merciful as I am." Nomura got something small and shiny out of her desk and tossed it to Jim.

Jim fumbled his catch and blinked. He flicked one of the device's watch-like hands. It was a nearly perfect replica of the Amulet of Daylight. It didn't glow and it wasn't warm, but for a second he almost thought she'd gotten the real amulet from him somehow and this was a lesson on how not to be pickpocketed.

"Two questions," he said.

"Stricklander made it," Nomura answered pre-emptively. "Decades ago. He thought a fake amulet might be able to trick Killahead Bridge into reopening."

Like using a lockpick instead of a key. There was some logic to that.

"He gave it to me when I was … infiltrating Trollmarket. If I could get close enough to Kanjigar to switch them, it would muddy the waters as to when and how it was stolen. After that mission failed, the first idea remained a possibility – at least before it was rendered moot when we gained access to the real thing – and I kept the fake out of sight so Bular wouldn't destroy it in a fit of temper at the implication we doubted he could defeat the Trollhunter."

"Still one question."

"If someone sees you with the Amulet, but not in armour, you can now pretend Stricklander gave you the fake one for safekeeping. Everyone knows you're his favourite."

"I … wouldn't say 'favourite'. Favoured, maybe –"

"You're his favourite," she repeated flatly.

Jim rotated the false amulet. It was remarkably similar to the real one. How many snippets of reports and distant glimpses had Stricklander had to piece together for this imitation?

This would also come in handy if Jim was ever in a 'surrender your weapon' situation.

"You really like having me in your debt, don't you?" the Trollhunter asked the Changeling.

She smiled. "I believe I'm owed four favours, now."

"Three," he countered – just on principle. A quick mental tally confirmed she was right, assuming they were counting the same things, but some of Nomura's favours could be argued as self-serving beyond putting Jim in her debt.

Toby was waiting for Jim down the hall.

"You know, they have public bathrooms here," he said casually. "You don't have to break into the Employees Only areas."

"Did you follow me?"

"I had to go, too. You weren't back at the rock show when I came out, so I figured you were still here."

"… Toby, I –"

"Don't. Just – just tell me it was because of your volunteer work, because otherwise I really am going to freak out."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"And next time maybe just say that's why you're leaving. It's not fun to think 'is he lying?' every time you tell me something."

Jim had been avoiding Trollmarket for the past week. Blinky and AAARRRGGHH were getting worried – worried enough that, just a few days ago, they'd taken the tunnels to Jim's house to check in with Draal.

Jim had not been there. According to Draal, Jim had followed through on his plan to live with Toby after Barbara evicted him from her home.

Jim still visited the house in Barbara's absence, and Draal reported that the young Changeling did not appear particularly distressed – though Blinky was hardly inclined to trust Draal's assessment in matters of emotional sensitivity, nor did he think Jim was likely to confide in Draal regarding such things.

Perhaps Jim thought, falsely, that the need for a Trollhunter had been lessened after Bular's death. Perhaps he thought, also falsely, that Vendel would bar him entry now that his true species was known. Perhaps he thought, falsely, that it was now widely known that the Trollhunter was a Changeling, and therefore Trollmarket was no longer safe for him.

Blinky didn't know what Jim thought, because Blinky had not spoken to Jim in nearly a week. It was very frustrating.

Bular's severed head was still in the library. Jim had brought it back from the troll pub but hadn't taken it to the surface with him. Blinky, grimacing, had covered the head in cloth and put it on a low shelf, where it wouldn't be in the way or immediately draw the eye. He'd wanted to dispose of it somehow, rather than keep it in his space, but AAARRRGGHH had been adamant that Jim should be the one to decide what to do with it.

AAARRRGGHH had not been very clear on why, only enough to confirm that such gristly battle trophies were part of Gumm-Gumm culture and doing anything to Bular's head would now be an insult to Jim.

Blinky had made the mistake of pointing out Gumm-Gumms didn't count Changelings as members of their society. He'd been intending to follow up with the point that while Jim, like AAARRRGGHH, had once served the Gumm-Gumms, neither troll did so anymore, but before he could say as much, AAARRRGGHH roared at him, and growled for Blinky to stop saying Jim wasn't a troll.

(AAARRRGGHH had not been in the library when Blinkous made that grievously mistaken statement, but Blinky had given him a full run-down of the conversation prior to his arrival.)

AAARRRGGHH did not roar at Blinky. AAARRRGGHH seldom roared at all. Being roared at by AAARRRGGHH was nearly as shocking and upsetting and unthinkable for Blinky as the idea of AAARRRGGHH hitting him.

Blinky had covered and shelved Bular's head, and declared they could discuss the matter further once they were both calm.

AAARRRGGHH apologized later, of course, for losing his temper and for acting like Blinky wasn't sorry for hurting Jim's feelings and for not being able to explain battle trophies better. Blinky, too, had apologized, for pushing a subject that he knew AAARRRGGHH found rightfully upsetting instead of taking the information AAARRRGGHH volunteered and accepting that as launching point for future research that did not require AAARRRGGHH's direct input.

Blinky did not apologize to AAARRRGGHH for saying Jim wasn't a troll. That was an apology that needed to be made to Jim.

The head stayed covered and shelved, waiting for Jim to come back to Trollmarket and decide what to do with it.

Blinkous would prefer for this to happen soon.

"Tomorrow night," he announced, "we should go back up there and look for him. It's been a week, that's a respectable length of time as humans measure it; if Master Jim needs space, no one can say we refused to allow him that; but we cannot allow the Trollhunter to simply – shrug off his duties and vanish."

"Other Trollhunters did," AAARRRGGHH pointed out. "Sully-fairy quests."

"Solitary," Blinky corrected reflexively, "meaning 'alone' or 'independent'. Yes, but they also traditionally notified Trollmarket's elder that this was what they were doing before they went and did it."

"Blinky? AAARRRGGHH? Knock-knock – you guys here?"

That voice, that was one of Jim's human friends!

"Mary!" Blinky greeted warmly. "It's good to have you back. And Claire, as well! Are Tobias and Darci elsewhere in the market?"

"They dragged Jim right to the Forge," said Mary. "We said we'd get you. I come bearing gifts!"

She handed Blinky a rectangle. He almost popped it into his mouth.

"This is a prepaid cellphone. I programmed the number into ours and all our numbers into it so we can call and text each other."

Mary also gave Blinky a pen.

"I'm not sure how well a touchscreen will work with stone skin, but this pen's been specially designed to work on phone screens, just in case. Push this button here," Blinky followed her instructions and one face of the rectangle lit up, "and then drag your finger or the pen across the screen to unlock it. I didn't bother with setting up a password."

AAARRRGGHH leaned over Blinky's shoulder as Blinky experimented.

The device did seem to respond to Blinky's touch, but the phone screen proved too small for the pad of one of AAARRRGGHH's fingers when the larger troll gave it a curious, gentle tap. Blinky handed AAARRRGGHH the pen; AAARRRGGHH held it delicately, and tried again, successfully pushing one of the onscreen buttons.

"Now we don't have to depend on Jim to let us come down here," said Claire. She sounded … bitter? Had she resented her enforced week outside of Trollmarket while Jim avoided the place? "We can contact you directly."

"Claire …" said Mary.

"Did you know Jim's a Changeling?" Claire asked, apropos of nothing. "He said you knew but we don't know if he was lying."

"Claire," said Mary again, more sharply.

"This … did recently come to our knowledge, yes," said Blinky. "Considering the pains he took to keep it secret, I'm surprised and relieved to learn he's confided in you."

"He didn't. We found out he was one when we found out he replaced my little brother with one."

"Claire!"

Previous Chapter (Strickler and Barbara talk about Changelings)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Maybe finally starting to look for the Triumbric Stones)

The image isn't there anymore, but the Wikipedia page for chrysocolla used to have a photo of a spiky chrysocolla-and-quartz specimen which I thought was kind of Draal-esque. Luckily I saved it on my computer: 

Look in my blog’s Becoming The Mask extras tag if you want to see the torbernite. 

I do not have a specific emerald and pyrite formation in mind for the third stone described, but it’s relatively common for those minerals to form together so a quick Googling should show you how cool it is to see bars of emerald poking out of glittery gold rocks like the columns of some ancient ruin.

[greekstreetart-talks]

Pupet

2019 begins in Greek street art - Talks with the great and very characteristic work of the artist - street artist Pupet. Modest and with great love for what he’s doing, this month we’re talking about his journey, his collaborations and the situation as it has been in the center of Athens, although the words don’t seem to concern him as much as the visuals. With works such as those he creates mainly in abandoned buildings, the new year starts dynamically.

When do you start getting involved with art in the public space and what draws your attention to this direction? If you mean when did I start graffiti, then we go a long way back in 1996. I had seen the first graffiti in Kato Patissia and I was excited, it was an obsession and I definitely wanted to get involved with it. I don’t know exactly why, I just had this feeling, maybe because it was something different or maybe it was the fact that it was mostly illegal... I think though that this period might have been the most intense of my life, many nights out, concerts, graffiti.

Would you say that this helped you in your studies and in deciding what you want to do? Generally since I remember myself I liked to paint. My engagement with graffiti on the one hand kept me somehow in the field of art but on the other it affected my perception of painting as it was closer to the comic’s logic. So I don’t know if it helped me or not, Ι just see it as a natural consequence. It could be something else instead of graffiti, but most likely the ending would be the same.

As a graduate of Athens School of Fine Arts, how much does art vary depending on its application and palette? Regarding whether there’s a difference between a mural or a work on the canvas, I think the philosophy is the same. There are, of course, some differences, such as the size in large frescoes. Materials are also differentiated in some cases. In frescoes I mainly use, except from acrylics, sprays while on canvases not that much. The oils on the canvas are also a completely different material as they dry much more slowly than any other material. My painting, however, with acrylic on canvas is very close if not the same to the frescoes.

Your works in the city aren’t too many, but they are quite characteristic. Which is your favorite spot/s for painting and why? My favorite place is the old Columbia factory in Perissos. I like this place as it is an open space and there’s quiet. If not for something unpredictable to happen, I’m always alone, which is sometimes what I seek for. It's also relatively close to my home. Generally, I like abandoned places which have, over time, the sense of natural decay. I find some nice spots from time to time and I put them in my schedule, like some abandoned ΟSΕ trucks that crossed my way and I hadn’t been able to resist to one of them.

There are areas like Exarchia with infinite visual information. Do you believe that each region, depending on the prevailing vibe, acquires the corresponding frescoes - messages or is it simply because of the freedom and tolerance that exists now in the center of Athens? I wouldn’t call it freedom, maybe there’s a supposed feeling of freedom. Tolerance certainly exists, and because of the whole situation we are experiencing over the past few years, this situation prevails around us. I can’t say that I like the Exarchia landscape, to tell you the truth. Τhere’s infinite visual information but I think that the scenery is a little exaggerated. Certainly, however, some areas are more tolerant in general.

Do you think it would be worth it if the state worked in large urban centers with frescoes on large surfaces? I don’t think that an organization could be created in Greece in an objective way. Unfortunately, in my view, there’s lack of artistic education (and not only). The situation has worsened over the last few years with social media and the tendency for everything to be considered art, so who could organize such a project and which people would it be consisted of? Probably some who wouldn’t have the slightest idea about art or even worse that they’d see it as yet another opportunity to take advantage of the artists. So I think that if it was done in a right and  fair way it would be something interesting and of course welcoming. I doubt it though.

You recently participated in the project “colours in greek islands”. Tell us about it, from the organization to the artwork you produced. I wouldn’t want to talk about the organization. It was a very tiring but interesting project that gave me the opportunity to get to know some places I hadn’t visit and make some frescoes. Regarding the artwork, unfortunately we had some limitations as each island had a specific subject/theme. As for my own frescoes in Agios Efstratios the theme was Yiannis Ritsos who lived there in exile, in Fournoi the shipwreck, as many shipwrecks have been found in the area, in Lipsoi the vineyard and in Leros the goddess Artemis. Each artist had a specific subject. For my part, I tried to do my best as far as that was possible.

Does your job relate with the surroundings where you paint each time, or is there a specific idea that you have concluded to from before and you serve it to the end? The landscape is very important. Regarding my job, I try to keep the same theme, although I don’t always manage it. In general, however, when it comes to the theme, I don’t usually do  something that suits necessarily with the landscape. If the landscape inspires me somehow then I intervene in it.

“Life in color” tell us about this project. It was a project that started about three years ago. We did some frescoes and some canvases in partnership. But for two years now I’ve been working alone and although there are many remarkable artists out there, it seems very difficult to me to work with an artist, perhaps because I think painting is purely personal, like an internal battle for spiritual development whose results are honestly reflected on canvas.

In 10 years from now? Things are doing well in general. I hope they’ll keep doing so and even better. We’ll see how it will end up... For my part, especially in the last few years I give my whole being to what I do and try every time for the best possible result. Now I think I've come up with what I want to do exclusively in the future and that's canvases. I will always like to go out and paint but it's a bit tiring for me and I don’t think there is any reason. I will do it again though. 

Follow Pupet Website \ Instagram \ Fb Page

Photography: Auryn F.

_

Το 2019 ξεκινάει στο Greek street art - Talks με την σπουδαία και πολύ χαρακτηριστική δουλειά του καλλιτέχνη - street artist Pupet. Χαμηλών τόνων και με μεγάλη αγάπη για αυτό που κάνει, αυτόν τον μήνα μιλάμε για την διαδρομή του, τις συνεργασίες του αλλά και την κατάσταση όπως έχει διαμορφωθεί στο κέντρο της Αθήνας αν και οι λέξεις φαίνεται να μην τον ��πασχολούν τόσο όσο τα εικαστικά. Με έργα σαν αυτά που δημιουργεί κυρίως σε εγκαταλελειμμένα κτήρια η νέα χρονιά ξεκινάει δυναμικά.

Πότε ξεκινάς να ασχολείσαι με την τέχνη στον δημόσιο χώρο και τι σου τραβάει την προσοχή προς αυτή την κατεύθυνση; Αν εννοείς πότε ξεκίνησα να κάνω γκράφφιτι τότε πάμε πολύ πίσω στο 1996. Είχα δει τα πρώτα γκράφφιτι στα Κάτω Πατήσια και είχα ενθουσιαστεί, μου είχε γίνει έμμονη ιδέα και ήθελα οπωσδήποτε να ασχοληθώ με αυτό. Δεν ξέρω γιατί ακριβώς είχα αυτό το συναίσθημα, ίσως επειδή ήταν κάτι το διαφορετικό ή ίσως ήταν το γεγονός ότι ήταν κατά κύριο λόγο παράνομο... Νομίζω πάντως ότι εκείνη η περίοδος ίσως να ήταν η πιο έντονη της ζωής μου, πολλές βόλτες, ξενύχτια, συναυλίες, γκραφφίτι.

Μπορείς να πεις ότι αυτό σε βοήθησε αργότερα στις σπουδές σου και στο να αποφασίσεις με τι θέλεις να ασχοληθείς; Γενικά από τότε που θυμάμαι τον εαυτό μου μου άρεσε να ζωγραφίζω. Η ενασχόληση μου με τα γράφφιτι από τη μία με κράτησε κατά κάποιο τρόπο μέσα στο χώρο της τέχνης αλλά από την άλλη επηρέασε την αντίληψή μου στη ζωγραφική καθώς ήταν πιο κοντά στη λογική των κόμικς. Οπότε δεν ξέρω αν με βοήθησε ή όχι απλά το βλέπω όλο αυτό σαν ένα φυσικό επακόλουθο. Θα μπορούσε αντί για το γκράφφιτι να ήταν κάτι άλλο αλλά πιθανότατα η κατάληξη θα ήταν η ίδια.

Σαν απόφοιτος της καλών τεχνών της Αθήνας πόσο διαφοροποιείται η τέχνη ανάλογα με την εφαρμογή και την παλέτα της; Για το αν υπάρχει διαφοροποίηση ανάμεσα σε κάποια τοιχογραφία ή σε κάποιο έργο στον καμβά, νομίζω ότι η φιλοσοφία είναι η ίδια. Υπάρχουν φυσικά κάποιες διαφορές όπως το μέγεθος στις μεγάλες τοιχογραφίες. Τα υλικά διαφοροποιούνται επίσης σε κάποιες περιπτώσεις. Στις τοιχογραφίες κατά κύριο λόγο εκτός από ακρυλικά χρησιμοποιώ και σπρέι ενώ στους καμβάδες όχι και τόσο. Τα λάδια επίσης στον καμβά είναι ένα τελείως διαφορετικό υλικό λόγω του ότι στεγνώνουν αισθητά πιο αργά από οποιοδήποτε άλλο υλικό. Η ζωγραφική μου πάντως με τα ακρυλικά στον καμβά είναι πολύ κοντά αν όχι ίδια με τις τοιχογραφίες.

Τα έργα σου στην πόλη δεν είναι πολλά ωστόσο είναι αρκετά χαρακτηριστικά. Ποιο είναι το αγαπημένο σου σημείο - σημεία για βάψιμο και γιατί; Το αγαπημένο μου μέρος είναι το παλιό εργοστάσιο της Columbia στον Περισσό. Μου αρέσει το συγκεκριμένο μέρος καθώς είναι ένας ανοιχτός χώρος και υπάρχει ηρεμία. Εκτός απροόπτου είμαι μονίμως μόνος μου, γεγονός που το επιζητώ μερικές ��ορές. Επίσης είναι σχετικά κοντά στο σπίτι μου. Γενικά μου αρέσουν τα εγκαταλελειμμένα μέρη τα οποία με την πάροδο του χρόνου έχουν υποστεί μια φυσική φθορά. Βρίσκω κατά καιρούς κάποια ωραία σημεία και τα βάζω στο πρόγραμμα όπως πρόσφατα βρέθηκαν στο δρόμο μου κάποια εγκαταλελειμμένα φορτηγά του ΟΣΕ και δεν μπόρεσα να αντισταθώ σε ένα από αυτά.

Υπάρχουν περιοχές όπως τα Εξάρχεια με άπειρη εικαστική πληροφορία. Πιστεύεις ότι κάθε περιοχή ανάλογα με το κλίμα που επικρατεί αποκτά και τις αντίστοιχες τοιχογραφίες - μηνύματα ή απλά είναι η ελευθερία και η ανοχή που υπάρχει πλέον στο κέντρο της Αθήνας; Ελευθερία δεν θα το έλεγα, ίσως υπάρχει μία υποτιθέμενη αίσθηση ελευθερίας. Ανοχή υπάρχει σίγουρα, και λόγω της όλης κατάστασης που βιώνουμε τα τελευταία χρόνια επικρατεί αυτή η κατάσταση που βλέπουμε γύρω μας. Δεν μπορώ να πω ότι μου αρέσει το τοπίο των Εξαρχείων, να σου πω την αλήθεια. Υπάρχει άπειρη εικαστική πληροφορία αλλά νομίζω είναι λίγο υπερβολικό το σκηνικό. Σίγουρα πάντως κάποιες περιοχές είναι πιο ανεκτικές γενικά.

Πιστεύεις ότι θα είχε αξία η πολιτεία να ασχοληθεί οργανωμένα στα μεγάλα αστικά κέντρα με τις τοιχογραφίες σε μεγάλες επιφάνειες; Δε νομίζω ότι στην Ελλάδα μπορεί να δημιουργηθεί ένας φορέας με αντικειμενική σκοπιά. Δυστυχώς, κατά την άποψή μου, υπάρχει έλλειψη καλλιτεχνικής παιδείας (και όχι μόνο). Η κατάσταση έχει χειροτερέψει τα τελευταία χρόνια με όλα αυτά τα social media και την τάση όλα να θεωρούνται τέχνη, οπότε ποιος θα μπορούσε να οργανώσει ένα τέτοιο πρότζεκτ και ποιοι άνθρωποι θα το απάρτιζαν; Μάλλον κάποιοι που δεν θα είχαν την παραμικρή ιδέα από τέχνη ή ακόμα χειρότερα που θα το έβλεπαν σαν μία ακόμη ευκαιρία για να εκμεταλλευτούν τους καλλιτέχνες. Οπότε θεωρώ ότι αν γινόταν με σωστό και δίκαιο τρόπο θα ήταν κάτι το ενδιαφέρον και φυσικά καλοδεχούμενο. Αμφιβάλω βέβαια.

Πρόσφατα συμμετείχες στο πρόγραμμα χρώμα στα νησιά. Μίλησε μας για αυτό, από την οργάνωση μέχρι τα εικαστικά που παρήγαγες. Για την οργάνωση δεν θα ήθελα να μιλήσω. Ήταν ένα πολύ κουραστικό αλλά ενδιαφέρον πρότζεκτ στο οποίο μου δόθηκε η ευκαιρία να γνωρίσω κάποια μέρη που δεν είχα επισκεφτεί, και να κάνω κάποιες τοιχογραφίες. Όσον α��ορά το εικαστικό κομμάτι δυστυχώς είχαμε κάποιους περιορισμούς καθώς στο κάθε νησί υπήρχε συγκεκριμένο θέμα. Όσον αφορά τις δικές μου τοιχογραφίες στον Άγιο Ευστράτιο το θέμα ήταν ο Γιάννης Ρίτσος που έζησε εκεί εξόριστος, στους Φούρνους το ναυάγιο καθώς έχουν βρεθεί πάρα πολλά ναυάγια στην περιοχή, στους Λειψούς η αμπελοκαλλιέργεια και στη Λέρο η θεά Άρτεμις. Ο κάθε καλλιτέχνης είχε ένα συγκεκριμένο θέμα για να ασχοληθεί. Από την πλευρά μου προσπάθησα να κάνω ότι καλύτερο μπορούσα στο μέτρο του δυνατού…

Η δουλειά σου σχετίζεται με τον περιβάλλοντα χώρο που βάφεις κάθε φορά ή υπάρχει μια συγκεκριμένη ιδέα που έχεις αποφασίσει και υπηρετείς μέχρι τέλους; To τοπίο είναι πολύ σημαντικό. Όσον αφορά τη δουλειά μου προσπαθώ κατά κύριο λόγο να κρατάω το ίδιο θέμα αν και δεν τα καταφέρνω πάντα. Γενικότερα όμως δεν ασχολούμαι τόσο με το να κάνω κάτι που να ταιριάζει απαραίτητα θεματικά με το τοπίο, απλά αν το τοπίο με εμπνεύσει κατά κάποιο τρόπο τότε επεμβαίνω σε αυτό.

Life in color, μίλησε μας για αυτό το Project. Ηταν ένα πρότζεκτ που ξεκίνησε πριν 3 χρόνια περίπου. Γίνανε κάποιες τοιχογραφίες και κάποιοι καμβάδες συνεταιρικά. Εδώ και 2 χρόνια όμως δουλεύω μόνος μου και πλέον αν και υπάρχουν πολλοί αξιόλογοι καλλιτέχνες εκεί έξω, μου φαίνεται πολύ δύσκολο να συνεργαστώ με κάποιον καλλιτέχνη, ίσως επειδή πιστεύω ότι η ζωγραφική είναι καθαρά προσωπική υπόθεση, σαν μια εσωτερική μάχη για πνευματική εξέλιξη της οποίας τα αποτελέσματα αποτυπώνονται με ειλικρίνεια στον καμβά.

Σε 10 χρόνια από τώρα? Τα πράγματα σε γενικές γραμμές πάνε καλά. Ελπίζω να συνεχίσουν έτσι και ακόμα καλύτερα και θα δούμε που θα καταλήξει... Από την πλευρά μου ειδικά τα τελευταία χρόνια δίνω όλο μου το είναι σε αυτά που κάνω και προσπαθώ κάθε φορά για το καλύτερο δυνατό. Πλέον νομίζω έχω καταλήξει με το τι θέλω να ασχοληθώ αποκλειστικά στο μέλλον και αυτό είναι οι καμβάδες. Πάντα θα μου αρέσει να βγαίνω και να ζωγραφίζω έξω αλλά είναι πλέον λίγο κουραστικό για εμένα και δε νομίζω ότι υπάρχει λόγος. Θα το ξανακάνω πάντως.

[moriganstrongheart]

The Dragon Prince: Season One – Review

Created by Aaron Ehasz and Justin Richmond 2018, Netflix 9 episodes, 25-27 minutes

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Good: Character writing and designs Bad: Animation style, narrative, pacing, tone

[ ! ] Spoiler Warning

I went into The Dragon Prince with low expectations. I had heard that some of the creative minds behind Avatar: The Last Airbender were the showrunners, but something about the look and feel of the show put me off. My fears were realized when I loaded up the first episode and got turned me off immediately by the terrible opening prologue. I also thought I could forgive the animation style if I gave it a chance, but I just couldn’t get past it. So I set The Dragon Prince aside and didn’t come back to it for a few weeks. Unfortunately, my opinion of the animation style didn’t improve, and the prologue became indicative what the quality of the writing would be for the majority of the season. These issues made my overall experience of The Dragon Prince a negative one, but I did end up being fond of the characters, even though the world and plot were ultimately uninspiring.

The characters of The Dragon Prince surprised me on multiple levels, beginning with how gradual their personality emerged. I was also surprised by how well developed a lot of them were. The difference in quality between character and plot writing is staggering; it never felt like the characters were ever part of the world—or had any real stakes in the story—despite standing as examples of great character writing. Everyone feels fleshed out and real, with a few exceptions. I think it’s worth breaking down the characters and my opinion on each.

Callum

While annoying at times, Callum is simultaneously an awkward teenager and a great older brother, balancing the two roles perfectly. He is confident but at the same time not, leading to some interesting conflicts. I was a bit put off by his voice (I could sometimes hear Sokka in him), but I don’t think that should be taken into consideration when evaluating him as a character. The only issue I had with Callum was how the writers seemed to pick him most often for their plot contrivances, wherein he does things out of character to move the plot along—like having a “we need to argue so we can learn something” argument with his brother. Even if almost all of the characters suffer similarly throughout the season, it seems to happen more frequently with him.

Rayla

Of all the protagonists, Rayla feels the most developed. She has a particular way of life and grew up believing a specific ideal, but has not yet decided who she is. Her actions mirror this at every turn, as she struggles with her own values and the duties put on her by her people. She responds to a lot of her problems with sarcastic remarks in an attempt to hide her insecurities about her own capabilities. It was her introduction and subsequent development that had me hooked. I doubt I would have continued watching if not for my investment in her character arc.

Ezran

When talking about the quality of the character writing in The Dragon Prince, I mentioned a few exceptions, and Ezran is one such exception. Perhaps his lack of complexity could be explained away since he’s a child, but considering the work put into the other characters—and the fact that he and his pet Bait are the source for too many plot contrivances—I don’t believe that’s the case. Still, his character is solid, but I found myself disliking any scene where he had a prominent role.

Claudia

Of all the characters, Claudia is the one that surprised me the most. What started as a “crush” love interest for Callum, turned into a multi-faceted character. She’s characterized as quirky, but she displays much more complexity as time goes on, being intelligent, inventive and decisive. It’s one of the few times I enjoyed a character that fills this trope. I particularly enjoyed the playful banter between her and her brother Soren. She’s also never used in any of the plot contrivances that I remember, which made her one of my favourite characters.​

Soren

Soren is the bully character done right. In a modern setting, he’d be the high school jock with a football jacket, giving nerds wedgies and hitting on girls. But like most of the characters in The Dragon Prince, his character writing is superb. He’s kind of a jerk, but he has heart and does what he thinks is best, even if he’s not always sure what to do. He’s not one of my favourites, but I enjoyed his interactions with other characters, be it Callum, his sister or his father.

Viren

It can be difficult to create a sympathetic villain, especially when writing stories for children. It’s often easier to make the villain evil instead of just villainous; capable of heinous acts that no sane person would do, but ultimately unrelatable. Viren engages in all the activities we would expect from a villainous, treacherous royal advisor. However, all his actions are believable, making sense within the political climate of Katolis. He’s conniving and scheming, but it never feels as though he does anything with ill intent or for the sake of evil. He’s just doing what he thinks is best, regardless of the cost to himself or the ones around him. That makes him a much more compelling villain in the long run; one that blurs the lines of morality while making it clear that what he does is wrong.

King Harrow

I’m sad that we don’t get to see much of King Harrow, since he quickly became one of my favourite characters. He is level-headed, principled but swept up in his duties. For a fantasy setting, he’s quite relatable. Even his attitude towards Viren can be seen as rational; Viren appears to be deluded as to the nature of their relationship, and Harrow wants to draw clear boundaries in response to Viren’s behaviour. I also enjoyed his relationship with Callum, though I’m a bit disappointed we didn’t get to see him interact with Ezran (which may contribute to my dislike of him). I’m not totally convinced we’ve seen the last of Harrow. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part, as I felt the quality of the narrative quickly dropped after his assassination.

General Amaya

Amaya was at the centre of many of the discussions around the show at release, due to the fact that she is deaf. She uses ASL and has an interpreter, showing the commitment the showrunners had in properly representing those with hearing impairments. She also has—hands down—the best character design, which surely contributed to her initial popularity. I was consistently surprised with how intelligently she was written, from her earnest demeanor to her absolute conviction in doing what’s morally right. She became my favourite character as soon as she was introduced, helped by the amazing fight scene between her and Rayla shortly thereafter, which had me exclaiming audibly in astonishment at how well the fight was choreographed.

I don’t really have an opinion of the rest of the cast. I liked Gren, but he turned into comedic relief once separated from Amaya. The rest of the cast were either bland, annoying or used purely for plot purposes and, as such, were underutilized.

All of the characters had consistently great character designs. I’ve mentioned some of my favourites already—namely Amaya and Rayla—but I have no issues with the design of any of the characters. I also appreciated the amount of diversity among the characters. Of course, the humans in The Dragon Prince don’t share our history or cultures, but it’s nice to see different skin colours, even if they’re not attached to specific ethnicities. I also really enjoyed the design of the moonshadow elves, even though they’re basically just Night Elves from World of Warcraft. Their voices in particular were a welcome change from the normally pompous or breathy way elves tend to speak in fantasy settings. Overall, the voice actors delivered a great performance, being able to convey emotions and concealed intentions through speech, which—along with great character writing and designs—made the characters of The Dragon Prince complex, interesting and deserving of a more well-written narrative. I have to mention, though, that creature designs were subpar by comparison, childish in their design or unappealing to look at.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the writers and maybe the showrunners behind The Dragon Prince created and then developed the characters and premise long before ever writing a narrative for them. The signs are all there: the characters are incredibly well developed, but don’t really feel like they belong in the world. The story is strong at the beginning of the season, but then meanders and feels disjointed right up until the end. There are some great moments here and there: Amaya’s fight with Rayla, the elven dagger, interactions between Viren and King Harrow...These moments teased at what could have been, but I’m convinced that the writers had little to go on beyond extensive character profiles and an intricate political struggle. Any time the story focuses on anything substantial, it falters. The stakes never feel like they matter, and the tone shifts from dark to light-hearted from one scene to the next. A character might be afraid to lose their arm, and within seconds be comically afraid of the water. There’s no consistency in the tone, so it’s difficult to care about what happens to the characters, regardless of how appealing they are.

The tipping point for me was when Ezran fell into sub-zero water for way longer than a child should, and yet he came out feeling only slightly uncomfortable instead of dying from exposure. I’m not one to judge realism in fiction, but when their father was just murdered and there’s a chance that Rayla might lose a hand, I just couldn’t buy into the story anymore. Things just got even more nonsensical from there. Thankfully, I had already checked out of the story at this point, so I didn’t have to suspend my disbelief any longer. It was clear to me that the narrative was just a means to an end—a way for the writers to get from:

Point A – King Harrow’s death and the discovery of the egg, to

Point B – the egg hatching and Viren’s intentions made bare.

Everything else is just moments in time, sequences without any reason to be there except padding, strung together loosely to form a weak narrative. It’s a shame because the script is at times brilliant, normally when characters interact in meaningful ways. I’ll always remember when Amaya goes to visit her sister’s grave and Viren comes to reconcile with her, as well as the conversations between Callum and his step-father. There’s just nothing to support these moments, nothing to invest myself in beyond the quality of the characters themselves. As such, I have little interest in seeing where the story goes next, nor do I think it’s worth recommending the series.

Finally, I don’t know if I’m just getting out of touch with animation, but I personally don’t understand the use of reduced frame-rates in 3D animation. I can’t decide if it’s a budgetary decision or a stylistic one, but I don’t like it either way. It reminds me of stop-motion animation, but without the inherent charm that kind of animation possesses. Or maybe it’s the lack of exaggeration as I don’t remember a single instance where animation principles like squash and stretch were applied to exaggerate actions or emotions. The animators seemed more concerned with keeping the characters on model rather than in creating a visually engrossing work of animation. I think part of the reason I judge the animation so severely is that I attribute this style of animation with amateur video game machinima, especially films made in applications like Garry’s Mod. It feels unprofessional and underdeveloped. It doesn’t help that everything except the character designs is bland and uninteresting. Characters stood out like actors on a poorly designed community stage, never really feeling a part of the world they inhabit. The only exception might be the magic effects, which were creative and fun to look at. Of course, my opinion on the visuals is highly subjective, so I can’t fault the show for it.

However, I have no issue with criticizing its writing. I hope that the next season fares better in that department than the first. With its well developed characters, The Dragon Prince has the chance to break through popular culture to reach the same heights as Avatar: The Last Airbender, maybe even defining an entirely new generation of children. But they can’t expect their characters to bear the full weight of that burden. These characters deserve an engrossing narrative, one which allows them to shine and interact in meaningful ways, to shape the world and to be shaped by the world around them. The Dragon Prince has a great foundation, but it has failed so far build on it. If the writers can expand on the political struggles that impressed so many within the first half of the season, I can only imagine what kind of show The Dragon Prince might become.

Official Show Website

[stuvik]

Need | Taegi (M)

Pairing: Min Yoongi / Kim Taehyung Genre: fluff-ish smut, crack  Length: 8.6k  "Asshole!" "At least you know your anatomy."

Taehyung stretched his arms out behind him, knocking his knuckles against the shabby oak headboard. He glanced over just as his roommate decided to collapse on the other side of the bed. The drop onto the mattress prompted Yoongi's shaggy-layered hair to fall in front of his eyes, but he quickly swept them out of the way. Noticing he was being watched, Yoongi glared out of the corner of his vision, cynical eyebrow raised in Tae's direction.

"What are you staring at?" He spoke with a smirk and a flash of dark humour in his eyes.

Taehyung squinted at his roommate suspiciously. "Are you in a good mood?"

Yoongi scowled as if it was a trick question.

"Because you can tell me if you are. You don't have to be ashamed." Tae reached over and poked a corner of Yoongi's mouth. "It's my company, isn't it?"

Yoongi rolled his eyes and ignored him, lethargically batting away the hand that continued to badger him. "Stop poking me, idiot. Or I'll go back into my room."

"Oh boohoo," said Taehyung, rolling onto his side, but he did refrain from prodding his roommate further. At least for the time being. "So what do you wanna do?" he asked with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. "I thought we were watching some dumb movie of yours."

"It's not dumb," Taehyung defended, giving Yoongi’s shoulder one last, daring jab. He did have his movie collection's honour to defend. With a bounce of energy, he bounded up and crawled to the end of the bed to sit, scanning the DVD selection inside his TV stand. He noticed his shirt had ridden up. He tugged it down, absent-mindedly running his hand over the front. "Uh, what did I say we were gonna watch exactly?"

It might as well have been a rhetorical question, however, since Yoongi didn't deem it anything worthy of a response, and Tae didn't much feel like repeating himself. He pushed off the bed and dropped to his knees in front of the cabinet, running his fingers over the different DVDs, ticking away which were appropriate options and which were not. Both of them seemed to be in a good mood, so nothing too dark. Maybe a comedy.

"So, porn. Is that an option?" Taehyung joked, having run his eyes over a couple of his sex movies he was not ashamed to have out in the open.

"I doubt you'd have anything I'd like," Yoongi said matter-of-factly, but Tae could hear the amusement colouring his tone.

"Oh ho. You think so?" Tae looked over his shoulder, eyes gleaming bright with mischief. "I think you'd be surprised."

Yoongi stared at him without blinking for a while and then slowly smirked. "Would I?"

"You wanna?" Tae asked enthusiastically, light-brown eyes widening comically. "When you do that with your face, I can't always tell if you're serious or kidding. It's why you're so fuckin' good at poker."

Yoongi gave a very small shrug of the shoulders, tilting his head almost imperceptibly to the left. He clasped his hands together, placing them on top of his stomach. He sighed when Tae kept looking at him expectantly, face split into a mad grin.

"Fine," Yoongi caved. "Just""

"Make sure there's no tits or pussy in it, right?" Tae commented vulgarly, grabbing his chest in a way that suggested he was going beyond the simple demonstration of a self-exam. Yoongi snorted in derision.

Pulling a face, Taehyung laughed at him unabashedly and went back to scanning their choices, making sure to avoid all the options featuring female genitalia. After another minute of comparing the graphic pictures on the back of two DVDs that had caught his interest, Yoongi spoke softly from behind.

"I'm surprised you have anything like that," he said, half in wonder.

The lines between Taehyung's eyes furrowed. "Why wouldn't I?" He looked over his shoulder again, a single eyebrow raised. "I think I'm offended."

Yoongi stared at him thoughtfully, remaining mute. Taehyung held up the two selections, showing Yoongi the front of the DVDs so he could read the titles. He watched Yoongi glance them over, gaze shifting briefly from left to right.

"Asses on Fire 5?" Yoongi mused.

"I know, right?" Taehyung chuckled, lowering both movies into his lap. "Title's a bit of a turn off, but there's a scene in here I only need to watch half of before I'm--"

Shutting his eyes, Yoongi held up a hand to stop Taehyung before he could elaborate any further about the details of his ejaculatory experiences. "I don't think that's an information I need to know."

"Oh come on. You're no prude, Suga. I've been around when you bring people home."

"You're one to talk," Yoongi shot back, sounding astonishingly defensive. "At least when I bring them home, it's only one at a time." One corner of his lip turned downward. Taehyung always noticed Yoongi did that when he seemed to be in deep thought about something. His roommate then added in a hushed observation, "And at least I always bring home a consistent gender."

Taehyung rolled his eyes dramatically, climbing onto his knees and throwing his arms over the rustled sheets in exasperation. "You're not gonna start that crap again, are you?"

Yoongi frowned, but didn't reply.

"You're such a snobby fag, y'know that, right? It's not like I need some kind of exclusive gay club card if I wanna fuck men on occasion. I do what I want, alright?"

Yoongi shrugged. "I didn't say anything, Taehyung."

Tae cocked his head. "Yeah, but you were thinkin' it. I could tell."

Again, Yoongi shrugged, and Tae dropped the subject.

“Fine. Since there's nothing sexy about a title that implies possible infections, we'll go with this." He brandished the other selection in the air, shaking it a few times, calling attention to the naked men going at each other bareback. "Just remember to stay on your side of the bed as we watch it. I don't want you tryin' anything funny."

As Tae stood, he cracked open the DVD case with a loud pop. He pushed the power button on the DVD player, the black tray for the disc shooting out like a dangerous projectile. Taehyung took the disc already in there from earlier today and set it on the middle shelf to be put back later. With a smirk, he placed the copy of Bareback Mountain 2: "I Wish I Could Quit (Riding) You" into the tray and gave it a gentle nudge with the back of his fingers to make sure it properly closed. As the warnings about piracy and content flashed and the previews for other videos began, Tae took a few steps backward before sending Yoongi a meaningful, cocky look.

Yoongi met his gaze with a smirk. "What? No popcorn?"

"You're getting into this, aren't you?" Taehyung said teasingly, smiling brightly as he chuckled several times. "I can't believe we've never done this before."

He set one knee on the edge of the bed and leaned over, idly tugging on the front of his t-shirt as his right palm ghosted against the soft duvet.

"Are you really that surprised?" Yoongi dryly inquired, still lying complacently in Tae’s bed, looking completely relaxed and unguarded. Somehow, this greatly pleased Taehyung. This is how he liked Yoongi best. When he wasn't being an uptight, workaholic prick.

Taehyung shrugged. "You really want popcorn?" He straightened out and stretched his arm over his head, bending it and rolling his shoulder until it popped. "If you do, I'll make you some."

"Sure," Yoongi said with a single nod, and as he spoke, one of the raunchier previews in the background punctuated Taehyung's accepted offer of snacks with a drawn out moan.

"Heh." Like the songs of a Siren, Taehyung's attention was drawn to the television. He indulged himself in a scene from an upcoming BDSM flick where a naked guy was hogtied and hanging from a thick rope that dangled from the ceiling.

"Tae."

Clumsily walking out of the room backward, Taehyung waved a hand to dismiss his roommate's impatience. "Fine, I'm goin'. Not like I haven't seen all of this before." Still, his eyes were glued to the scene, and he barely managed to prevent himself from tripping over a sneaker turned sideways on the floor. He cursed, but still kept his gaze on the screen. "Don't hit play until I get back," he warned, completely serious about the threat.

"I wouldn't dare," Yoongi replied sarcastically as Taehyung finally stumbled out the doorway and headed for their kitchen.

After spending ten minutes scavenging through the kitchen cabinets like a rabid squirrel on the last day of Autumn, Taehyung had to give up on finding the box of popcorn he'd thought they'd had. There was a good chance he'd either: 1) eaten it all already or 2) he'd never bought any to begin with. However, he did find an open package of Oreos. He tried one out, the black crumbs lining his bottom lip as he chewed. They were a bit soft, but couldn't completely be called stale. Yoongi didn't even really like cookies, but at least it would look good that he made the effort to replace the promised snackage.

He shoved the plastic tray back into the packaging, sauntering down the hallway to his room. Out of habit, he kicked the door closed on the way in and half leapt, half fell onto the empty side of the bed. The TV screen was still set on the preview to the movie as Tae settled the Oreos in between them, licking the residual chocolatey bits off of his fingers with a satisfying pop.

"What happened to the popcorn?" Yoongi asked. He was sitting up, his back against the headboard, eyeing the cookies like they were a pipe bomb he'd just discovered in his mailbox.

"Didn't have any," Taehyung answered as he searched around the sheets for the remote control. He couldn't find it and so he leaned over the side of the bed, lifted up the dust ruffle and found the controller hiding under one of his dumbbells. He got back into position and pressed play as he grabbed for another cookie. Taehyung glanced over at Yoongi and grinned.

"You have chocolate on your teeth."

Taehyung grinned wider and made a show of licking it off with his tongue. "You're just jealous."

Yoongi snorted. "Of what?"

"That these having a better chance of getting inside my mouth than you do." Tae laughed at his own joke, grabbing two of the bed pillows and stuffing them under his head as he lay down.

"You're ridiculous. You know that, right?" Yoongi sneered. Taehyung watched his roommate's face. His expression didn't show him to be nearly as disgusted with the idea as he sounded as dark, intelligent eyes drifted to the television set. Then Tae let his attention fall to the movie, too, occasionally shovelling another cookie into his mouth.

Fifteen minutes into the film, two men in cowboy hats had discarded most of their clothing and managed to fit themselves within a tiny pup tent. Both were rather muscular men with attractive faces. They kissed at first. The one with a goatee and blondish tint to his hair still had a pair of boxers on, but the other, longer-haired man was already reaching inside his partner's shorts to pull out his erection. Even though Taehyung had seen this film several times already, enough that it occasionally skipped from ware, it still managed to have a rather profound effect on him. It seemed as if it had taken him five minutes to eat his last Oreo, slowly nibbling at it until he was just about to bite down on a fingernail. Yoongi had gone so silent, that a couple of times, Taehyung had actually forgotten he was there. He looked over. It took a second, but Yoongi also turned his head and met his gaze.

"Like it so far?" Taehyung asked as a low moan emanated from the television.

Yoongi gave him another long look without saying anything and returned to watching the movie. Taehyung chuckled and grabbed up the remnants of his snacks and set them on the floor. He threaded his fingers together and shoved his hands under his head, watching the man with long brown hair taking the head of the other man's cock into his mouth. They were shallow thrusts at first. Fingers tangled in the man's hair as the guy getting sucked off tried to piston himself deeper.

What had started out as kind of a joke was beginning to make Taehyung slightly... uneasy. It was very much a fact that he could never get even half way through this film without having to masturbate. Not only were the sex scenes hot as hell, but the third scene contained what he would consider to be...a secret fetish of his. He and Yoongi were close, sure, but Taehyung had never quite revealed his one weakness when it came to sex.

"What's with that serious face?"

Taehyung nearly choked but managed to take in a short breath and recover his cool. "Huh?"

Yoongi studied him with a raised eyebrow. "You asked me if I was enjoying it, but now you seem... odd."

Taehyung squinted an eye shut. "What're you talkin' about? It's just hard to enjoy with a bastard like you in my bed."

Okay, weird. Even though he'd said that, that wasn't entirely true at all. Lying about something so stupid had him a bit worried.

"Just shut up and watch the movie, Yoongi. You're distracting me from the good parts."

Yoongi chuckled. A low chuckle. For some reason, it even sounded kind of sultry and flirty. Or maybe that was Tae's imagination? The scene progressed as the man who'd just given the other a blow job began sliding a finger along the other man's crack, the exposed hole now coated in a slick lube as he plunged inside, rhythmically moving his fingers as his partner moved back against them.

"Ah shit," Taehyung said and covered his eyes with his hand only to spread them out and peek through. "I'm such a sucker for a fingering scene, I swear."

Yoongi laughed outright, and Taehyung turned his head and smiled at him.

"Hey Yoongi? Are you a fingering sorta guy?"

Yoongi gave him a condescending look. "A 'fingering sorta guy'?"

Taehyung nodded, setting a hand on his stomach. "Yeah. Some guys don't seem to like it. To be honest... I've, uh, kinda never had it done to me."

Yoongi's mouth parted ever so slightly. "You've never been a bottom?"

Taehyung frowned. "No, of course not. Well, one time "Wait, do you remember that time like three months ago when I went to play pool with Jungkook and came back with that one guy I'd actually met after we almost got into a fist fight in that bar...?"

Yoongi tilted his head to the side. "Vaguely..."

"Well when I brought him back here." Taehyung coughed, having the decency to look slightly embarrassed at the memory since he'd come home late, found Yoongi on the couch reading, then tripped all over himself as he and his... guest... had stumbled into the bedroom. "He kind of just assumed that's how it would go. But afterward, I think he found his decision to be quite enjoyable."

"Uh huh," Yoongi drawled, something flickering in his eyes that Taehyung couldn't quite figure out. It caused the smile on his face to waver.

"I guess that's another reason we could never work out together," Taehyung found himself saying. "We're both pretty dominant kinda guys. Stubborn and all that. Neither of us would wanna give in first."

"Heh."

The once tame moans and grunts coming from the TV had now become something more desperate and primal. The smaller man's ass was up in the air, his partner pounding into him at a sharp angle from above, a hand on his shoulder pressing his face into the floor. The bigger man's balls slapped mercilessly against the other's ass. The man on bottom's ass-cheeks had been stained a bright, flushed red as he met the violent thrusts. Taehyung couldn't help but watch the man's hand begin to jerk off his own cock. It looked so stiff and swollen against his stomach, it couldn't help but send a few tingles to Tae's own groin. But though he hadn't exactly meant to get a hard on while watching this with Yoongi, he should've considered it a possibility. Not to say Yoongi had never seen him with an erection anyway considering how long they'd known each other.

Hell, he'd walk out into the kitchen with morning wood all the time, grab some cereal, and then go back into his room to work on getting rid of it. But the warmth, the proximity of another body in his bed... made it... different. As he thought more and more about it, watching the man on bottom climax onto the tent floor only to be rolled over onto his back as his partner came on his chest with a pained grunt, he'd become perfectly aware of how quiet he and his roommate had become. Taehyung squirmed, having the intense desire to sneak a glance at Yoongi, but if he did, his roommate would probably call him on the flush no doubt apparent on his cheeks by now.

The first scene came to an end, and the second one began. Since both "actors" were clothed and sizing each other up, Taehyung had time to relax himself for a brief few seconds. However, he nearly jumped when something brushed against his bare arm.

"What are you doing?" He nearly shrieked, calming his voice at the last second. He raised himself on an elbow and glared at Yoongi.

"Um. Changing positions?" Yoongi answered as his eyes shifted across Tae's face.

"Oh..."

"I thought you wanted to watch this..." Yoongi said slowly.

"Watch what?" Taehyung asked obliviously.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. "The movie. The next scene is starting..."

"Oh... yeah. This scene isn't even my favourite anyway. I like the third one."

"Ah." Yoongi rested his forearm atop his forehead. The movement made his black shirt ride up ever so slightly, revealing the top of a dark trail of hair.

Taehyung stared at it briefly, then realizing what he was doing, he looked up into Yoongi's face. Yoongi stared right back, an eyebrow raised in obvious amusement. Taehyung laughed sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in the fine brown hair at the nape.

"Heh."

Yoongi drew himself up onto his elbows, having been lying down on his back since the middle of the first scene. "So why is it you enjoy the third scene so much? Should we skip ahead?" He grabbed for the remote, which was placed between them, and hit the skip button.

Taehyung tried to make a quick attempt to swipe it out of his roommate's hands. "No, no, don't do that!" He practically tackled Yoongi trying to wrestle it from him. Yoongi pushed him back, pressing a hand firmly to Tae's chest.

"What's with you?" Yoongi asked. Taehyung's gaze dropped to the hand pressed to his chest and then to his roommate's face.

"It's just... this is the scene that really turns me on! I don't wanna watch it with you!"

Yoongi stared a moment, then the corner of his mouth lifted. "And why not?"

"Well. For starter's, um, 9 and a half out of ten times that I watch this, I get hard. Having you in my bed will make it difficult to take care of."

"Do I make you self conscious?" Yoongi inquired in a husked, teasing voice.

"Of course not!" Taehyung said, flustered. "If you wanna see me jerk off in front of you, then be my guest, but at least I warned you beforehand of what to expect."

Yoongi spoke sarcastically, "How very gracious of you, Tae." Then he looked at Taehyung seriously. "Who says I'd mind?"

Taehyung's eyes bulged out of his head, his subconscious already recognizing the corny music drifting his way from the TV. "You've got to be joking. Ew, Yoongi. We've lived with each other for like two years, and yeah, maybe one time you walked in on me in the bathroom, and yeah, there was that time I forgot to take that tape of me with those Swiss twins out of the VCR when you were trying to record that episode of House, but... we... I... you..." Taehyung faltered.

Yoongi fell back onto the bed. "I was... kidding."

"Oh... oh right." Taehyung forced a laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Uh, me too." Embarrassed for making such a stupid big deal about it, Tae slinked back down into the bed. His own hand accidentally rubbed against the top of his thigh, and he flinched.

"So what's so great about this scene again?" Yoongi asked, the neutrality of his tone somehow calming.

"It's... what they say," Taehyung replied ambiguously, shifting into a more comfortable position.

" 'What they say'?" Yoongi repeated.

"Yeah... I have this thing about dirty talk. Yeah, the scene starts off kinda nice and slow like this, but once the clothes come off and they're in bed... I just... I mean... yeah the sex is hot, but, guh..." he rambled.

"Interesting."

"I once dated this girl in college. Her name was... ah, shit, I actually don't remember her name, but she had a filthy mouth and could go for hours. But to be funny, when, you know, she wanted me to cum more quickly, she'd lean over and say the dirtiest shit in my ear, and I swear it was over two seconds later... Lousy kisser though."

Yoongi's lips thinned. "Thanks for sharing."

Taehyung nodded. "No problem."

They were at the part in the third scene where the clothes were starting to come off. Both of the men appeared to be in their early 20s. They could've passed for frat brothers, and maybe they were. One had apparently shaved his head though, and a small silver hoop dangled from his left ear. He had the tiniest bit of chest hair, while the other man didn't seem to have hair anywhere but on his head. Even his balls were hairless, and he was tan, but there wasn't a single tanline on his body. He was the one with the dirty mouth, too. Taehyung was trying to tune him out since he was already starting to tell the other man what he wanted him to do. Although, it didn't really look as if that bald Marine-looking guy needed explicit directions.

Taehyung grabbed a pillow behind his head and growled, shoving it over his face so that he wouldn't have to hear it, but suddenly it was pulled off of him and thrown on the floor. Yoongi was leaning over him, his long bangs swaying in front of his face as he peered at Taehyung.

"Why was she such a lousy kisser?" Yoongi asked.

Taehyung swallowed. "Too much tongue."

"Ah." Yoongi breathed a charming chuckle. "You don't like tongue?"

"Um..."

"Show me?" Yoongi leaned over further, pressing his hand down on Taehyung's chest.

"Are you serious?" Tae asked, squirming onto his elbows. He searched Yoongi's face for an answer when there was none that seemed to be forthcoming. "Why?"

"If you don't want to..." Yoongi began to pull away, but Taehyung grabbed him by the front of the shirt.

"I didn't say that," Tae replied, tugging his roommate closer. He smirked. "I just didn't want to take advantage of you while you're vulnerable."

"You think I'm vulnerable now?" Yoongi returned the smirk. "I think I'm the one in control."

"Uh huh. Sure you are, bastard." Pushing himself up, he pressed his lips to Yoongi's, feeling the other man's mouth part at the contact. One of them murmured into the kiss. Yoongi moved on top of him, and Taehyung slid his fingers into his roommate's hair. He smiled as he started breathing through his nose, parting his legs so that Yoongi could slide between them. He took in a sharp breath when Yoongi's warm hand slid under his shirt and skimmed across his stomach. Yoongi laughed softly at the reaction. He nipped at Taehyung's bottom lip gently and nudged Tae's cheek with his nose. The porno on in the background was an erotic chorus to their making out. The denim of their jeans rustled as they both shifted. Yoongi stroked Taehyung's cheek with a finger and then let it glide across a cheekbone. Taehyung's hand ran in absent circles over Yoongi's lower back, touching the skin above the waistband with his fingertips.

"Actually," Taehyung said, licking his lips as bright eyes stared up at Yoongi with good humour, "I do like tongue. Just not a lot of it. No one likes to be slobbered on."

Yoongi smirked. "Shall we test it out? See how much is a good enough amount of tongue?"

"I think I've moved past the stage of experimenting," Taehyung joked. He pushed away Yoongi's bangs, tucking them behind his ear. Then he sighed as Yoongi angled his head. "This feels good. How come we haven't done this before?"

Yoongi gazed at him thoughtfully. "For starters. You're unreliable."

"Unreliable!?" Taehyung squawked and tried to sit up, but Yoongi held him down.

"You were supposed to get popcorn and ended up bringing Oreos. Now you taste like chocolate."

"Pft. You know I'm one of your most reliable friends. Don't give me that bullshit. Because we get along so well is why we live together, asshole." Taehyung once again tried to sit up, but Yoongi held him firmly down and placed a kiss to his chin. Immediately, Taehyung felt calmed by it, though he squirmed one more time for the show. "Hmph."

"I don't think that's the real reason why nothing has ever happened between us before."

"Nah, probably not," Taehyung said, but gasped when he felt Yoongi's mouth at his neck, licking lightly at first and then sucking right where he could feel his own pulse. "Ngh. Of course you would be good at this. Aah..." At the back of his mind, though his eyes had shut of their own accord, he could hear that the scene had become more heated. But all his focus seemed to be on the lips at his throat. The teeth that nipped at his skin. The fingers that tugged at the collar of his shirt and kissed at his collarbone. Taehyung drew his knees up slightly, his thighs rubbing against Yoongi's hips.

"Is it because we fight so much?" Taehyung asked, tilting his head when Yoongi started to attack the other side of his neck.

"I like fighting with you," Yoongi breathed.

"Hmm..." He shifted again, glancing over Yoongi's shoulder to view the TV. Yoongi huffed and leaned up, also glancing behind as Hairless Guy was busy riding Baldy backwards, telling him how much he loved "that huge hard cock inside him. Fucking him hard and making it feel so... ah... yes... good."

Yoongi looked down into Taehyung's face again, sighing. But he smiled. Tae grinned in exchange.

"I lied about bottoming by the way," Taehyung admitted with a shrug.

"I figured."

"Huh? How?" Taehyung urged him to lie on top of his body again, and Yoongi did so, fitting snuggly between his legs. "I mean, I've only bottomed twice, but I didn't like it. You switch though, right?"

"Not a lot, no," Yoongi answered frankly, a very firm line set in his brow. "Sit up for a second."

Yoongi gave him room to sit, but only for long enough that Taehyung's t-shirt could be ripped off over his head and tossed against the window, where it caused the drawn blinds to sway. Taehyung helped Yoongi out of his shirt. He balled it up for him and threw it toward the foot of the bed. When they came together, it was skin against skin. It wasn't entirely odd to be exploring Yoongi’s chest with his hands. Yoongi who he'd known for years and years. Who he'd lived with and had never really considered kissing let alone screwing. Okay, well barring drunken nights where with the right lighting, Yoongi was very pretty. Okay. So Yoongi was really attractive, really smart, and also really funny, but Taehyung had never wanted to ruin their friendship by crossing some kind of line.

"This is okay, right?" Taehyung asked. It felt right. But he wanted to make sure it felt right to Yoongi.

Yoongi leaned in, his bangs hanging, the very tips touching Taehyung's cheek. "This is right," he said against Taehyung's mouth and kissed him. Slowly this time.

Yoongi's hands went to either side of Taehyung's head, and he shifted his hips, moving them against Taehyung's in a drawn out, downward movement. Taehyung's lips parted in a quiet gasp, giving Yoongi's tongue enough room to sneak inside. Sparks ignited all over Tae’s skin at this new sensation. His legs automatically moved to lock around Yoongi's waist.

There was nothing hurried about their kissing. Their tongues overlapped one another until Taehyung tugged Yoongi by the hair, drawing their faces apart but only so Taehyung could suck on Yoongi's tongue, coaxing it back into his own mouth where it started all over again. Except now their hips were grinding, and Tae's toes were curling and flexing. He'd never been with anyone who kissed as good as Yoongi did, and as they both came up for air, he told him so.

Yoongi appeared cocky after that, but it looked good on him, so Taehyung didn't mind. In fact, he smiled quite genuinely.

"You know," Yoongi began. "Just because you picked a couple sloppy fucks, doesn't mean it can't feel good." At the emphasis on the word 'good,' he pressed his hips harder against Taehyung's.

Taehyung bit at Yoongi's shoulder. "Why does it matter if you already switch anyway?"

Yoongi frowned, and Taehyung prodded him in the ribs. He squinted suspiciously. "You do care, don't you? You wanna fuck me!" He said it like it was some great epiphany, but he could genuinely see it in the way Yoongi was looking at him. Like he was determined or something, but Taehyung couldn't completely piece it altogether.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes moodily, "I thought we already established that, and that's how we got to this point."

"Well yeah," Taehyung said, almost finding the noises coming from behind them humorous, "But it's important to you that you be the one fucking me, huh? Is it 'cause it's me or 'cause it would be our first time, and you need to, like, assert your dominance? 'Cause what? If I fuck you... you'd mope around the apartment thinking I'd brag about it? What's the deal. Explain."

"Oh yes. Good to see you know me so well," Yoongi commented caustically, but as an apology, Tae nipped at his jawline. He slid his hand along Yoongi's spine, not really wanting to fight. He couldn't help his curiosity though. It was so easy to tell when there was something Yoongi wanted. It's not that Taehyung was completely opposed to bottoming. Even if his first experiences with it hadn't been amazing. But it wasn't much of a guess to conclude Yoongi would be very good at it. There wasn't much Yoongi  was not amazing at, but that's not to say he wouldn't have a good time if Tae fucked him.

"I believe you're putting too much thought into it," Yoongi observed. He traced the shell of Taehyung's ear with his thumb. Tae moved into the gesture, almost purring at the unexpected tenderness of it.

"Am I?" Taehyung smirked.

Yoongi bit down on the soft shell of his ear while a palm skirted over Taehyung's right nipple.

"You just want me to say the things you want to hear, maybe?" Yoongi inquired with a lift of an eyebrow. His eyes shifted away from Taehyung's face, and a small sneer appeared on his swollen lips. "Like that girl did." Was it just Taehyung... or did Yoongi somehow seem jealous?

"What girl?" he asked to be cheeky. "Oh, oh, of course. That girl. There've been so many after all..."

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, and Taehyung's nipple took the punishment for that comment by being pinched viciously between his roommate's fingers.

"Dirty talk, right? It's your weakness?" Yoongi asked, releasing the abused nipple only to slide down and lick it with the tip of his tongue. Taehyung watched with heavy-lidded eyes as it disappeared inside Yoongi's mouth. The other man sucked, cheeks hallowing, and Taehyung's back arched up off of the bed.

"Yoongi..." he half-moaned. Yoongi looked up while giving another quick suck. Taehyung had learned his lesson. Yoongi laid against his side as Taehyung studied his face, the movie having gone onto the fourth scene a while ago. "Did I say that?" he asked, now that he could speak with a steady voice.

Yoongi laid back down on top of him. Taehyung's arms wrapped around his shoulders as Yoongi spoke in the sexiest voice he'd ever heard, right into his ear.

"You'll let me fuck you if I make you want it."

Taehyung shivered and bit the corner of his mouth. "That's kind of a one-sided deal," he whispered in low tones. "If you don't want me to fuck you, just say so--" Yoongi's hand quickly moved to cover his mouth as he was shushed.

"You'll want it, Tae. Trust me." The hand was removed from his mouth. "Didn't you tell me all of that because you want me to know what turns you on?"

"No," Taehyung answered stubbornly, though his traitorous hips took that moment to want to roll against Yoongi's.

"Uh huh," Yoongi chuckled, his hands moving to Taehyung's belt buckle. In a daze, Taehyung's hands moved, too, zeroing in on Yoongi's belt, quickly undoing it. With a vulpine-like grin, he unsheathed it like a whip from the loops and made a show of dropping it to the floor. Yoongi didn't bother removing his all the way. He simply unhooked the button and drew Taehyung's zipper down, cupping the bulge with his hand. They watched one another as Taehyung rocked into it, and Yoongi started tugging the jeans until they reached Taehyung's knees.

"Figures you'd have to be good at everything," Taehyung sighed, hips rocking in measured movements. He started to unfasten Yoongi's pants, fingers getting a brief chance to run through that dark patch of hair he'd seen earlier. Taehyung's hands slid along Yoongi's chest, his shoulders and then down his muscled arms. Yoongi shifted, sitting up. He hooked his finger in the loops of Taehyung's jeans and pulled them the rest of the way off while on his knees. He threw them in the direction of the foot of the bed. Taehyung sat up, kissing Yoongi's stomach and up the centre of his chest as he began helping his roommate out of his jeans. They shared playful kisses, having a hard time of getting the jeans off because they were too busy touching each other anywhere there hands could reach. Once their mission was accomplished, Taehyung lay down again, kicking the sheets and duvet away from them.

"You haven't said anything dirty for a while," Taehyung mused. Yoongi was just about to lie on top of him again when he stopped and smirked. His head was very close to Taehyung's crotch. Yoongi mouthed the erection, and Taehyung momentarily lost a couple mental functions.

"I thought that was supposed to happen when I'm ready for you to cum?" He tugged down Taehyung's boxers. Slowly. Taehyung watched their progress as they passed his knees, his shins, and then, finally, off his feet. He wiggled his toes as Yoongi returned to him, his hand brushing along the inside of Taehyung's leg. Up his thigh, and just barely missing the side of his cock, which was already hard and stiff against his stomach.

"Well if you talk like that, it won't take very long at all," Taehyung sighed as Yoongi pressed his mouth to the indent of muscle right below his hip. As Yoongi moved up his body, he grabbed for Taehyung's shaft, stroking him as he moved in for another kiss. Gratefully, Taehyung moaned into it, twisting and gyrating into Yoongi's skilled hand. He could already feel pre-cum oozing from the tip. Yoongi gathered it between his thumb and forefinger and began spreading it over the length.

Taehyung's head fell back against the pillow, and his eyes rolled to the ceiling. "God. I should’ve asked you to watch porn with me so much earlier than this."

Yoongi smirked and clamped down on Taehyung's nipple, still stroking and pulling him as Taehyung continued to groan in appreciation. "Ugh. I've never met anyone who gives a handjob half as good as you, and I went to a Catholic high school."

Yoongi laughed lightly, removing his mouth from the nipple. Taehyung grinned at him and brushed his bangs out of the way so that he could see his roommate's smile. Yoongi swooped in and captured his mouth in a searing kiss, squeezing at the base of Taehyung's cock as their lips met. Yoongi stroked and squeezed his way back to the head, where, just as he flicked his finger across the slit, he snaked his tongue inside Taehyung's mouth. If Taehyung didn't have such amazing stamina and will, he might've cum right then. Yoongi's sweaty skin stuck to his, and the pungent smell of their musk wafted into his nose. The hand on his cock became more rough and aggressive in its movements. Yoongi wouldn't leave his lips alone. Taehyung grunted and groaned inside Yoongi's mouth. He could feel Yoongi's hard shaft against his thigh, pressing urgently.

Their kiss broke apart with a loud smack, a thin string of saliva snapping as Yoongi moved away from him to get on his knees.

"Do you always talk this much during sex, Tae?" Yoongi asked, tugging and pulling on himself, staring at Taehyung with a smug smirk.

"I get it, I get it," Taehyung said as he got onto all fours. He covered Yoongi's hand with his and got to his knees. Their hands moved in tandem between their bodies, their lips coming together in a softer kiss than before. Taehyung's unoccupied hand cupped the side of Yoongi's face, then slid to the back of his neck to pull him into a deeper kiss. Yoongi nibbled at his bottom lip, and Taehyung smiled. "Fine. I'll find something to preoccupy my mouth with then so you can have some peace."

"That's more like it," Yoongi said. Taehyung got down on his hands and knees and took Yoongi into his mouth, laving over the head with pleasure, because, unlike a lot of people, he actually liked giving blow jobs. He sucked at first, making slurping noises as pre-cum leaked out of the tip and coated his lips. He tasted it on his tongue, finding it spicy, but with the hint of something...sweet. Like citrus. He held the base of Yoongi's cock with one hand while balancing himself by pressing the other against Yoongi's firm thigh. Yoongi was already thrusting shallowly, calling to mind images of the earlier scenes of the movie, which by the sound of it, had come to the fifth and final scene.

His hand slid up Yoongi's thigh to fondle his sac. Yoongi must have a thing for that because he let out a loud grunt as Taehyung tugged at his balls. Taehyung hallowed his cheeks more, bringing in his lips and widening his mouth as much as he could. Yoongi was a bit thicker than he'd imagined, and it had been a while since Taehyung had done this. He slid his tongue along the bottom, following the line of a vein. His hand went around to grab at an asscheek while the other went to Yoongi's left hip so that he might be able to control how quick and deep the thrusts could go. Taehyung edged forward, swallowing more until the head of Yoongi's cock was pushing toward the back of his throat. He would've been content to have Yoongi cum in his mouth, but before he could make another false-swallow he was tugged by the hair.

Taehyung's eyes were half lidded as Yoongi pulled him up and embraced him. Yoongi bit at his lips, seemingly sucking the taste of himself off of Taehyung's mouth, licking the corners like it turned him on that his scent was all over Taehyung's skin. Taehyung laughed at the show of possessiveness. Yoongi snorted.

"I never would've thought someone like you would be so good at giving head," Yoongi teased.

"C'mon, Yoongi." Taehyung tilted his head and gave an arrogant smirk. "What'm I not good at?"

Yoongi opened his mouth to respond.

"Shut up. That was rhetorical."

"Shut up, huh?" Yoongi said, running his hands down Taehyung's naked sides and then over his ass, where on its way back up, one hand took a detour by way of his crack. Two fingers brazenly slid across his hole and Taehyung jumped.

"Asshole!"

"At least you know your anatomy."

Taehyung couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm going to have to find another way to preoccupy your mouth, I think," Yoongi sighed and then roughly shoved Taehyung onto his back, his head safely meeting the pillows instead of the wood of the headboard. Taehyung scowled up at him.

Yoongi didn’t blink an eye. "Where are your condoms?"

"Uh, actually..."

Yoongi arched an eyebrow.

"I used the last one a couple weeks ago. But, I mean..." His hand fidgeted on top of his stomach. He shook it out and let it fall to his hip as Yoongi crawled in between his legs. "I'm... clean."

"Hm." Yoongi batted his hair away and huffed.

"Does that mean you're...?"

Yoongi spread his legs further apart with his hands and laid down on top of Taehyung. Their cocks rubbed against one another. Taehyung shuddered and grit his teeth. Yoongi's breath was warm against his ear. He rested his hand on the small of Yoongi's back.

"If we're going to do this," Yoongi spoke against the side of his throat, kissing him right underneath his jaw. "For the first time... I want to be the one fucking you."

Taehyung started to retort, but Yoongi bit at the juncture between neck and shoulder painfully.

 "Let me finish," Yoongi scolded, kissing the spot he'd abused. "Not because I want to prove to you I'm the dominant one." His hand smoothed along Taehyung's side and hooked under Taehyung's left knee. "Not because I don't trust you to fuck me, and certainly not because I think I wouldn't enjoy that..."

Taehyung swallowed as the arm hooking under his leg bent him further in half, exposing himself more to Yoongi's eyes.

"Then why?" Taehyung managed to ask as another arm snaked under his right knee. Yoongi heaved forward and pushed him down fiercely. Taehyung gasped but loved the strong hands and fingers digging against his skin. The hard body weighted on top of him. The feel of his cock as it pressed against Yoongi's belly. It was deliciously perfect as all his muscles began tensing in preparation, though he was meaning to relax certain other muscles. He evened out his breathing as Yoongi continued, speaking into his ear.

"Because I want you," Yoongi answered. "I want you first, and I know you'll let me have what I want."

Taehyung tried to scowl. "You're awfully confident there..."

Yoongi pressed forward and suddenly Taehyung's hips were nearly in the air.

"Oh that's right," Yoongi drawled as he slipped two fingers inside his own mouth. "You're a 'fingering type of guy,' aren't you, Taehyung?"

"No, ah, I just said I liked--" He was cut off as Yoongi's middle finger slid inside him. It's not like he hadn't ever experienced that before. Maybe not frequently, and no, he hadn't particularly enjoyed it those times, but something about it being Yoongi made it different. That arrogant smirk on his lips as he pulled out his finger only to slide two more in as Taehyung clenched around him and ground his teeth. Of course, that body and that face. Taehyung had always found Yoongi attractive. Yoongi was beautiful to him in a lot of ways, which is why this felt so damn good when it usually felt anything but. Taehyung forced himself to relax the ring of muscles surrounding Yoongi's fingers. He only squirmed a little as Yoongi laid a sloppy kiss to the inside of his thigh and then the tip of his cock. Taehyung mewled and panted. Yoongi slid his fingers out. Taehyung's legs hung limply over Yoongi's thighs until Taehyung was viciously bent in half again.

Yoongi pressed the head of his cock against Taehyung's hole, his expression set in concentration as he pushed forward while using one hand to pull Taehyung toward him.

"Shit," Taehyung gritted as the head started to push inside. He cracked open his eyes to watch Yoongi's face. His stomach muscles were quivering, and his black hair stuck to his cheeks with perspiration. Taehyung lifted a hand to unstick it and hold the fringes back behind Yoongi's ear. Yoongi grunted, yanking Taehyung by the thigh, and suddenly he was sheathed inside. Taehyung exhaled sharply. His hand fell from Yoongi's cheek at the intrusion to grip at a shoulder. He could feel Yoongi pulsing inside him, and he was surprised at how his chest seemed to swell with a million emotions at once, all of which he'd never been expecting.

"Yoongi..." was all he could say, hoping to express everything he felt in the name. Yoongi grunted and gave a jerky thrust. Now he was completely in, their chests pressed together, Taehyung's length trapped between their bodies. Yoongi's stomach rubbed against it every now and again as he began moving. Yoongi nuzzled Taehyung's throat.

"I know," Yoongi said as his hips began to move more urgently, "I know..."

The movie had gone dead, the screen a dull black in the background, but their own grunts and groans and moans of pleasure began to fill the room. The bed rocked, the headboard banging against the wall. Sweat dripped down Taehyung's hairline and along his cheek. Yoongi lifted himself and licked it off before it could make an escape along the path of Taehyung's jaw. Their bodies slid together easily, like Yoongi was a perfect fit.

"If you weren't so goddamn tight, I think we could make this last longer," Yoongi said in broken pants against Taehyung's neck. Taehyung answered with a strained smile as he rocked his hips up and squeezed a hand between their bodies to begin stroking himself.

"I can't help it if I'm the type to give more than I take," Taehyung smirked only to moan as Yoongi shifted a little to the side and angled his thrust upward. Yoongi grinned, apparently having noticed the sharp change in expression. He hit it again and again repeatedly until Taehyung couldn't create a single coherent word, which may or may not have been Yoongi's plan to begin with.

Yoongi continued to jab and pound into him. Taehyung had a hard time keeping a rhythm with his hand every time Yoongi plunged deeper, trying out different angles only to come back and hit that spot, taking pleasure in the way Taehyung cried out every time, clawing at Yoongi's shoulder blade.

"Yes, yes, yes," Taehyung chanted as the bed thudded into the wall, no doubt leaving dents and scratches already.

Yoongi didn't stop. He pressed himself to Taehyung, pushing Taehyung's hand away so he could wrap his own around Taehyung's length. He pumped him while moving deep inside him; Taehyung was at a loss for words.

 "I suppose this means you're close, right?" Yoongi whispered into his ear, licking the soft shell.

Taehyung could only twist his head, eyes widening a tiny fraction. "Don't..." he warned half-heartedly, squeezing around Yoongi's cock as a reprimand.

"I thought you said this is what you liked?" Yoongi replied, this time licking a stripe up Taehyung's cheek. Taehyung groaned and squirmed underneath Yoongi, feeling trapped between the man fucking him and the hand fisting his leaking, swollen erection.

"Nod if you're close to cumming," Yoongi commanded.

Taehyung nodded, biting his lip. Yoongi gazed down at him. He lowered his head and licked the seam of Taehyung's mouth seductively, teasing his lips open. Outside their mouths, their tongues touched. Taehyung's balls began to tighten, muscles clamping tightly around Yoongi. Yoongi groaned but kept on pummelling Taehyung into the mattress.

"Hn. Is this how you imagined it, Taehyung? Me buried deep inside you. Fucking you. Loving you. Riding you so hard you can't even speak any longer."

Taehyung's eyes were glazed. He could barely see. He could only hear the sound of Yoongi's voice near his ear and the throbbing sensation of the cock inside his ass, pulsing hot and urgent. Yoongi kissed him hard. Desperate and close, Taehyung pushed Yoongi's hand away and began pumping himself in earnest. Yoongi braced his arm on the mattress and yanked Taehyung's legs up until his knees were on either side of his head.

Yoongi's mouth was against his ear, the sensation of his orgasm right near the edge. If he could reach out a hand and touch it, it'd be right, fucking, there. The chants came again, like a mantra. "Yes, Yoongi, yes, yes, Yoongi, yes..."

"That's it, Tae." Yoongi kissed the side of his throat. "Say my name. Say it because I'm the one that's gonna make you cum, say it and beg for it like you know you want to."

Taehyung's back arched off the bed. "Fuck, yes, Yoongi. Make me cum. Fuck me. Please. Yes."

Yoongi drove into him with one final thrust as Taehyung's body shuddered with an orgasm so intense he had no idea when he stopped pumping himself. He felt it as the cum spurted out against his and Yoongi's stomach. Seconds later, there was a pain at his shoulder as Yoongi bit down and came inside him. The feeling warm and pleasurable as Taehyung's body continued to convulse and spasm. Their breathing was loud. Like both of them had just finished a Triathlon. Yoongi had slumped over, trying to hold himself up with one arm so he didn't completely crush Taehyung. Taehyung shook his head and looked into Yoongi's face, grinning tiredly. Yoongi leaned in, releasing Taehyung's legs as they kissed each other. Yoongi was tracing circles on Taehyung's hip as Taehyung traced circles along the back of Yoongi's shoulder.

Yoongi smirked. "Guess you really do have a weakness for dirty talk after all."

Taehyung let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Ah well, so long as it's you I suppose it's okay if you know my one weakness."

"Mmhmm," Yoongi murmured and pulled himself out of Taehyung. He rolled off and onto his back, their fingers brushing between their bodies.

"You're right though," Taehyung mused aloud, watching the ceiling. "It really can be good if you find the right person."

"Hn."

"Guess that means the search will have to continue," Taehyung commented. Yoongi retaliated by slamming a pillow down onto Taehyung's face. Taehyung laughed loudly and pushed it off, glancing at his roommate out of the corner of his eye. Yoongi wore a soft smile. He reached over and brushed Taehyung's bangs out of his eyes. Yoongi looked like he had something he wanted to say. The side of his mouth twitched, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth, but nothing followed. Taehyung got it though and understood. He doubted he could articulate it either. Instead, he laid his hand on Yoongi's chest. Over his heart.

"I know," he said. "I get it."

Yoongi nodded at him, rolled over, and kissed Taehyung on the lips before falling back onto the mattress. "Of all people. I figured you would."

Taehyung grinned.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Black Man With a Horn

T.E.D. Klein (1980)

The Black [words obscured by postmark] was fascinating - I must get a snap shot of him.

H. P. LOVECRAFT, rOSTC~,RO TO r. HOFFMANN PRICE, 7/23/1934

There is something inherently comforting about the first-person past tense. It conjures up visions of some deskbound narrator puffing contemplatively upon a pipe amid the safety of his study, lost in tranquil recollection, seasoned but essentially unscathed by whatever experience he's about to relate.

It's a tense that says, 'I am here to tell the tale. I lived through it.'

The description, in my own case, is perfectly accurate - as far as it goes. I am indeed seated in a kind of study: a small den, actually, but lined with bookshelves on one side, below a view of Manhattan painted many years ago, from memory, by my sister. My desk is a folding bridge table that once belonged to her. Before me the electric typewriter, though somewhat precariously supperted, hums soothingly, and from the window behind me comes the familiar drone of the old air conditioner, waging its lonely battle against the tropic night. Beyond it, in the darkness outside, the small night-noises are doubtless just as reassuring; wind in the palm trees, the mindless chant of crickets, the muffled chatter of a neighbour's TV, an occasional car bound for the highway, shifting gears as it speeds past the house...

House, in truth, may be too grand a word; the place is a green stucco bungalow just a single story tall, third in a row of nine set several hundred yards from the highway. Its only distinguishing features are the sundial in the front yard, brought here from my sister's former home, and the jagged little picket fence, now rather overgrown with weeds, which she had erected despite the protests of neighbours.

It's hardly the most romantic of settings, but under normal circumstances it might make an adequate background for meditations in the past tense. 'I'm still here,' the writer says, adjusting to the tone. (I've even stuck the requisite pipe in mouth, stuffed with a plug of latakia.) 'It's over now,'

he says. 'I lived through it.'

A comforting premise, perhapsú Only, in this case, it doesn't happen to be true. Whether the experience is really 'over now' no one can say; and if, as I suspect, the final chapter has yet to be enacted, then the notion of my 'living through it' will seem a pathetic conceit.

Yet ! can't say I find the thought of my own death particularly disturbing. I get so tired, sometimes, of this little room, with its cheap wicker furniture, the dull outdated books, the night pressing in from outside ú.. And of that sundial out there in the yard, with its idiotic message. 'Grow old along with me...'

I have done so, and my life seems hardly to have mattered in the scheme of things. Surely its end cannot matter much either.

Ah, Howard, you would have understood.

That, boy, was what I call a travel-experience! – H.P LOVECRAFT, 3/12/1930

If, while I set it down, this tale acquires an ending, it promises to be an unhappy one. But the beginning is nothing of the kind; you may find it rather humorous, in fact - full of comic pratfalls, wet trouser cuffs, and a dropped vomit-bag.

'I steeled myself to endure it,' the old lady to my right was saying. 'I don't mind telling you I was exceedingly frightened. I held on to the arms of the seat and just gritted my teeth. And then, you know, right after the captain warned us about that turbulence, when the tail lifted and fell, flip-flop, flip-flop, well -' she flashed her dentures at me and patted my wrist, ' - I don't mind telling you, there was simply nothing for it but to heave.'

Where had the old girl picked up such expressions? And was she trying to pick me up as well?

Her hand clamped wetly round my wrist. 'I do hope you'll let me pay for the dry cleaning.'

'Madam,' I said, 'think nothing of it. The suit was already stained.'

'Such a nice man!' She cocked her head coyly at me, still gripping my wrist. Though their whites had long since turned the colour of old piano keys, her eyes were not unattractive. But her breath repelled me. Slipping my paperback into a pocket, I rang for the stewardess.

The earlier mishap had occurred several hours before. In clambering aboard the plane at Heathrow, surrounded by what appeared to be an aboriginal rugby club (all dressed alike, navy blazers with bone buttons), I'd been shoved from behind and had stumbled against a black cardboard hatbox in which some Chinaman was storing his dinner; it was jutting into the aisle near the first-class seats. Something inside sloshed over my ankles - duck sauce, soup perhaps and left a sticky yellow puddle on the floor. I turned in time to see a tall, beefy Caucasian with an Air Malay bag and a beard so thick and black he looked like some heavy from the silent era. His manner was equally suited to the role, for after shouldering me aside (with shoulders broad as my valises), he pushed his way down the crowded passage, head bobbing near the ceiling like a gas balloon, and suddenly disappeared from sight at the rear of the plane. In his wake I caught the smell of treacle, and was instantly reminded of my childhood: birthday hats, Callard and Bowser gift packs, and after-dinner bellyaches.

'So very sorry.' A bloated little Charlie Chan looked fearfully at this departing apparition, then doubled over to scoop his dinner beneath the seat, fiddling with the ribbon.

'Think nothing of it,' I said.

I was feeling kindly towards everyone that day. Flying was still a novelty. My friend Howard, of course (as I'd reminded audiences earlier in the week), used to say he'd 'hate to see a~roplanes come into common commercial use, since they merely add to the goddam useless speeding up of an already overspeeded life.' He had dismissed them as 'devices for the amusement of a gentleman'-

but then, he'd only been up once, in the twenties, and for only as long as $3.50 would bring. What could he have known of whistling engines, the wicked joys of dining at thirty thousand feet, the chance to look out a window and find that the earth is, after all, quite round? All this he had missed; he was dead and therefore to be pitied.

Yet even in de. ath he had triumphed over me...

It gave me something to think about as the stewardess helped me to my feet, clucking in professional concern at the mess on my lap - though more likely she was thinking of the wiping up that awaited her once I'd vacated the seat. 'Why do they make those bags so slippery?' my elderly neighbour asked plaintively. 'And all over this nice man's suit. You really should do something about it.' The plane dropped and settled; she rolled her yellowing eyes. 'It could happen again.'

The stewardess steered me down the aisle towards a restroom at the middle of the plane. To my left a cadaverous young woman wrinkled her nose and smiled at the man next to her. I attempted to disguise my defeat by looking bitter - 'Someone else has done this deed!' - but doubt I succeeded.

The stewardess's arm supporting mine was superfluous but comfortable; I leaned on her more heavily with each step. There are, as I'd long suspected, precious few advantages in being seventy-six and looking it - yet among them is this: though one is excused from the frustration of flirting with a stewardess, one gets to lean on her arm. I turned toward her to say something funny, but paused; her face was blank as a clock's.

'I'll wait out here for you,' she said, and pulled open the smooth white door.

q~hat will hardly be necessary.' I straightened up. 'But could you - do you think you might find me another seat? I have nothing against that lady, you understand, but I don't want to see any more of her lunch.'

Inside the restroom the whine of the engines seemed louder, as if the pink plastic walls were all that separated me from the jet stream and its arctic winds. Occasionally the air we passed through must have grown choppy, for the plane rattled and heaved like a sled over rough ice. If I opened the john I half expected to see the earth miles below us, a frozen grey Atlantic fanged with icebergs.

England was already a thousand miles away.

With one hand on the door handle for support, I wiped off my trousers with a perfumed paper towel from a foil envelope, and stuffed several more into my pocket. My cuffs still bore a residue of Chinese goo. This, it seemed, was the source of the treacle smell; I dabbed ineffectually at it.

Surveying myself in the mirror - a bald, harmless-looking old baggage with stooped shoulders and a damp suit (so different from the self-confident young fellow in the photo captioned 'HPL and disciple') - I slid open the bolt and emerged, a medley of scents. The stewardess had found an empty seat for me at the back of the plane.

It was only as I made to sit down that I noticed who occupied the adjoining seat: he was leaning away from me, asleep with his head resting against the window, but I recognized the beard.

'Uh, stewardess - ?' I turned, but saw only her uniformed back retreating up the aisle. After a moment's uncertainty I inched myself into the seat, making as little noise as possible. I had, I reminded myself, every right to be here.

Adjusting the recliner position (to the annoyance of the black behind me), I settled back and reached for the paperback in my pocket. They'd finally got round to reprinting one of my earlier tales, and already I'd found four typos. But then, what could one expect? The front cover, with its crude cartoon skull, said it all: 'Goosepimples: Thirteen Cosmic Chillers in the Lovecraft Tradition.'

So this is what I was reduced to - a lifetime's work shrugged off by some blurb-writer as 'worthy of the Master himself,' the creations of my brain dismissed as mere pastiche. And the tales themselves, once singled out for such elaborate praise, were now simply - as if this were commendation enough - 'Lovecraftian.' Ah, Howard, your triumph was complete the moment your name became an adjective.

I'd suspected it for years, of course, but only with the past week's conference had I been forced to acknowledge the fact: that what mattered to the present generation was not my own body of work, but rather my association with Lovecraft. And even this was demeaned: after years of friendship and support, to be labelled - simply because I'd been younger - a mere 'disciple.' It seemed too cruel a joke.

Every joke must have a punchline. This one's was still in my pocket, printed in italics on the folded yellow conference schedule. I didn't need to look at it again: there I was, characterized for all time as 'a member of the Lovecraft circle, New York educator, and author of the celebrated collection Beyond the Garve.'

That was it, the crowning indignity: to be immortalized by a misprint! You'd have appreciated this, Howard. I can almost hear you chuckling from - where else? - beyond the garve...

Meanwhile, from the seat next to me came the rasping sounds of a constricted throat; my neighbour must have been caught in a dream. I put down my book and studied him. He looked older than he had at first - perhaps sixty or more. His hands were roughened, powerful looking; on one of them was a ring with a curious silver cross. The glistening black beard that covered the lower half of his face was so thick as to be nearly opaque; its very darkness seemed unnatural, for above it the hair was streaked with grey.

I looked more closely, to where beard joined face. Was that a bit of gauze I saw, below the hair?

My heart gave a little jump. Leaning forward for a closer look, I peered at the skin to the side of his nose; though burned from long exposure to the sun, it had an odd pallor. My gaze continued upward, along the weathered cheeks towards the dark hollow of his eyes. They opened.

For a moment they stared into mine without apparent comprehension, glassy and bloodshot. In the next instant they were bulging from his head and quivering like hooked fish. His lips opened, and a tiny voice croaked, 'Not here.'

We sat in silence, neither of us moving. I was too surprised, too embarrassed, to answer. In the window beyond his head the sky looked bright and clear, but I could feel the plane buffeted by unseen blasts, its wingtips bouncing furiously.

'Don't do it to me here,' he whispered at last, shrinking back into his seat.

Was the man a lunatic? Dangerous, perhaps? Somewhat in my future I saw spinning headlines:

'Jetliner Terrorized ... Retired NYC Teacher Victim ...' My uncertainty must have shown, for I saw him lick his lips and glance past my head. Hope, and a trace of cunning, swept his face. He grinned up at me. 'Sorry, nothing to worry about. Whew! Must have been having a nightmare.' Like an athlete after a particularly tough race he shook his massive head, already regaining command of the situation. His voice had a hint of Tennessee drawl. 'Boy' - he gave what should have been a hearty laugh - 'I'd better lay off the Kickapoo juice!'

I smiled to put him at his ease, though there was nothing about him to suggest that he'd been drinking. 'That's an expression I haven't heard in years.'

'Oh, yeah?' he said, with little interest. 'Well, I've been away.' His fingers drummed nervously impatiently? - on the arm of his chair.

'Malaya?'

He sat up, and the colour left his face. 'How did you know?'

I nodded towards the green flight-bag at his feet. 'I saw you carrying that when you came aboard.

You, uh - you seemed to be in a little bit of a hurry, to say the least. In fact, I'm afraid you almost knocked me down.'

'Hey.' His voice was controlled now, his gaze level and assured. 'Hey, I'm really sorry about that, old fella. The fact is, I thought someone might be following me.'

Oddly enough, I believed him; he looked sincere - or as sincere as anyone can be behind a phony black beard. 'You're in disguise, aren't you?' I asked.

'You mean the whiskers? They're just something I picked up in Singapore. Shucks, I knew they wouldn't fool anyone for long, at least not a friend. But an enemy, well ... maybe.' He made no move to take them off.

'You're - let me guess - you're in the service, right?' The foreign service, I meant; frankly, I took him for an ageing spy.

'In the service?' He looked significantly to the left and right, then dropped his voice. 'Well, yeah, you might say that. In H/s service.' He pointed towards the roof of the plane.'You mean - ?'

He nodded. 'I'm a missionary. Or was until yesterday.'

Missionaries are infernal nuisances who ought to be kept at home. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 9/12/1925

Have you ever seen a man in fear of his life? I had, though not since my early twenties. After a summer of idleness I'd at last found temporary employment in the office of what turned out to be a rather shady businessman - I suppose today you'd call him a small-time racketeer - who, having somehow offended 'the mob,' was convinced he'd be dead by Christmas. He had been wrong, though; he'd been able to enjoy that and many other Christmases with his family, and it wasn't till years later that he was found in his bathtub, face down in six inches of water. I don't remember much about him, except how hard it had been to engage him in conversation; he never seemed to be listening.

Yet talking with the man who sat next to me on the plane was all too easy; he had nothing of the other's distracted air, the vague replies and preoccupied gaze. On the contrary, he was alert and highly interested in all that was said to him. Except for his initial panic, in fact, there was little to suggest he was a hunted man.

Yet so he claimed to be. Later events would, of course, settle all such questions, but at the time I had no way to judge if he was telling the truth, or if his story was phony as his beard.

If I believed him, it was almost entirely due to his manner, not the substance of what he said. No, he didn't claim to have made off with the Eye of Klesh; he was more original than that. Nor had he violated some witch doctor's only daughter. But some of the things he told me about the region in which he'd worked - a state called Negri Sembilan, south of Kuala Lumpur seemed frankly incredible: houses invaded by trees, government-built roads that simply disappeared, a nearby colleague returning from a ten-day vacation to find his lawn overgrown with ropy things they'd had to burn twice to destroy. He claimed there were tiny red spiders that jumped as high as a man's shoulder 'there was a girl in the village gone half-deaf because one of the nasty little things crawled in her ear and swelled so big it plugged up the hole' - and places where mosquitoes were so thick they suffocated cattle. He described a land of steaming mangrove swamps and rubber plantations as large as feudal kingdoms, a land so humid that wallpaper bubbled on the hot nights and bibles sprouted mildew.

As we sat together on the plane, sealed within an air-cooled world of plastic and pastel, none of these things seemed possible; with the frozen blue of the sky just beyond my reach, the stewardesses walking briskly past me in their blue-and-gold uniforms, the passengers to my left sipping Cokes or sleeping or leating through In-Flite, I found myself believing less than half of what he said, attributing the rest to sheer exaggeration and a Southern regard for tall tales. Only when I'd been home a week and paid a visit to my niece in Brooklyn did I revise my estimate upward, for glancing through her son's geography test I came upon this passage: 'Along the

[Malayan] peninsula, insects swarm in abundance; probably more varieties exist here than anywhere else on earth. There is some good hardwood timber, and camphor and ebony trees are found in profusion. Many orchid varieties thrive, some of extraordinary size.' The book alluded to the area's 'rich mixture of races and languages,' its 'extreme humidity' and 'colourful native fauna,'

and added: 'Its jungles are so impenetrable that even the wild beasts must keep to well-worn paths.'

But perhaps the strangest aspect of this region was that, despite its dangers and discomforts, my companion claimed to have loved it. 'They've got a mountain in the centre of the peninsula - ' He mentioned an unpronounceable name and shook his head. 'Most beautiful thing you ever saw. And there's some really pretty country down along the coast, you'd swear it was some kind of South Sea island. Comfortable, too. Oh, it's damp all right, especially in the interior where the new mission was supposed to be - but the temperature never even hits a hundred. Try saying that for New York City.'

I nodded. 'Remarkable.'

'And the people,' he went on, 'why, I believe they're just the friendliest people on earth. You know, I'd heard a lot of bad things about the Moslems - that's what most of them are, part of the Sunni sect - but I'm telling you, they treated us with real neighbourliness ú.. just so long as we made the teachings available, so to speak, and didn't interfere with their affairs. And we didn't. We didn't have to. What we provided, you see, was a hospital - well, a clinic, at least, two RNs and a doctor who came twice a month - and a small library with books and films. And not just theology, either.

All subjects. We were right outside the village, they'd have to pass us on their way to the river, and when they thought none of the lontoks were looking

they'd just come in and look around.''None of the what?'

'Priests, sort of. There were a lot of them. But they didn't interfere with us, we didn't interfere with them. ! don't know that we made all that many converts, actually, but I've got nothing bad to say about those people.'

He paused, rubbing his eyes; he suddenly looked his age. 'Things were going fine,' he said. 'And then they told me to establish a second mission, further in the interior.'

He stopped once more, as if weighing whether to continue. A squat little Chinese woman was plodding slowly up the aisle, holding on to the chairs on each side for balance. I felt her hand brush past my ear as she went by. My companion watched her with a certain unease, waiting till she'd passed. When he spoke again his voice had thickened noticeably.

'I've been all over the world - a lot of places Americans can't even go to these days - and I've always felt that, wherever I was, God was surely watching. But once I started getting up into those hills, well...' He shook his head. 'I was pretty much on my own, you see. They were going to send most of the staff out later, after I'd got set up. All I had with me was one of our grounds keepers, two bearers, and a guide who doubled as interpreter. Locals, all of them.' He frowned. 'The grounds keeper, at least, was a Christian.''You needed an interpreter?'

The question seemed to distract him. 'For the new mission, yes. My Malay stood me well enough in the lowlands, but in the interior they used dozens of local dialects. I would have been lost up there. Where I was going they spoke something which our people back in the village called agon di-gatuan - "the Old Language." I never really got to understand much of it.' He stared down at his hands. 'I wasn't there long enough.'

Trouble with the natives, I suppose.'

He didn't answer right away. Finally he nodded. 'I truly believe they must be the nastiest people who ever lived,' he said with great deliberation. 'I sometimes wonder how God could have created them.' He stared out the window, at the hills of cloud below us. ~hey called themselves the Chauchas, near as I could make out. Some French colonial influence, maybe, but they looked Asiatic to me, with just a touch of black. Little people. Harmless looking.' He gave a small shudder.

'But they were nothing like what they seemed. You couldn't get to the bottom of them. They'd been living way up in those hills I don't know how many centuries, and whatever it is they were doing, they weren't going to let a stranger in on it. They called themselves Moslems, just like the lowlanders, but I'm sure there must have been a few bush-gods mixed in. I thought they were primitive, at first, I mean, some of their rituals - you wouldn't believe it. But now ! think they weren't primitive at all. They just kept those rituals because they enjoyed them!' He tried to smile; it just accentuated the lines of his face.

'Oh, they seemed friendly enough in the beginning,' he said. 'You could approach them, do a bit of trading, watch them breed their animals. You could even talk to them about Salvation. And they'd just keep smiling, smiling all the time. As if they really liked you.'

I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and something else.

'You know,' he confided, suddenly leaning closer, 'down in the lowlands, in the pastures, there's an animal, a kind of snail, the Malays kill on sight. A little yellow thing, but it scares them silly: they believe that if it passes over the shadow of their cattle, it'll suck out the cattle's life-force. They used to call it a

"Chaucha snail." Now I know why.''Why?' I asked.

He looked around the plane, and seemed to sigh. 'You understand, at this stage we were still living in tents. We had yet to build anything. Well, the weather got bad, the mosquitoes got worse, and after the grounds keeper disappeared the others took off. I think the guide persuaded them to go. Of course, this let me-'

Wait. You say your grounds keeper disappeared?'

'Yes, before the first week was out. It was late afternoon. We'd been pacing out one of the fields less than a hundred yards from the tents, and I was pushing through the long grass thinking he was behind me, and I turned around and he wasn't.'

He was speaking all in a rush now. I had visions out of 1940s movies, frightened natives sneaking off with the supplies, and I wondered how much of this was true.

'So with the others gone, too,' he said, 'I had no way of communicating with the Chauchas, except through a kind of pidgin language, a mixture of Malay and their tongue. But I knew what was going on. All that week they kept laughing about something. Openly. And I got the impression that they were somehow responsible. I mean, for the man's disappearance. You understand? He'd been the one I trusted.' His expression was pained. 'A week later, when they showed him to me, he was still alive. But he couldn't speak. I think they wanted it that way. You see, they'd - they'd grown something in him.' He shuddered.

Just as that moment, from directly behind us came an inhumanly high-pitched caterwauling that pierced the air like a siren, rising above the whine of the engines. It came with heart-stopping suddenness, and we both went rigid. I saw my companion's mouth gape as if to echo the scream. So much for the past; we'd become two old men gone all white and clutching at themselves. It was really quite comical. A full minute must have passed before I could bring myself to turn around.

By this time the stewardess had arrived and was dabbing at the place where the man behind me, dozing, had dropped his cigarette on his lap. The surrounding passengers, whites especially, were casting angry glances at him, and I thought I smelled burnt flesh. He was at last helped to his feet by the stewardess and one of his teammates, the latter chuckling uneasily.

Minor as it was, the accident had derailed our conversation and unnerved my companion; it was as if he'd retreated into his beard. He would talk no further, except to ask me ordinary and rather trivial questions about food prices and accommodations. He said he was bound for Florida, looking forward to a summer of, as he put it, 'R and R,' apparently financed by his sect. I asked him, a bit forlornly, what had happened in the end to the grounds keeper; he said that he had died. Drinks were served; the North American continent swung towards us from the south, first a finger of ice, soon a jagged line of green. I found myself giving the man my sister's address - Indian Creek was just outside Miami, where he'd be staying - and immediately regretted doing so. What did I know of him, after all? He told me his name was Ambrose Mortimer. 'It means "Dead Sea,"' he said. 'From the Crusades.'

When I persisted in bringing up the subject of the mission, he waved me off. 'I can't call myself a missionary anymore,' he said. 'Yesterday, when I left the country, I gave up that right.' He attempted a smile. 'Honest, I'm just a civilian now.'

'What makes you think they're after you?' I asked. The smile vanished. 'I'm not so sure they are,' he said, not very convincingly. 'I may just be getting paranoid in my old age. But I could swear that in New Delhi, and again at Heathrow, I heard someone singing - singing a certain song. Once it was in the men's room, on the other side of a partition; once it was behind me on line. And it was a song I recognized. It's in the Old Language.' He shrugged. 'I don't even know what the words mean.'

'Why would anyone be singing? I mean, if they were following you?'

'That's just it. I don't know.' He shook his head. 'But

I think - I think it's part of the ritual.''What sort of ritual?'

'I don't know,' he said again. He looked quite pained, and I resolved to bring this inquisition to an end. The ventilators had not yet dissipated the smell of charred cloth and flesh.

'But you'd heard the song before,' I said. 'You told me you recognized it.'

'Yeah.' He turned away and stared at the approaching clouds. We were passing over Maine.

Suddenly the earth seemed a very small place. 'I'd heard some of the Chaucha women singing it,' he said at last. 'It was a sort of farming song. It's supposed to make things grow.'

Ahead of us loomed the saffron yellow smog that covers Manhattan like a dome. The 'No Smoking' light winked silently on the console above us.

'I was hoping I wouldn't have to change planes,' my companion said presently. 'But the Miami flight doesn't leave for an hour and a half. I guess I'll get off and walk around a bit, stretch my legs.

I wonder how long customs'11 take.' He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. Once more I regretted my impulsiveness in giving him Maude's address. I was half tempted to make up some contagious disease for her, or a jealous husband. But then, quite likely he'd never call on her anyway; he hadn't even bothered to write down the name. And if he did pay a call - well, I told myself, perhaps he'd unwind when he realized he was safe among friends. He might even turn out to be good company; after all, he and my sister were practically the same age.

As the plane gave up the struggle and sank deeper into the warm encircling air, passengers shut books and magazines, organized their belongings, made last hurried forays to the bathroom to pat cold water on their faces. I wiped my spectacles and smoothed back what remained of my hair. My companion was staring out the window, the green Air Malay bag in his lap, his hands folded on it as if in prayer. We were already becoming strangers.

'Please return seat backs to the upright position,' ordered a disembodied voice. Out beyond the window, past the head now turned completely away from me, the ground rose to meet us and we bumped along the pavement, jets roaring in reverse. Already stewardesses were rushing up and down the aisles pulling coats and jackets from the overhead bins; executive types, ignoring instructions, were scrambling to their feet and thrashing into raincoats. Outside I could see uniformed figures moving back and forth in what promised to be a warm grey drizzle. 'Well,' I said lamely, 'we made it.' I got to my feet.

He turned and flashed me a sickly grin. 'Good-bye,' he said. 'This really has been a pleasure.' He reached for my hand.

'And do try to relax and enjoy yourself in Miami,' I said, looking for a break in the crowd that shuffled past me down the aisle. 'That's the important thing just to relax.'

'I know that.' He nodded gravely. 'I know that. God bless you.' I found my slot and slipped into line. From behind me he added, 'And I won't forget to look up your sister.' My heart sank, but as I moved towards the door I turned to shout a last farewell. The old lady with the eyes was two people in front of me, but she didn't so much as smile.

One trouble with last farewells is that they occasionally prove redundant. Some forty minutes later, having passed like a morsel of food through a series of white plastic tubes, corridors, and customs lines, ! found myself in one of the airport gift shops, whiling away the hour till my niece came to collect me; and there, once again, I saw the missionary.

He did not see me. He was standing before one of the racks of paperbacks - the so-called

'Classics' section, haunt of the public domain - and with a preoccupied air he was glancing up and down the rows, barely pausing long enough to read the titles. Like me, he was obviously just killing time.

For some reason - call it embarrassment, a certain reluctance to spoil what had been a successful goodbye - I refrained from hailing him. Instead, stepping back into the rear aisle, I took refuge behind a rack of gothics, which ! pretended to study while in fact studying him.

Moments later he looked up from the books and ambled over to a bin of cellophane-wrapped records, idly pressing the beard back into place below his right sideburn. Without warning he turned and surveyed the store; I ducked my head towards the gothics and enjoyed a vision normally reserved for the multifaceted eyes of an insect: women, dozens of them, fleeing an equal number of tiny mansions.

At last, with a shrug of his huge shoulders, he began flipping through the albums in the bin, snapping each one forward in an impatient staccato. Soon, the assortment scanned, he moved to the bin on the left and started on that.

Suddenly he gave a little cry, and I saw him shrink back. He stood immobile for a moment, staring down at something in the bin; then he whirled and walked quickly from the store, pushing past a family about to enter.

'Late for his plane,' I said to the astonished salesgirl, and strolled over to the albums. One of them lay faceup in the pile - a jazz record featuring John Coltrane on saxophone. Confused, I turned to look for my erstwhile companion, but he had vanished in the crowd hurrying past the doorway.

Something about the album had apparently set him off; I studied it more carefully. Coltrane stood silhouetted against a tropical sunset, his features obscured, head tilted back, saxophone blaring silently beneath the crimson sky. The pose was dramatic but trite, and I could see in it no special significance: it looked like any other black man with a horn.

New York eclipses all other cities in the spontaneous cordiality and generosity of its inhabitants - at least, such inhabitants as I have encountered. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 9/29/1922

How quickly you changed your mind! You arrived to find a gold Dunsanian city of arches and domes and fantastic spires... or so you told us. Yet when you fled two years later you could see only

'alien hordes.'

What was it that so spoiled the dream? Was it that impossible marriage? Those foreign faces on the subway? Or was it merely the theft of your new summer suit? I believed then, Howard, and I believe it still, that the nightmare was all your own; though you returned to New England like a man re-emerging into sunlight, there was, I assure you, a very good life to be found amid the shade. I remained - and survived.

I almost wish I were back there now, instead of in this ugly little bungalow, with its air conditioner and its rotting wicker furniture and the humid night dripping down its windows.

I almost wish I were back on the steps of the natural history museum where, that momentous August afternoon, I stood perspiring in the shadow of Teddy Roosevelt's horse, watching matrons stroll past Central Park with dogs or children in tow and fanning myself ineffectually with the postcard I'd just received from Maude. I was waiting for my niece to drive by and leave off her son, whom I planned to take round the museum; he'd wanted to see the life-size mockup of the blue whale and, just upstairs, the dinosaurs...

I remember that Ellen and her boy were more than twenty minutes late. I remember too, Howard, that I was thinking of you that afternoon, and with some amusement: much as you disliked New York in the twenties, you'd have reeled in horror at what it's become today. Even from the steps of the museum I could see a curb piled high with refuse and a park whose length you might have walked without once hearing English spoken; dark skins crowded out the white, and mambo music echoed from across the street.

I remember all these things because, as it turned out, this was a special day: the day I saw, for the second time, the black man and his baleful horn.

My niece arrived late, as usual; she had for me the usual apology and the usual argument. 'How can you still live over here?' she asked, depositing Terry on the sidewalk. 'I mean, just look at those people.' She nodded towards a park bench around which blacks and Latins congregated like figures in a group portrait.

'Brooklyn is so much better?' I countered, as tradition dictated. 'Of course,' she said. 'In the Heights, anyway, I don't understand it - why this pathological hatred of moving? You might at least try the East Side. You can certainly afford it.' Terry watched us impassively, lounging against the fender. ! think he sided with me over his mother, but he was too wise to show it.

'Ellen,' I said, 'let's face it. I'm just too old to start hanging around single bars. Over on the East Side they read nothing but best-sellers, and they hate anyone past sixty. I'm better off where I grew up - at least I know where the cheap restaurants are.' It was, in fact, a thorny problem: forced to choose between whites whom I despised and blacks whom I feared, I somehow preferred the fear.

To mollify Ellen I read aloud her mother's postcard. It was the prestamped kind that bore no picture. 'I'm still getting used to the cane,' Maude had written, her penmanship as flawless as when she'd won the school medallion. 'Livia has gone back to Vermont for the summer, so the card games are suspended & I'm hard into Pearl Buck. Your friend Rev. Mortimer dropped by & we had a nice chat. What amusing stories! Thanks again for the subscription to McCall's; I'll send Ellen my old copies. Look forward to seeing you all after the hurricane season.'

Terry was eager to confront the dinosaurs; he was, in fact, getting a little old for me to superintend, and was halfway up the steps before I'd arranged with Ellen where to meet us afterward. With school out the museum was almost as crowded as on weekends, the halls' echo turning shouts and laughter into animal cries. We oriented ourselves on the floor plan in the main lobby - •ov ARE HERE read a large green dot, below which someone had scrawled 'Too bad for you' and trooped towards the Hall of Reptiles, Terry impatiently leading the way. 'I saw that in school.' He pointed towards a redwood diorama. ~hat too' - the Grand Canyon. He was, I believe, about to enter seventh grade, and until now had been little given to talk; he looked younger than the other children.

We passed toucans and marmosets and the new Urban Ecology wing ('concrete and cockroaches,'

sneered Terry), and duly stood before the brontosaurus, something of a disappointment: 'I forgot it was just the skeleton,' he said. Behind us a group of black boys giggled and moved towards us; I hurried' my nephew past the assembled bones and through the most crowded doorway, dedicated, ironically, to Man in Africa. ørhis is the boring part,' said Terry, unmoved by masks and spears. The pace was beginning to tire me. We passed through another doorway - Man in Asia - and moved quickly past the Chinese statuary. 'I saw that in school.' He nodded at a stumpy figure in a glass case, wrapped in ceremonial robos. Something about it was familiar to me, too; I paused to stare at it. The outer robe, slightly tattered, was spun of some shiny green material and displayed tall, twisted-looking trees on one side, a kind of stylized river on the other. Across the front ran five yellow-brown shapes in loincloth and headdress, presumably fleeing towards the robo's frayed edges; behind them stood a larger one, all black. In its mouth was a pendulous horn. The figure was crudely woven - little more than a stick figure, in fact - but it bore an unsettling resemblance, in both pose and proportion, to the one on the album cover.

Terry returned to my side, curious to see what I'd found. ~ribal garment,' he read, peering at the white plastic notice below the case. 'Malay Peninsula, Federation of Malaysia, early nineteenth century.' He fell silent.

'Is that all it says?'

'Yep. They don't even have which tribe it's from.' He reflected a moment. 'Not that I really care.'

'Well, I do,' I said. 'I wonder who'd know.' Obviously I'd have to seek advice at the information counter in the main lobby downstairs. Terry ran on ahead, while I followed even more slowly than before; the thought of a mystery evidently appealed to him, even one so tenuous and unexciting as this.

A bored-looking young college girl listened to the beginning of my query and handed me a pamphlet from below the counter. 'You can't see anyone till September,' she said, already beginning to turn away. ~hey're all on vacation.'

I squinted at the tiny print on the first page: 'Asia, our largest continent, has justly been called the cradle of civilization, but it may also be a birthplace of man himself.' Obviously the pamphlet had been written before the current campaigns against sexism. I checked the date on the back: 'Winter 1958.' This would be of no help. Yet on page four my eye fell on the reference I sought: The model next to it wears a green silk ceremonial robe from Negri Sembilan, most rugged of the Malayan provinces. Note central motif of native man blowing ceremonial horn, and the graceful curve of his instrument; the figure is believed to be a representation of 'Death's Herald,' possibly warning villagers of approaching calamityú Gift of an anonymous donor, the robe is probably Tcho-tcho in origin, and dates from the early 19th century.

'What's the matter, uncle? Are you sick?' Terry gripped my shoulder and stared up at me, looking worried; my behaviour had obviously confirmed his worst fears about old people. 'What's it say in there?'

I gave him the pamphlet and staggered to a bench near the wall. I wanted time to think. The Tcho-Tcho People, I knew, had figured in a number of tales by Lovecraft and his disciples - Howard himself had called them 'the wholly abominable Tcho-Tchos' - but I couldn't remember much about them except that they were said to worship one of his imaginary deities. For some reason I associated them with Burma...

But whatever their attributes, I'd been certain of one thing: the Tcho-Tchos were completely fictitious.

Obviously I'd been wrong. Barring the unlikely possibility that the pamphlet itself was a hoax, I was forced to conclude that the malign beings of the stories were in fact based upon an actual race inhabiting the Southeast Asian subcontinent - a race whose name the missionary had mistranslated as 'the Chauchas.'

It was a rather troublesome discovery. I had hoped to turn some of Mortimer's recollections, authentic or not, into fiction; he'd unwittingly given me the material for three or four good plots.

Yet I'd now discovered that my friend Howard had beaten me to it, and that I was put in the uncomfortable position of living out another man's horror stories.

Epistolary expression is with me largely replacing conversation. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 12/23/1917

I hadn't expected my second encounter with the black horn-player. A month later I got an even bigger surprise: I saw the missionary again.

Or at any rate, his picture. It was in a clipping my sister had sent me from the Miami Herald, over which she had written in ballpoint pen, 'Just saw this in the paper- how awfull'

I didn't recognize the face; the photo was obviously an old one, the reproduction poor, and the man was clean-shaven. But the words below it told me it was him.

CLERGYMAN MISSING IN STORM

(Wed.) The Rev. Ambrose B. Mortimer, 56, a lay pastor of the Church of Christ, Knoxville, Tenn., has been reported missing in the wake of Monday's hurricane. Spokesmen for the order say Mortimer had recently retired after serving nineteen years as a missionary, most recently in Malaysia. After moving to Miami in July, he had been a resident of 311 Pompano Canal Road.

Here the piece ended, with an abruptness that seemed all too appropriate to its subject. Whether Ambrose Mortimer still lived I didn't know, but I felt certain now that, having fled one peninsula, he had strayed on to another just as dangerous, a finger thrust into the void. And the void had swallowed him up.

So, anyway, ran my thoughts. I have often been prey to depressions of a similar nature, and subscribe to a fatalistic philosophy I'd shared with my friend Howard: a philosophy one of his less sympathetic biographers has dubbed 'futilitarianism.'

Yet pessimistic as I was, I was not about to let the matter rest. Mortimer may well have been lost in the storm; he may even have set off somewhere on his own. But if, in fact, some lunatic religious sect had done away with him for having pried too closely into its affairs, there were things I could do about it. I wrote to the Miami police that very day.

'Gentlemen,' I began. 'Having learned of the recent disappearance of the Reverend Ambrose Mortimer, I think I can provide information which may prove of use to investigators.'

There is no need to quote the rest of the letter here. Suffice it to say that I recounted my conversation with the missing man, emphasizing the fears he'd expressed for his life: pursuit and

'ritual murder' at the hands of a Malayan tribe called the Tcho-Tcho. The letter was, in short, a rather elaborate way of crying 'foul play.' I sent it care of my sister, asking that she forward it to the correct address.

The police department's reply came with unexpected speed. As with all such correspondence, it was more curt then courteous. 'Dear Sir,' wrote a Detective Sergeant A. Linahan; 'In the matter of Rev. Mortimer we had already been apprised of the threats on his life. To date a preliminary search of the Pompano Canal has produced no findings, but dredging operations are expected to continue as part of our routine investigation. Thanking you for your concern -'

Below his signature, however, the sergeant had added a short postscript in his own hand. Its tone was somewhat more personal; perhaps typewriters intimidated him. 'You may be interested to know,' it said, 'that we've recently learned a man carrying a Malaysian passport occupied rooms at a North Miami hotel for most of the summer, but checked out two weeks before your friend disappeared. I'm not at liberty to say more, but please be assured we are tracking down several leads at the moment. Our investigators are working full-time on the matter, and we hope to bring it to a speedy conclusion.'

Linahan's letter arrived on September twenty-first. Before the week was out I had one from my sister, along with another clipping from the Herald; and since, like some old Victorian novel, this chapter seems to have taken an epistolary form, I will end it with extracts from these two items.

The newspaper story was headed WANTED FOR QUEST~ON~NG. Like the Mortimer piece, it was little more than a photo with an extended caption:

(Thurs.) A Malaysian citizen is being sought for questioning in connection with the disappearance of an American clergyman, Miami police say. Records indicate that the Malaysian, Mr D. A. Djaktu-tchow, had occupied furnished rooms at the Barkleigh Hotella, 2401 Culebra Ave., possibly with an unnamed companion. He is believed still in the greater Miami area, but since August 22 his movements cannot be traced. State Dept. officials report Djaktu-tchow's visa expired August 31; charges are pending.

The clergyman, Rev. Ambrose B. Mortimer, has been missing since September 6.

The photo above the article was evidently a recent one, no doubt reproduced from the visa in question. I recognized the smiling moon-wide face, although it took me a moment to place him as the man whose dinner I'd stumbled over on the plane. Without the moustache, he looked less like Charlie Chan.

The accompanying letter filled in a few details. 'I called up the Herald,' my sister wrote, 'but they couldn't tell me any more than was in the article. Just the same, finding that out took me half an hour, since the stupid woman at the switchboard kept putting me through to the wrong person. I guess you're right anything that prints colour pictures on page one shouldn't call itself a newspaper.

'This afternoon I called up the police department, but they weren't very helpful either. I suppose you just can't expect to find out much over the phone, though I still rely on it. Finally I got an Officer Linahan, who told me he's just replied to that letter of yours. Have you heard from him yet?

The man was very evasive. He was trying to be nice, but I could tell he was impatient to get off. He did give me the full name of the man they're looking for - Djaktu Abdul Djaktutchow, isn't that marvellous? - and he told me they have some more material on him which they can't release right now. I argued and pleaded (you know how persuasive I can be!) and finally, because I claimed I'd been a close friend of Rev. Mortimer's, I wheedled something out of him which he swore he'd deny if I told anyone but you. Apparently the poor man must have been deathly ill, maybe even tubercular - I intended to get a patch test next week, just to play safe, and I recommend that you get one too - because it seems that, in the reverend's bedroom, they found something very odd: pieces of lung tissue. Human lung tissue.'

I, too, was a detective in youth. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 2/17/1931

Do amateur detectives still exist? I mean, outside the novels? I doubt it. Who, af~er all, has the time for such games today? Not I, unfortunately; though for more than a decade I'd been nominally retired, my days were quite full with the unromantic activities that occupy everyone this side of the paperbacks: letters, luncheon dates, visits to my niece and to my doctor; books (not enough) and television (too much) and perhaps a Golden Agers' matinee (though I have largely stopped going to films, finding myself increasingly out of sympathy with their heroes). I also spent Halloween week in Atlantic City, and most of another attempting to interest a rather overpolite young publisher in reprinting some of my early work.

All this, of course, is intended as a sort of apologia for my having put off further inquiries into poor Mortimer's case till mid-November. The truth is, the matter almost slipped my mind; only in novels do people not have better things to do.

It was Maude who reawakened my interest. She had been avidly scanning the papers - in vain -

for further reports on the man's disappearance; I believe she had even phoned Sergeant Linahan a second time, but had learned nothing new. Now she wrote me with a tiny fragment of information, heard at thirdhand: one of her bridge partners had had it on the authority of 'a friend in the police force' that the search for Mr Djaktu was being widened to include his presumed companion - 'a Negro child,' or so my sister reported. Although there was every possibility that this information was false, or that it concerned an entirely different case, I could tell she regarded it as very sinister indeed.

Perhaps that was why the following afternoon found me struggling once more up the steps of the natural history museum - as much to satisfy Maude as myself. Her allusion to a Negro, coming after the curious discovery in Mortimer's bedroom, had recalled to mind the figure on the Malayan robe, and I had been troubled all night by the fantasy of a black man - a man much like the beggar I'd just seen huddled against Roosevelt's statue - coughing his lungs out into a sort of twisted horn.

I had encountered few other people on the streets that afternoon, as it was unseasonably cold for a city that's often mild till January; I wore a muffler, and my grey tweed overcoat flapped round my heels. Inside, however, the place like all American buildings was overheated; I was soon the same as I made my way up the demoralizingly long staircase to the second floor.

The corridors were silent and empty, but for the morose figure of a guard seated before one of the alcoves, head down as if in mourning, and, from above me, the hiss of the steam radiators near the marble ceiling. Slowly, and rather enjoying the sense of privilege that comes from having a museum to oneself, I retraced my earlier route past the immense skeletons of dinosaurs (These great creatures once trod the earth where you now walk') and down to the Hall of Primitive Man, where two Puerto Rican youths, obviously playing hooky, stood by the African wing gazing worshipfully at a Masai warrior in full battle gear. In the section devoted to Asia I paused to get my bearings, looking in vain for the squat figure in the robe. The glass case was empty. Over its plaque was taped a printed notice: 'Temporarily removed for restoration.'

This was no doubt the first time in forty years that the display had been taken down, and of course I'd picked just this occasion to look for it. So much for luck. I headed for the nearest staircase, at the far end of the wing. From behind me the clank of metal echoed down the hall, followed by the angry voice of the guard. Perhaps that Masai spear had proved too great a temptation.

In the main lobby I was issued a written pass to enter the north wing, where the staff offices were located. 'You want the workrooms on basement level,' said the woman at the information counter; the summer's bored coed had become a friendly old lady who eyed me with some interest. 'Just ask the guard at the bottom of the stairs, past the cafeteria. I do hope you find what you're looking for.'

Carefully keeping the pink slip she'd handed me visible for anyone who might demand it, I descended. As I turned on to the stairwell I was confronted with a kind of vision: a blonde, Scandinavian-looking family were coming up the stairs towards me, the four upturned faces almost interchangeable, parents and two little girls with the pursed lips and timidly hopeful eyes of the tourist, while just behind them, apparently unheard, capered a grinning black youth, practically walking on the father's heels. In my present state of mind the scene appeared particularly disturbing -

the boy's expression was certainly one of mockery - and I wondered if the guard who stood before the cafeteria had noticed. If he had, however, he gave no sign; he glanced without curiosity at my pass and pointed towards a fire door at the end of the hall.

The offices in the lower level were surprisingly shabby - the walls here were not marble but faded green plaster - and the entire corridor had a ~uried' feeling to it, no doubt because the only outside light came from ground-level window gratings high overhead. I had been told to ask for one of the research associates, a Mr Richmond; his office was part of a suite broken up by pegboard dividers. The door was open, and he got up from his desk as soon as I entered; I suspect that, in view of my age and grey tweed overcoat, he may have taken me for someone important.

A plump young man with sandy-coloured beard, he looked like an out-of-shape surfer, but his sunniness dissolved when I mentioned my interest in the green silk robe. 'And I suppose you're the man who complained about it upstairs, am I right?'I assured him that I was not.

'Well, someone sure did,' he said, still eyeing me resentfully; on the wall behind him an Indian warmask did the same. 'Some damn tourist, maybe, in town for a day and out to make trouble.

Threatened to call the Malaysian Embassy. If you put up a fuss those people upstairs get scared it'll wind up in the Times.'

I understood his allusion; the previous year the museum had gained considerable notoriety for having conducted some really appalling- and, to my mind, quite pointless - experiments on cats.

Most of the public had, until then, been unaware that the building housed several working laboratories.

'Anyway,' he continued, 'the robe's down in the shop, and we're stuck with patching up the damn thing. It'll probably be down there for the next six months before we get to it. We're so understaffed right now it isn't funny.' He glanced at his watch. 'Come on, I'll show you. Then I've got to go upstairs.'

I followed him down a narrow corridor that branched off to either side. At one point he said, 'On your right, the infamous zoology lab.' I kept my eyes straight ahead. As we passed the next doorway I smelled a familiar odour. 'It makes me think of treacle,' I said.

'You're not so far wrong.' He spoke without looking back. The stuff's mostly molasses. Pure nutrient. They use it for growing microorganisms.'

I hurried to keep up with him. 'And for other things?' He shrugged. 'I don't know, mister. It's not my field.' We came to a door barred by a black wire grille. 'Here's one of the shops,' he said, fitting a key into the lock. The door swung open on a long unlit room smelling of wood shavings and glue.

'You sit down over here,' he said, leading me to a small anteroom and switching on the light. 'I'll be back in a second.' I stared at the object closest to me, a large ebony chest, ornately carved. Its hinges had been removed. Richmond returned with the robe draped over his arm. 'See?' he said, dangling it before me. 'It's really not in such bad condition, is it?' I realized he still thought of me as the man who'd complained.

On the field of rippling green fled the small brown shapes, still pursued by some unseen doom. In the centre stood the black man, black horn to his lips, man and horn a single line of unbroken black.

'Are the Tcho-Tchos a superstitious people?' I asked. 'They were,' he said pointedly. 'Superstitious and not very pleasant. They're extinct as dinosaurs now. Supposedly wiped out by the Japanese or something.'

'That's rather odd,' I said. 'A friend of mine claims to have met up with them earlier this year.'

Richmond was smoothing out the robe; the branches of the snake-trees snapped futilely at the brown shapes. 'I suppose it's possible,' he said, after a pause. 'But I haven't read anything about them since grad school. They're certainly not listed in the textbooks anymore. I've looked, and there's nothing on them. This robe's over a hundred years old.'

I pointed to the figure in the centre. 'What can you tell me about this fellow?'

'Death's Herald,' he said, as if it were a quiz. 'At least that's what the literature says. Supposed to warn of some approaching calamity.'

I nodded without looking up; he was merely repeating what I'd read in the pamphlet. 'But isn't it strange,' I said, 'that these others are in such a panic? See? They aren't even waiting around to listen.'

'Would you?' He snorted impatiently.

'But if the black one's just a messenger of some sort, why's he so much bigger than the others?'

Richmond began folding the cloth. 'Look, mister,' he said, '! don't pretend to be an expert on every tribe in Asia. But if a character's important, they'd sometimes make him larger. Anyway, that's what the Mayans did. But listen, I've really got to get this put away now. I've got a meeting to go to.'

While he was gone I sat thinking about what I'd just seen. The small brown shapes, crude as they were, had expressed a terror no mere messenger could inspire. And that great black figure standing triumphant in the centre, horn twisting from its mouth - that was no messenger either, I was sure of it. That was no Death's Herald. That was Death itself.

I returned to my apartment just in time to hear the telephone ringing, but by the time I'd let myself in it had stopped. I sat down in the living room with a mug of coffee and a book which had lain untouched on the shelf for the last thirty years: Jungle Ways, by that old humbug, William Seabrook. I'd met him back in the twenties and had found him likable enough, if rather untrustworthy. His book described dozens of unlikely characters, including 'a cannibal chief who had got himself jailed and famous because he had eaten his young wife, a handsome, lazy wench called Blito, along with a dozen of her girl friends,' but I discovered no mention of a black horn-player.

I had just finished my coffee when the phone rang again. It was my sister.

'I just wanted to let you know that there's another man missing,' she said breathlessly; I couldn't tell if she was frightened or merely excited. 'A busboy at the San Marino. Remember? I took you there.'

The San Marino was an inexpensive little luncheonette on Indian Creek, several blocks from my sister's house. She and her friends ate there several times a week.

'It happened last night,' she went on. 'I just heard about it at my card game. They say he went outside with a bucket of fish heads to dump in the creek, and he never came back.'

That's very interesting, but ...' I thought for a moment; it was highly unusual for her to call me like this. 'But really, Maude, couldn't he have simply run off? I mean, what makes you think there's any connection -'

'Because I took Ambrose there, too!' she cried. Three or four times. That was where we used to meet.'

Apparently Maude had been considerably better acquainted with the Reverend Mortimer than her letters would have led one to believe. But I wasn't interested in pursuing that line right now. 'This busboy,' I asked, 'was he someone you knew?'

'Of course,' she said. 'I know everyone in there. His name was Carlos. A quiet boy, very courteous. I'm sure he must have waited on us dozens of times.'

I had seldom heard my sister so upset, but for the present there seemed no way of calming her fears. Before hanging up she made me promise to move up the month's visit I'd expected to pay her over Christmas; I assured her I would try to make it down for Thanksgiving, then only a week away, if I could find a flight that wasn't filled.

'Do try,' she said - and, were this a tale from the old pulps, she would have added: 'If anyone can get to the bottom of this, you can.' In truth, however, both Maude and I were aware that I had just celebrated my seventy-seventh birthday and that, of the two of us, I was by far the more timid; so that what she actually said was, 'Looking after you will help take my mind off things.'

I couldn't live a week without a private library. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 2/25/1929

That's what ! thought, too, until recently. After a lifetime of collecting I'd acquired thousands upon thousands of volumes, never parting with a one; it was this cumbersome private library, in fact, that helped keep me anchored to the same West Side apartment for nearly half a century.

Yet here I sit, with no company save a few gardening manuals and a shelf of antiquated best-sellers - nothing to dream on, nothing I'd want to hold in my hand. Still, I've survived here a week, a month, almost a season. The truth is, Howard, you'd be surprised what you can live without. As for the books I've left in Manhattan, I just hope someone takes care of them when I'm gone.

But I was by no means so resigned that November when, having successfully reserved seats on an earlier flight, I found myself with less than a week in New York. I spent all my remaining time in the library the public one on Forty-second Street, with the lions in front and with no book of mine on its shelves. Its two reading rooms were the haunt of men my age and older, retired men with days to fill, poor men just warming their bones; some leafed through newspapers, other dozed in their seats. None of them, I'm sure, shared my sense of urgency: there were things I hoped to find out before I left, things for which Miami would be useless.

I was no stranger to this building. Long ago, during one of Howard's visits, I had undertaken some genealogical researches here in the hope of finding ancestors more impressive than his, and as a young man I had occasionally attempted to support myself, like the denizens of Gissing's New Grub Street, by writing articles compiled from the work of others. But by now I was out of practice: how, after all, does one find references Go an obscure Southeast Asian tribal myth without reading everything published on that part of the world?

Initially that's exactly what I tried; I looked through every book I could find with 'Malaya' in its title. I read about rainbow gods and phallic altars and something called 'the tatai,' a sort of unwanted companion; I came across wedding rites and The Death of Thorns and a certain cave inhabited by millions of snails. But I found no mention of the Tcho-Tcho, and nothing on their gods.

This in itself was surprising. We are living in a day when there are no more secrets, when my twelve-yearold nephew can buy his own grimoire and books with titles like The Encyclopaedia of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge are remaindered at every discount store. Though my friends from the twenties would have hated to admit it, the notion of stumbling across some mouldering old q)lack book' in the attic of a deserted house - some lexicon of spells and chants and hidden lore - is merely a quaint fantasy. If the Necronomicon actually existed, it would be out in Bantam paperback with a preface by Lin Carter.

It's appropriate, then, that when I finally came upon a reference to what I sought, it was in that most unromantic of forms, a mimeographed film-script.

øPranscript' would perhaps be closer to the truth, for it was based upon a film shot in 1937 and that was now presumably crumbling in some forgotten vault. I discovered the item inside one of those brown cardbeard packets, held together with ribbons, which libraries use to protect books whose bindings have worn away. The book itself, Malay Memories, by a Reverend Morton, had proved a disappointment despite the author's rather suggestive name. The transcript lay beneath it, apparently slipped there by mistake, but though it appeared unpromising - only ninety-six pages long, badly typed, and held together by a single rusty staple - it more than repaid the reading. There was no title page, nor do I think there'd ever been one; the first page simply identified the film as

'Documentary - Malaya Today,' and noted that it had been financed, in part, by a US government grant. The filmmaker or makers were not listed.

I soon saw why the government may have been willing to lend the venture some support, for there were a great many scenes in which the proprietors of rubber plantations expressed the sort of opinions Americans might want to hear. To an unidentified interviewer's query, 'What other signs of prosperity do you see around you?' a planter named Mr Pierce had obligingly replied, 'Why, look at the living standard better schools for the natives and a new lorry for me. It's from Detroit, you know. May even have my own rubber in it.'

INT: PIERCE:

And how about the Japanese? Are they one of today's better markets?

Oh, see, they buy our crop all right, but we don't really trust 'em, understand? (Smiles) We don't like

'em half so much as the Yanks.

The final section of the transcript was considerably more interesting, however; it recorded a number of brief scenes that must never have appeared in the finished film. I quote one of them in its entirety:

PLAYROOM, CHURCH SCHOOL - LATE AFTERNOON

(DELETED)

INT: This Malay youth has sketched a picture of a demon he calls Shoo Goron. (To Boy) I wonder if you can tell me something about the instrument he's blowing out of. It looks like the Jewish BOY:

INT:

BOY:

shofar, or ram's horn. (Again to Boy) That's all right. No need to be frightened.

He no blow out. Blow in.

I see - he draws air in through the horn, is that right?

No horn. Is no horn. (Weeps) Is him.

Miami did not produce much of an impression... – H.P LOVECRAFT, 7/19/1931

Waiting in the airport lounge with Ellen and her boy, my bags already checked and my seat number assigned, I fell prey to the sort of anxiety that had made me miserable in youth: it was a sense that time was running out; and what caused it now, I think, was the hour that remained before my flight was due to leave. It was too long a time to sit making small talk with Terry, whose mind was patently on other things; yet it was too short to accomplish the task which I'd suddenly realized had been left undone.

But perhaps my nephew would serve. Terry,' I said, 'how'd you like to do me a favour?' He looked up eagerly; I suppose children his age love to be of use. 'Remember the building we passed on the way here?

The International Arrivals building?''Sure,' he said. 'Right next door.'

'Yes, but it's a lot farther away than it looks. Do you think you'd be able to get there and back in the next hour and find something out for me?'

'Sure.' He was already out of his seat.

'It just occurs to me that there's an Air Malay reservations desk in that building, and I wonder if you could ask someone there -'

My niece interrupted me. 'Oh, no he won't,' she said firmly. 'First of all, I won't have him running across that highway on some silly errand - ' she ignored her son's protests, ' - and secondly, I don't want him involved in this game you've got going with Mother.'

The upshot of it was that Ellen went herself, leaving Terry and me to our small talk. She took with her a slip of paper upon which I'd written 'Shoo Goron,' a name she regarded with sour scepticism. I wasn't sure she would return before my departure (Terry, I could see, was growing increasingly uneasy), but she was back before the second boarding call.

'She says you spelled it wrong,' Ellen announced. 'Who's she?'

'Just one of the flight attendants,' said Ellen. 'A young girl, in her early twenties. None of the others were Malayan. At first she didn't recognize the name, until she read it out loud a few times.

Apparently it's some kind of fish, am I right? Like a suckerfish, only bigger. Anyway, that's what she said. Her mother used to scare her with it when she was bad.'

Obviously Ellen - or, more likely, the other woman had misunderstood. 'Sort of a bogeyman figure?' I asked. 'Well, I suppose that's possible. But a fish, you say?'

Ellen nodded. 'I don't think she knew that much about it, though. She acted a little embarrassed, in fact. Like I'd asked her something dirty.' From across the room a loudspeaker issued the final call for passengers. Ellen helped me to my feet, still talking. 'She said she was just a Malay, from somewhere on the coast - Malacca? I forget - and that it's a shame i didn't drop by three or four months ago, because her summer replacement was part Chocha - Chocha? something like that.'

The line was growing shorter now. I wished the two of them a safe Thanksgiving and shuffled towards the plane.

Below me the clouds had formed a landscape of rolling hills. I could see every ridge, every washed-out shrub, and in the darker places, the eyes of animals.

Some of the valleys were split by jagged black lines that looked like rivers seen on a map. The water, at least, was real enough: here the cloudbank had cracked and parted, revealing the dark sea beneath.

Throughout the ride I'd been conscious of lost opportunity, a sense that my destination offered a kind of final chance. With Howard gone these forty years I still lived out my life in his shadow; certainly his tales had overshadowed my own. Now I found myself trapped within one of them.

Here, miles above the earth, I felt great gods warring; below, the war was already lost.

The very passengers around me seemed participants in a masque: the oily little steward who smelled of something odd; the child who stared and wouldn't look away; the man asleep beside me, mouth slack, who'd chuckled and handed me a page ripped from his 'inflight' magazine: NOVEMBER PUZZLE PAGE, with an eye staring in astonishment from a swarm of dots. 'Connect the dots and see what you'll be least thankful for this Thanksgiving!' Below it, half buried amid

'B'nai B'rith to Host Song Fest' and advertisements for beach clubs, a bit of local colour found me in a susceptible mood:

Have Fins, Will Travel

(Courtesy Miami Herald) If your hubby comes home and swears he's just seen a school of fish walk across the yard, don't sniff his breath for booze. He may be telling the truth! According to U.

of Miami zoologists, catfish will be migrating in record numbers this fall and South Florida residents can expect to see hundreds of the whiskered critters crawling overland, miles from water.

Though usually no bigger than your pussycat, most breeds can survive without...

Here the piece came to a ragged end where my companion had torn it from the magazine. He stirred in his sleep, lips moving; I turned and put my head against the window, where the limb of Florida was swinging into view, veined with dozens of canals. The plane shuddered and slid towards it.

Maude was already at the gate, a black porter beside her with an empty cart. While we waited by a hatchway in the basement for my luggage to be disgorged, she told me the sequel to the San Marino incident: the boy's body found washed up on a distant beach, lungs in mouth and throat. 'Inside out,'

she said. 'Can you imagine? It's been on the radio all morning. With tapes of some ghastly doctor talking about smoker's cough and the way people drown. I couldn't even listen after a while.' The porter heaved my bags on to the cart and we followed him to the taxi stand, Maude using her cane to gesticulate. If I hadn't seen how aged she'd become I'd have thought the excitement was agreeing with her.

We had the driver make a detour westward along Pompano Canal Road, where we paused at number 311, one of nine shabby green cabins that formed a court round a small and very dirty wading pool; in a cement pot beside the pool dropped a solitary half-dead palm, as if in some travesty of an oasis. This, then, had been Ambrose Mortimer's final home. My sister was very silent, and I believed her when she said she'd never been here before. Across the street glistened the oily waters of the canal.

The taxi turned east. We passed interminable rows of hotels, motels, condominiums, shopping centres as big as Central Park, souvenir shops with billboards bigger than themselves, baskets of seashells and wriggly plastic auto toys out front. Men and women our age and younger sat on canvas beach chairs in their yards, blinking at the traffic. The sexes had merged; some of the older women were nearly as bald as I was, and men wore clothes the colour of coral, lime, and peach.

They walked very slowly as they crossed the street or moved along the sidewalk; cars moved almost as slowly, and it was forty minutes before we reached Maude's house, with its pastel orange shutters and the retired druggist and his wife living upstairs. Here, too, a kind of languor was upon the block, one into which I knew, with just a memory of regret, I would soon be settling. Life was slowing to a halt, and once the taxi had roared away the only things that stirred were the geraniums in Maude's window box, trembling slightly in a breeze I couldn't even feel.

A dry spell. Mornings in my sister's air-conditioned parlour, luncheons with her friends in air-conditioned coffee shops. Inadvertent afternoon naps, from which I'd waken with headaches.

Evening walks, to watch the sunsets, the fireflies, the TV screens flashing behind neighbours'

blinds. By night, a few faint cloudy stars; by day, tiny lizards skittering over the hot pavement, or boldly sunning themselves on the flagstones. The smell of oil paints in my sister's closet, and the insistent buzz of mosquitoes in her garden. Her sundial, a gift from Ellen, with Terry's message painted on the rim. Lunch at the San Marino and a brief, halfhearted look at the dock in back, now something of a tourist attraction. An afternoon at a branch library in Hialeah, searching through its shelves of travel books, an old man dozing at the table across from me, a child laboriously copying her school report from the encyclopedia. Thanksgiving dinner, with its half-hour's phone call to Ellen and the boy and the prospect of turkey for the rest of the week. More friends to visit, and another day at the library.

Later, driven by boredom and the ghost of an impulse, I phoned the Barkleigh Hotella in North Miami and booked a room there for two nights. I don't remember the days I settled for, because that sort of thing no longer had much meaning, but I know it was for midweek; ~ve're deep in the season,' the proprietress informed me, and the hotel would be filled each weekend till long past New Year's.

My sister refused to accompany me out to Culebra Avenue; she saw no attraction in visiting the place once occupied by a fugitive MalaysJan, nor did she share my pulp-novel fantasy that, by actually living there myself, I might uncover some clue unknown to police. ('Thanks to the celebrated author of Beyond the Garve...') I went alone, by cab, taking with me half a dozen volumes from the branch library. Beyond the reading, I had no other plans.

The Barkleigh was a pink adobe building two stories tall, surmounted by an ancient neon sign on which the dust lay thick in the early afternoon sunlight. Similar establishments lined the block on both sides, each more depressing than the last. There was no elevator here and, as ! learned to my disappointment, no rooms available on the first floor, the staircase looked like it was going to be an effort.

In the office downstairs I inquired, as casually as I could, which room the notorious Mr Djaktu had occupied; I'd hoped, in fact, to be assigned it, or one nearby. But I was doomed to disappointment. The preoccupied little Cuban behind the counter had been hired only six weeks before and claimed to know nothing of the matter; in halting English he explained that the proprietress, a Mrs Zimmerman, had just left for New Jersey to visit relatives and would not be back till Christmas. Obviously I could forget about gossip.

By this point ! was half tempted to cancel my visit, and I confess that what kept me there was not so much a sense of honour as the desire for two days' separation from Maude, who, having been on her own for nearly a decade, was rather difficult to live with.

I followed the Cuban upstairs, watching my suitcase bump rhythmically against his legs, and was led down the hall to a room facing the rear. The place smelled vaguely of salt air and hair oil; the sagging bed had served many a desperate holiday. A small cement terrace overlooked the yard and a vacant lot behind it, the latter so overgrown with weeds and the grass in the yard so long unmown that it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended. A clump of palms rose somewhere in the middle of this no-man'sland, impossibly tall and thin, with only a few stiflened leaves to grace the tops. On the ground below them lay several rotting coconuts.

This was my view the first night when I returned after dining at a nearby restaurant. I felt unusually tired and soon went inside to sleep. The night being cool, there was no need for the air conditioner; as I lay in the huge bed I could hear people stirring in the adjoining room, the hiss of a bus moving down the avenue, and the rustle of palm leaves in the wind.

I spent part of the next morning composing a letter to Mrs Zimmerman, to be held for her return.

After the long walk to a coffee shop for lunch, I napped. After dinner I did the same. With the TV

turned on for company, a garrulous blur at the other side of the room, I went through the pile of books on my night table, final cullings from the bottom of the travel shelf; most of them hadn't been taken out since the thirties. I found nothing of interest in any of them, at least upon first inspection, but before turning out the light I noticed that one, the reminiscences of a Colonel E. G. Paterson, was provided with an index. Though I looked in vain for the demon Shoo Goro~n, I found reference to it under a variant spelling.

The author, no doubt long deceased, had spent most of his life in the Orient. His interest in Southeast Asia was slight, and the passage in question consequently brief:

... Despite the richness and variety of their folklore, however, they have nothing akin to the Malay shugoran, a kind of bogey-man used to frighten naughty children. The traveller hears many conflicting descriptions of it, some bordering on the obscene. (Oran, of course, is Malay for "man,"

while shug, which here connotes "sniffing" or "questing," means literally, "elephant's trunk.") I well recall the hide which hung over the bar at the Traders' Club in Singapore, and which, according to tradition, represented the infant of this fabulous creature; its wings were black, like the skin of a Hottentot. Shortly after the War a regimental surgeon was passing through on his way back to Gibraltar and, after due examination, pronounced it the dried-out skin of a rather large catfish. He was never asked back.

I kept my light on until I was ready to fall asleep, listening to the wind rattle the palm leaves and whine up and down the row of terraces. As I switched off the light I half expected to see a shadowy shape at the window, but I saw, as the poet says, nothing but the night.

The next morning ! packed my bag and left, aware that my stay in the hotel had proved fruitless. I returned to my sister's house to find her in agitated conversation with the druggist from upstairs; she was in a terrible state and said she'd been trying to reach me all morning. She had awakened to find the flower box by her bedroom window overturned and the shrubbery beneath it trampled. Down the side of the house ran two immense slash marks several yards apart, starting at the roof and continuing straight to the ground.

My gawd, how the years fly. Stolidly middle-aged - when only yesterday I was young and eager and awed by the mystery of an unfolding world. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 8/20/1926

There is little more to report. Here the tale degenerates into an unsifted collection of items which may or may not be related: pieces of a puzzle for those who fancy themselves puzzle fans, a random swarm of dots, and in the centre, a wide unwinking eye.

Of course, my sister left the house on Indian Creek that very day and took rooms for herself in a downtown Miami hotel. Subsequently she moved inland to live with a friend in a green stucco bungalow several miles from the Everglades, third in a row of nine just off the main highway. I am seated in its den as I write this. After the friend died my sister lived on here alone, making the forty-mile bus trip to Miami only on special occasions: theatre with a group of friends, one or two shopping trips a year. She had everything else she needed right here in town.

I returned to New York, caught a chill, and finished out the winter in a hospital bed, visited rather less often than I might have wished by my niece and her boy. Of course, the drive in from Brooklyn is nothing to scoff at.

One recovers far more slowly when one has reached my age; it's a painful truth we all learn if we live long enough. Howard's life was short, but in the end I think he understood. At thirty-five he could deride as madness a friend's 'hankering after youth,' yet ten years later he'd learned to mourn the loss of his own. 'The years tell on one!' he'd written. 'You young fellows don't know how lucky you are!'

Age is indeed the great mystery. How else could Terry have emblazoned his grandmother's sundial with that saccharine nonsense?

Grow old along with me; The best is yet to be.

True, the motto is traditional to sundials - but that young fool hadn't even kept to the rhyme. With diabolical imprecision he had written, 'The best is yet to come' - a line to make me gnash my teeth, if I had any left to gnash.

! spent most of the spring indoors cooking myself wretched little meals and working ineffectually on a literary project that had occupied my thoughts. It was discouraging to find that I wrote so slowly now, and changed so much. My sister only reinforced the mood when, sending me a rather salacious story she'd found in the Enquirer - about the 'thing like a vacuum cleaner' 'that snaked through a Swedish sailor's porthole and 'made his face all purple' - she wrote at the top, 'See? Right out of Lovecraft.'

It was not long after this that I received, to my surprise, a letter from Mrs Zimmerman, bearing profuse apologies for having misplaced my enquiry until it turned up again during 'spring cleaning.'

(It is hard to imagine any sort of cleaning at the Barkleigh Hotella, spring or otherwise, but even this late reply was welcome.) 'I am sorry that the minister who disappeared was a friend of yours,'

she wrote. 'I'm sure he must have been a fine gentleman.

'You asked me for "the particulars," but from your note you seem to know the whole story. There is really nothing I can tell you that I did not tell the police, though I do not think they ever released all of it to the papers. Our records show that our guest Mr Djaktu arrived here nearly a year ago, at the end of June, and ]eft the last week of August owing me a week's rent plus various damages which I no longer have much hope of recovering, though I have written the Malaysian Embassy about it.

'In other respects he was a proper boarder, paid regularly, and in fact hardly ever left his room except to walk in the back yard from time to time, or stop at the grocer's. (We have found it impossible to discourage eating in rooms.) My only complaint is that in the middle of the summer he may have had a small coloured child living with him without our knowledge, until one of the maids heard him singing to it as she passed his room. She did not recognize the language, but said she thought it might be Hebrew. (The poor woman, now sadly taken from us, was barely able to read.) When she next made up the room, she told me that Dr Djaktu claimed the child was '~is," and that she left because she caught a glimpse of it watching her from the bathroom. She said it was naked. I did not speak of this at the time, as I do not feel it is my place to pass judgement on the morals of my guests. Anyway, we never saw the child again, and we made sure the room was completely sanitary for our next guests. Believe me, we have received nothing but good comments on our facilities. We think they are excellent and hope you agree, and I also hope you will be our guest again the next time you come to Florida.'

Unfortunately, the next time I came to Florida was for my sister's funeral late that winter. I know now, as I did not know then, that she had been in ill health for most of the previous year, but I cannot help thinking that the so-called 'incidents' - the senseless acts of vandalism directed against lone women in the South Florida area, culminating in several reported attacks by an unidentified prowler - may have hastened her death.

When I arrived here with Ellen to take care of my sister's affairs and arrange for the funeral, I intended to remain a week or two at most, seeing to the transfer of the property. Yet somehow I lingered, long after Ellen had gone. Perhaps it was the thought of that New York winter, grown harsher with each passing year; I just couldn't find the strength to go back. Nor, in the end, could I bring myself to sell this house; if I am trapped here, it's a trap I'm resigned to. Besides, moving has never much agreed with me; when I grow tired of this little room - and I do - I can think of nowhere else to go. I've seen all the world I want to see. This simple place is now my home - and I feel certain it will be my last. The calender on the wall tells me it's been almost three months since I moved in. I know that somewhere in its remaining pages you will find the date of my death.

The past week has seen a new outbreak of the 'incidents.' Last night's was the most dramatic by far. I can recite it almost word for word from the morning news. Shortly before midnight Mrs Florence Cavanaugh, a housewife living at 24 Alyssum Terrace, South Princeten, was about to close the curtains in her front room when she saw, peering through the window at her, what she described as 'a large Negro man wearing a gas mask or scuba outfit.' Mrs Cavanaugh, who was dressed only in her nightgown, fell back from the window and screamed for her husband, asleep in the next room, but by the time he arrived the Negro had made good his escape.

Local police favour the 'scuba' theory, since near the window they've discovered footprints that may have been made by a heavy man in swim fins. But they haven't been able to explain why anyone would wear underwater gear so many miles from water.

The report usually concludes with the news that 'Mr and Mrs Cavanaugh could not be reached for comment.'

The reason I have taken such an interest in the case - sufficient, anyway, to memorize the above details is that I know the Cavanaughs rather well. They are my next-door neighbours.

Call it an ageing writer's ego, if you like, but somehow I can't help thinking that last evening's visit was meant for me. These little green bungalows all look alike in the dark.

Well, there's still a little night left outside - time enough to rectify the error. I'm not going anywhere.

I think, in fact, it will be a rather appropriate end for a man of my pursuits - to be absorbed into the denouement of another man's tale.

Grow old along with me; The best is yet to come.

Tell me, Howard: how long before it's my turn to see the black face pressed to my window?

[mantrabay]

Ballroom In The Sky

Short Story

Gazing with his mouth wide open towards a sullen evening sky dotted with jet black clouds

Geoff Wild shakes, weeps and sighs.

He was on his knees on this grass-strewn, unkempt graveyard on the outskirts of his native town.

Two years later and her memory still intrudes in unexpected moments.

“Still so vivid. Is this a nightmare…..some trick of the light or just another passing dream?

The Passing Of A Velvet Heart.”

Geoff's thoughts almost choking him. Streams of emotion flowed down his face like someone who had just seen a tragic film.

Violet or Velvet heart, his pet name for his wife, had died and was still having difficulty coming to terms with it.

The sudden passing of his loved one had left this middle-aged man gaunt, ashen faced and skeletal. Wild’s troubled expression had become a haunted house of uncanny notions and strange secrets waiting to flow from his water-logged eyes. Those circumstances surrounding Violet’s death were never clear.

Was it a death wish or an accidental fall from the edge of the flat roof on their elegant townhouse?

Why would this lady of such excellent balance lose her footing in such a manner?

Death through misadventure was a colourful term used to describe what happens when there is no clear cause or explanation.

“Cherish all those wonderful experiences we had. Whichever one of us dies first.”

Violet once said. Almost as if she had some premonition.

This was six months before she passed away.

A creepy dawning sneaks its way into Geoff’s thoughts.

An endless see-saw of conflicting doubts convulsed him as he dwelt in the cemetery.

Yet Wild fondly recalled that night they first met at the Skyline Ballroom.

The Skyline was a battered tumbledown barn cum venue whose allure was based firmly on its availability.

The interior of this ballroom was hardly more enticing.

The chipped hardwood floor and the dusty pale cream walls with paint flakes that peeled off only confirmed its tenement status. It was known locally as the “Creaking Beam”” due to its ghostly acoustics and flickering lights. Here in this spooky venue Geoff and Violet had their earliest encounter. Wild remembered her radiant smiles and looping glances which he hoped were being cast at him. The ripples of long dark hair, those apple blossom cheeks and of course her angelic aura stood out.

On that night she wore a polka dot ruche dress, amethyst ear pendants and satin moccasins.

An opal choker completes the picture. “Have I the gumption? The courage.

A faint heart etc.” Geoff could hear his heart flutter as he did his tightrope walk toward her. Within seconds he was standing in front of Violet unable to control the tremble in his knees.

“May I dance with you?” Geoff asked.

Velvet heart’s hands formed a lazy arch and her dainty fingers curled inwards while she thought of a response.

“Of course. I would be delighted.” Violet spoke in that pear drop tone which beguiled everybody who met her.

Geoff, the local journalist and writer was in seventh heaven.

They never forgot that enchanting song they first danced to, “Ballroom In The Sky.”

The song was performed by Valerie And The Blue Skies, a rock and jazz band whose name was partially influenced by the venue that gave them their initial break.

They weren’t very big but had a cult following.

Something magical and unearthly happened every time they played that song on stage.

Geoff could see how similar Violet and Valerie were in appearance.

They were mirror images of each other.

It was frightening how easy it was to confuse the two of them in speech, mannerisms and appearance.

The drole, quaint, humour.

Age even.

Valerie was based in a remote enigmatic area outside town when not on tour.

She used to refer to songs as role plays in that banter between numbers.

“You feel as though you are a different person.

Maybe a member of the audience betimes.”

Valerie remarked.

Other than that they, Violet and Valerie, were virtually indistinguishable.

Violet did admit to meeting Valerie casually and for autograph purposes but other than that they had very few interactions with each other or so it appeared on the surface at any rate.

It seemed amazing how “ Ballroom In The Sky” with its airy ascending rock chords and jaunty jazz lines could draw Violet, Valerie and Geoff into a peculiar triangle.

The sudden moody breaks and abrupt silences built a momentary cocoon around the three of them which the rest of the patrons were unaware of.

For the most part or at least superficially.

They, the three characters, weren’t always aware that they were being sucked into a surreal threesome.

As for Valerie’s top sideman....well, he was known as Silent Sam.

He was the only member of this group that had any kind of track record or reputation.

Sam’s blue attire was in keeping with the band’s name. He wore a large trilby hat tipped over his forehead sheltering his pointed face and pencil slim physique.

Basking in the background one saw very little of him.

He, Sam, was short-sighted when it suited and though taciturn was also eccentric.

Practical jokes were his forte and the trademark impish grin was always an afterthought.

Then the usual quiet man mystery.

“Yep ..Yup....or Sure.“

These were the only asides from this oddball sidemen by and large.

He was prone to stumble and fall. Valerie had to indicate where things were to Sam in case he injured himself.

They would have words with each other which no one could quite figure out. Theirs was a sign language of its own complete with slanted squirms and facial signposts.

One often wondered if there was a deeper relationship between Valerie and Sam that others had yet to pick up on.

Leaving that aside, those Blue Skies airs would have been mere fillers without Sam. This lonely freak seemed aloof but by the same token these songs were peculiarly his.

“LOVERS TAKE THE FLOOR

FANCY DANCING WITH THE ONE THAT YOU ADORE

WARM EMBRACES AS YOU HEAR EACH OTHER SIGH

LOVERS TIL WE DIE

WE’LL BE DANCING IN THAT BALLROOM IN THE SKY.”

Every time that song was played Valerie, Violet and Geoff were sharing unwittingly a secret that would baffle even the most senior detective.

The startled looks, embarrassed smiles, were all part of this outlandish ritual.

Wild did try to piece all these recollections together.

“Valerie sure could croon those songs. In a real hypnotic fashion. Everyone in the dancehall was enthralled. People would sway like ice skaters one moment, waltz in a swan-like manner the next and just as often rave in the isles like end of term teenagers. The classics then came thick and fast.”

Geoff whispers to himself in this solitary graveyard.

“JUST A PASSING DREAM...........STILL SO VIVID.......DANCING IN HEAVEN...... KISSES ALL AROUND....MAGIC HAND........A LITTLE BIT BLIND, and of course “BALLROOM IN THE SKY”. Other favourites included “ LET YOUR LOVED ONE KNOW “ ( BEFORE SHE PASSES AWAY ) AND “ IN TWO MINDS.” Geoff and Violet would date and swing religiously to those fantasy songs every Sunday as their courtship blossomed.

“Ballroom In The Sky “ was always the highpoint of the dance with its mesmerising rhythms and choral mantras.

Like magic it weaved its way through every aspect of their relationship. Its spell was like an invisible hand shadowing their each and every move.

This constellation of events occurred in a scenic nineteen seventies spot.

Despite its haunting vistas and backdrop of panoramic hills it resembled a ghost town. Openings were few against an infinite spiral of closing factories, bookstores with half-empty shelves and shopkeepers peering out of doors.

A crushing gloom weighed heavily on this once vibrant resort.

Ten years earlier it was a beacon. “I shudder to think…...A jigsaw puzzle of past events.”

Geoff surveying the cemetery as if he were a stargazing prophet.

He didn’t want to be heard talking to himself.

Such memories could have been taken directly from some movie script. “Yes .. it was a hub that Skyline. Like homeless drifters, the folk who attended lapping up and revelling in the bonhomie of gemstone tunes and spritely pulse rate beats.”

The man Geoff communing with himself.

They were fugitives all of them. Be they fantasists, love seekers or escapees from that heavy-handed void called the dole queue. Suddenly an unusual presence descended without warning.

“What the heavens is? Snap…..ah it's a branch.” Momentary jitters engulfing Wild.

He shook in concert with the overarching colonnade of brown edge green leaf trees astride this burial ground.

An eerie rustling dewdrop tiptoe now caressing Geoff’s ears.

”Up there somewhere Velvet Heart?

Dancing in the heavens? You know that “Ballroom In The Sky.”

Nervous laughter now relief road to that traffic jam of sentiment just about to speed off.

Glued to the spot that macabre sixth sense of Violet hovering above evaporates due to an illusory shaft of late evening sun.

Warm misty comas presently forming a shroud over Wild but he was immune to them.

Geoff’s mental state shifts from doze to daze. Clouds of recall floated past his eyes with the odd fact jolting him out of his stupor.

Wild could no longer hide from the rather bizarre identities Valerie and Velvet Heart possessed. “Oh those comic jibes and piercing glances that they cast at any distance. Some ethereal intrigues were passing through the air in a game of bow and arrows that never missed their target.”

Geoff recalls with forensic clarity.

Poor Silent Sam who was also at a loss would do his usual u-turn into the shadow. He then shook his head in dismay.

Two months before Geoff's and Violet’s parting, an unforgettable incident occurred.

Quite often memory is a lodger which steadfastly refuses to surrender its keys. It was one of those Sunday’s that typified the area Geoff lived in.

Valerie and the Blue Skies were in flying form as the tunes morphed and segued into each other. Valerie and Velvet Heart who were magnets for men knew the music would amplify their appeal.

This tuneful genre helped both aforementioned ladies ooze black magic.

Violet's knowing stare caught Geoff off guard. “Guilty conscience, there Geoff?”

Having fantasies about Valerie.

Focus all those erotic thoughts on me.

As for that eternity ring remember?” Violet’s eyes twinkled as she seized Geoff up and down. Those penetrating peepers knew how to vet a body in a flash.

“Oh no .....not at all.” Geoff with a loop of a smirk.

“Just those mystical melodies working their spell.” He said.

“You came into my life like the early morning sun.... a new dawn.” Wild in poetic mode.

“You honey tongue you. Wait, Geoff our song. Yes, Ballroom.” Violet mutters gingerly.

Valerie nodded towards Sam.

Her expression was a hard to decipher veil and deep code command.

“Get those fingers flying, Sam.”

In a tone identical to Velvet Heart leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Sam didn’t always act immediately on Valerie’s cues.

“Yep.. Yup ...Sure.” Sam’s usual retort.

Eventually.

“Ballroom In The Sky” now strong as ever as it cast its bewitching spell to all sections of this venue.

A medley was now included tonight for the first time.

“SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE” ( Sam looked at Valerie), “A LITTLE BIT BLIND��� ( Sam staring vacantly at both Valerie and Violet), “MIND YOUR STEP( Sam winking at Geoff while scrunching the mouth at Violet).

Violet edged toward the stage whilst tenderly clasping Geof. There was a dim-lit silence.

Ballroom started again. Valerie and Violet now singing this tune. An eerie vacuum filled the hall as they sang unaccompanied with Geoff simply awestruck.

A triangular crush of people occurred near the stage.

Valerie handed Violet a letter which Geoff could only peer at. What was in it?

Sam was now talking to Valerie with the usual economy.

In the confusion of memory images are both mist and blur.

“Pst...Pst. It's me. Your Velvet Heart is back to haunt you so I am.“ Violet’s lofty twang.

“What in the name….I can't phantom…..fathom.” Geoff nearly froze. Violet’s voice sounded like a wet whisper stretching over twigs that simultaneously tap against windows.

She pulled back an orchard pattern duvet which was covering Geoff.

“Fell asleep at your favourite film, The Passing Of A Velvet Heart. All those graveyard scenes shot in our small town remember?

Actually Silent Sam wrote the soundtrack for the film and Ballroom. He sings on that one.” Said Violet objectively.

“Incredibly you chose Velvet Heart as your courtship name for me based on the film.

The film was never a huge success at all but did get our area some limited publicity for a while.

Sam earned some extra royalties, though not a king’s ransom from the soundtrack sales.

Valerie and Sam tying the knot next Sunday of all days.

As for that love letter you mumbled about in your sleep.

It’s an invite to their secret wedding.

Very private. As Sam is.

What a time and place he chose for the invitation.

During that ethereal love song which brought us together.” Once more Violet observes.

“Poor Sam’s a little bit blind and confused on occasions.

You know next Sunday and all. Or is he?

I was upstairs on the flat roof today.

Six months ago I fell off it.

You’ve never liked me being up there since.”

Violet continuing.

“Guilty secret must confess. I used to be onstage instead of Valerie.

Well, sometimes.

She was dating you pretending to be me.

We never knew each other that well but it was a dare worked out between us.“

Geoff shouted. “Hoodwinked.”

An incredulous look ripples over Wild’s pale face.

Violet’s eyes now ablaze.

“You never noticed did you? Deep down.”

This dry playful tease surfacing from Violet again.

Geoff was thunderstruck. Violet strolled towards their CD player on the mahogany table near the drawing room corner.

“Think you’ll like this one. Our song with Sam on vocals.” A tranquil Violet stated.

“This is one tune you’ll definitely know.

May I dance with you?”

Geoff smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted.

And relieved!”

Silent Sam’s voice wafts and weaves in his own inimitable shy way a song usually sung by Valerie, his wife to be.

And sometimes Violet, or Velvet Heart.

A number that united three people in the most curious and otherworldly manner!

“Yep….Yup ….Sure.”

As Sam was in the habit of saying!

mantrabay Copyright Protected

All My Own Work

.

[doctorwhonews]

Shada (DVD/Blu-Ray/Steelbook)

Latest Review: Shada Written by: Douglas Adams Directed by: Pennant Roberts, Charles Norton Produced by: Graham Williams Cast Tom Baker (The Doctor), Lalla Ward (Romana), David Brierly (K9), Christopher Neame (Skagra), Daniel Hill (Chris Parsons), Denis Carey (Professor Chronotis), Victoria Burgoyne (Clare Knightley), Gerald Campion (Wilkin), Shirley Dixon (Ship), Derek Pollitt (Caldera), James Coombes (voice of the Kraags), John Hallet (Police Constable), David Strong (Man in Car) Cover Art: Lee Binding (DVD, Blu-Ray), Adrian Salmon (Steelbook) Originally Released: November 2017 Shada Reborn Quite possibly a record-breaking candidate for the longest filming period for a single script, Shada bridges two millennia – from 1979 to 2017 – and represents a heroic effort to finally plug one of the most egregious gaps in the Doctor Who canon. In a way, Shada mirrors the antagonist of that other great Douglas Adams story, City of Death. Just as Scaraoth is shattered into dozens of versions of himself across the centuries, the industrial action that stymied the original production of the serial saw it fractured into a number of variants and doppelgangers. Most famously, Adams decided the root concepts and ideas behind his final Doctor Who script were too good to waste and they found their way into his Doctorless novel Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. In 1992, a rough edit of the surviving footage was patched together with exposition from Tom Baker and some unsympathetic synthesizer music. Later again, an animated incarnation saw Paul McGann’s Eighth Doctor reunite with Romana and K9 and a new supporting cast to cure a nagging feeling of something undone in Cambridge 1979. But this Shada is very much the real deal. The entire surviving cast have been reunited to record the missing dialogue, the missing sequences have been animated where appropriate, though brand new models and have constructed and filmed by the Model Unit to act as inserts in the live action scenes, and a brand new score by Mark Ayers is constructed like an act of musical archaeology to recreate the instruments, methods and style of 1970s legend Dudley Simpson. It can never by Shada as it would have been, but it by far lays the strongest claim to being the definitive article. As with any such project, the team had to make creative decisions and not everyone will agree with all of them. For instance, with Denis Carey (Professor Chronotis) and David Brierly (K9) having died since their original contribution a couple of minor scenes requiring them are left unanimated, while others have their presence reduced to lines which could be reproduced from other recordings of the actors. While some no doubt may have preferred soundalikes to be used to make as complete a version as possible, it’s a sensitive decision and highlights that, in fact, the missing moments were largely padding anyway. Similarly, but much more controversially, is the decision to assemble Shada as a 138 minute film rather than as six episodes. (It even has - steady yourself - a pre-titles sequence). This will go against every instinct of many long term fans, still sore from VHS cassettes of hacked down stories and the fight to get episodic releases. But in this case it seems to work. Watched in one sitting it makes for a breezy, fun, adventure – yet the way the story is paced would have seen the episodic version with a curiously uneventful Part One and a number of extremely undramatic cliffhangers (only the midway point would have given us something as genuinely brilliant as “Dead men require no oxygen”). For me, the only genuinely poor decision is to seize on the existence of the original K9 prop, some original wall panels from the 1979 set, and the surviving (bottom) half of an original Kraag monster costume to recreate a few shots of K9 fighting a Kraag. I appreciate the sentiment behind it, but the fact the surviving bit of set to squeeze them into is so small, and the Kraag only visible from the waist down, makes for a weirdly, and unintentionally silly, looking moment that takes you out of the flow of the story more than the switches to animation do. Few would argue, though against the decision to bring in Martin Gergharty and Adrian Salmon to do design work for the animation. Not only are they brilliant in their own right, creating clear lined, loyal yet character-filled, interpretations of the cast in warm, friendly colours, it also helps smooth over the slightly stilted, flash style – the characters may not feel like they have a full range of human movement, but the presence of Gergharty’s art, so familiar to the readership of Doctor Who Magazine, makes it feel almost like panels from the beloved DWM comic strip brought to life.   Shada Reviewed But has all this effort simply been an ultimate exercise in obsessive, fannish, completeness? Are we seeing the resurrection of a poor story just because it’s there to be done, or the completion of a classic in its own right?  In short – is Shada actually any good? As it happens, Shada is brilliant jewel to add to Doctor Who’s crown if one, like all the most spectacular diamonds, not without its flaws. One the wittiest of Who scripts, and certainly with one of the most fascinating premises, at six parts it’s basically City of Death with extra portions. Famously, one of the script’s biggest critics is its own author – written, as it was, at a point when Douglas Adams was juggling several different projects and deadlines and pouring his greatest effort into his own personal work rather than Doctor Who. Considering that a billion years from now, stuck in the glovebox of an interplanetary roadster, the fruits of that rival project may be the last sign of the human race’s existence, it would be churlish to complain about that but still, Adams is being ungenerous about the serial. In almost every way, this is the fullest encapsulation of the latter half Tom Baker years. Tom himself exudes the same sort of relaxed charm, peppered with moments of total nonsense that marked City of Death while Lalla Ward has never seemed more possessed of an unearthly beauty. All of their scenes together are a joy and something as simple as them going boating, or visiting an old friend in his rooms for tea is all stuff I could watch hours of, even without any alien menaces showing up. And the alien menace that does show up is stupendous – possibly the most unbelievable thing about the whole story is the revelation on the commentary track that the people in the background of Cambridge genuinely ignored Christopher Neame in his outrageous hat and slowing silver cape as if he was an everyday sight. But the massively fun campness of Neame’s character Skagra is balanced by the imaginative and typically Adamsian plot the villain has hatched. Skagra is unusually preoccupied with the heat death of the universe in several billion years’ time and obsessed with stopping it. Like solving the central question of  Life, the Universe, and Everything the main stumbling block to finding the answer is processing power – so he’s going to absorb every mind in the universe into one great gestalt entity, so that every being in creation is simply a conduit for finding a way to save it without the petty distractions of life. In a way, it’s Douglas Adams inventing cloud computing thirty years early and typical of the scientific verve and imagination he brought to everything he wrote. (Tellingly, a year later his replacement would also craft a story about forestalling the heat death of the universe but, while propounding the superiority of ‘hard science’, would solve it by inventing some space wizards who use magic words to make it go away).There are undoubtedly flaws, mostly as we race towards the end with the mounting sense of a script with the ink still wet and no time for afterthought or final drafts. Chris Parsons is probably the best of the solid young everymen Doctor Who has ever featured, and pitched perfectly by Daniel Hall, yet despite early episodes spending more time of introducing and building on his character, he gets lost in the shuffle of the climax. There’s even a dramatic scene of Chris making a vital deduction and racing out to save the day, only for Adams to be plainly unable to think of anything to give him to do once he gets there (a problem Gareth Roberts ingeniously solved in his 2012 novelization but which, presumably for purity’s sake, the producers here don’t take the opportunity to steal). Meanwhile, the Kraag outfits are really quite poor, even for the era that gave us the Nimon and the Mandrel, and a lot of the location film work in Cambridge feels rather loose and in need of a tighter edit.Yet, there’s an inescapable magic to Shada that goes well beyond its status as a mythical ‘lost’ story, and had it been completed in 1979 it would still have been regarded as one of the highpoints of Season Seventeen.   Extras This release comes with a full set of extras the complement the story perfectly. A commentary orchestrated by the unsinkable Toby Hadoke on less funding than the bus fare into town sees him interview Neame and Hall about their experiences during filming, and Gergharty and animator Ann Marie Walsh about the pressures and effort involved in creating the project against incredibly tight deadlines. Taken Out of Time interviews many of the those involved in front of and behind the cameras on the original production to build a picture of exactly how it came to abandoned in the first place. Strike! Strike! Strike! uses contributions from those involved in industrial relations at the time to help explain exactly how the unions of 1970s television came to be so powerful, and give a potted history of their rise and fall through the lens of how industrial action had impacted Doctor Who over the decades both negatively (when it was at the BBC) and positively (when it was arch rival ITV left showing blank screens opposite the Doctor’s adventures).  Both of these are proper, half hour documentaries that tell a story of their own almost as compelling as Shada itself. There’s also fascinating Studio Sesssions - 1979, showing the working methods of the cast and crew in-studio as the cameras roll between takes. Most fun of all is are the Dialogue Sessions – in which we get to see Tom Baker and Daniel Hall record their contributions for the animation, with all Tom’s uproarious ad libs and suggestions for improvements to the script intact. The extras are rounded out with the video of the Model Unit filming of Skagra’s space station and ship, as well as the TARDIS model, new footage taken of Daniel Hall and Tom Baker’s stand-in as reference for animation, photo galleries, as well as the obligatory Now and Then tour of what the Cambridge locatoins look like three decades on. ROM content even includes a full set of scripts, storyboards, and the 1979 Doctor Who Annual (if, rather bizarrely, packed as 56 separate image files).The Steelbook release goes even further to try and lay claim to the definitive Shada package – with a third disc containing the 1992 reconstruction and the 2003 Paul McGann web animation adaptation (remastered for viewing on TV screens rather than computer monitors). About the only thing not included is the novelization.   Presentation and Packaging The DVD version has a slightly astonishing error where the coding that tells a television to display it as 16:9 or 4:3 is messed up – meaning that if watched on a 4:3 television the image will appear in the centre of the screen, with black bars on all sides – top, bottom, left and right. On a modern 16:9 television it displays the picture correctly (with bars on left and right as this is archive television intended as 4:3) but even then some resolution is lost as the image is basically being blown up to fit. That said, you’d be hard pressed to actually notice the lower resolution on viewing the DVD and it probably still looks better than it would have done on the average 1970s domestic television. All the same it’s disappointing to see such hard work by so many involved obviously handed off to someone much less fastidious at the eleventh hour for authoring the DVDs. It should be stressed, however, that the Blu-Ray and Steelbook don’t share this flaw so, if it’s going to bother you, those are the routes to take. The cover art, some may remember, was the cause of a bit of a social media flap last year when Clayton Hickman’s distinctive and unusual scarf patterned cover was ditched at the comparative last minute. In the final result, Lee Binding’s replacement is… fine, if a little bland and stilted seeming, probably as a result of the tight deadlines under which it was done. Strangely, a vestige of Hickman’s original design lingers on in the insert booklet.  “Bland” is not something anyone could accuse the Steelbook art of. Undoubtedly DWM’s most marmite love-him-or-hate-him artists, Adrian Salmon provides a cover piece in his distinctive, angular, impressionistic style. Personally, I love him. A thread long dangling frustratingly at the corner of Doctor Who history, Shada is reborn by a massive and dedicated effort by a hugely talented team to reveal it as an all time classic mix of Douglas Adams’ trademark whimsy and intelligence. Handsomely accompanied by a great set of extras and marred only by some inexplicable technical sloppiness, this is a must for any collection. But one, perhaps, to get on Blu-Ray if possible.   http://reviews.doctorwhonews.net/2018/02/shada_dvd_blu_ray_steelbook.html?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

[wittypenguin]

King Kong vs Godzilla (1964) [US Version]

There’s a fundamental problem with this film from the outset: the two studios involved are making it for entirely different reasons. Universal International was cashing in on the ‘Big Monster’ / kaijiu craze (The Blob, The Thing, The Creature from the Black Lagoon) by combining RKO’s character ‘King Kong’ with something exciting and foreign in Toho Studios’ property ‘Godzilla.’ Meanwhile, Toho Studios was using its big anniversary as a studio as an excuse to cram all of its popular actors and intellectual properties into one film, scattering logic to the four winds to accomplish it (it’s a wonder we don’t have Toshiro Mifune come strutting through brandishing a katana at some point). While those two driving forces don’t have to be at odds with each other, the US version takes the original, Japanese version and attempts to frame it in some sense of rational predictability, an approach which is inherently flawed. I’m going to try to ignore that part as much as I can here, but a subsequent viewing found me unable to stick with this version past the ½-hour mark, as the ‘framing device’ is so incredibly wooden and clunky. 

Be that as it may; on with the show!! 

COLOUR! WIDE SCREEN!! Questionable use of colour for lettering of credits!!!

We begin with a plate shot of Earth that looks a lot like the Universal International title card background did. While we slowly zoom in, we get… a Hamlet quote…? This seems a bit too much, but, okaaaaay…

Then we get a grainy UN building plate shot which we’ll see a couple of times, because this is also part of the ‘Americanization’ of the film. The UN has a News Service, and it’s telling us all about the various things happening in all the nations which are presumably united now. They beaming their broadcasts to us via the Universe Space Station in orbit around the planet. Shots of the USS are lifted from The Mysterians (1957), so we can also see alien flying saucers arriving at the station, but it’s never explained, so maybe this transfer is better than the film makers expected and we weren’t supposed to see them at all. 

Hey, the Chilean reporter is Victor Millan, the young husband / boyfriend from A Touch of Evil!

There are earthquakes in Chile, plus melting ice floes in the Bearing Straight, so the world is having a rough time of it.

The last time we saw Godzilla, he was buried in an avalanche, so clearly that’s where the big lizard will emerge from here. A recent increase in water temperature in the Bering Straight causes a US submarine with some researchers to be sent to take a look, and they debate their course of action in a large control room on the sub, which comes complete with an “undersea periscope.” I doubt that is an Actual Thing.

Buddy, you can call it any sort of exotic fruit from the Faroe Islands you feel like claiming it is, but it will still be a strawberry. — — — —

Meanwhile: King Kong is on Farou Island, where a berry is being grown which has non-addictive and narcotic properties that a Japanese pharmaceutical company wishes to incorporate into its product line (don’t ask, just accept it [we actually learned about this fruit during Mothra, but this is a different island near the Marshall Island H-Bomb testing range (I think)]). A team of Tokyo TeleVision people are sent to the island to get the berries plus the mighty Kong as a marketing stunt (ibid). 

“Hokkaido” is not pronounced like that. At. All.

Repeatedly, the English dubbing has Japanese characters pronounce it as “hawk-eh-EYE-doh,” not only mangling the name but adding an extra syllable into the bargain. The Japanese UNTV reporter, played by James Yagi, pronounces it properly as “ho-KAI-doh.” You would think someone might think to themselves ‘hey, maybe the Asian guy’s pronunciation is the right one…?’

The depiction of the natives of Faroe Island [above] are creations of racism. Not only are they in blackface, they carry African-style shields with similar markings, yet are South Sea Islanders located just off the Marshall Islands. Plus there is liberal use of feathers in headdresses which look remarkably similar to the people of the North American plains regions. Wow. There may have even been a bone through someone’s nose, I didn’t look that closely. Even allowing for early-60s comedy sensibilities, this is really bad; nearly “Andy Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s” territory. It’s important to view this as a stereotype of the time, as well as a depiction of a non-existent people (perhaps with the defence ‘so how could anyone be offended?’ well… uh…).

I’m stunned that Japanese trains not only do not have radios to receive a warning about Godzilla, they also lack a reverse gear to back away from him. Also, where did these buses to save all the rail passengers suddenly come from? If they were able to corral all of these motor coaches, couldn’t they have somehow got word to… never mind. 

Must so many O-scale model trains be made to suffer?

I want many of these cars. Most of the suits, also. 

There are massive leaps of ‘logic’ here that I’m positive make more sense in the original Japanese version. Then again, it may be like the material above and we should stop looking for that. This is the problem with the American sections: they keep trying to root the story in half-real science and logic, but that should be avoided with every effort! ‘When will the fools learn…‽’ etc.

Kong looks more like an extremely badly made Sasquatch than King of the Apes. For one thing, his arms are (occasionally) much too long and the person inside clearly has their wrists at Kong’s elbows (but this detail oddly comes and goes). Also, he’s covered in some sort of steel wool or matted shag carpeting. His face is an awful excuse for any sort of simian form. It’s an embarrassment. 

Godzilla, on the other hand, is a happy, fun-filled dinosaur who is extra-mobile compared to his earlier appearances. He jumps up and down and claps his… paws? …claws? …hands? …front feet? He’s like a young child! Okay, a 300 foot tall child capable of throwing boulders bigger than houses, but he’s got that playful energy. 

The model work is really uneven: the ships, trucks, earth movers, and so on look ‘good’ to ‘great,’ but the human figures look uniformly like little plastic objects which can only described as ‘human adjacent.’ It’s like you described human form to a blind and stupid person, and they carved a figure out of Jell-O using a spatula. On a warm day. 

Why does the army try catching Godzilla in a pit and exploding dynamite around him when he survived an H-Bomb? They tried that with electricity-conductive nets in Mothra and he worked clear of them. Even with here adding an acid bath and burning gasoline, it seems…

Why does Godzilla now avoid encountering electrical lines when he basically conquered it before? Has he learned that it’s more hassle than it’s worth? Can Godzilla be considered this sentient?

Also, what’s that white guy doing in the Japanese army?

Sorry, I forgot that logic isn’t a part of these things… [:: heavy sigh ::]

When Kong grabs a girl and people shine lights at him, he does what he knows best: climbs to the top of the nearest building. In this case, it’s the Diet (Japan’s Parliament), and the top of the dome is about level with his shoulder, so it doesn’t really count as a huge visual statement or accomplishment. It would be like you standing on a chair: yes, you’re higher up, but it’s not exactly a K-2 level of accomplishment, is it?

Additionally, Godzilla actually destroyed that building in the first film, but they’ve had awhile to rebuild, I guess.

Where’d they get this awful quality of film showing people evacuating Tokyo (Chiba in the Japanese version) via the docks? Answer: Chikyû Bôeigun (1957), and there are a few other bits of footage that film supplies.

I swear the rocky area that’s supposed to be at the base of Mt Fujiyama was modelled on the big rock thing Star Trek TOS used all the time. 

Am I supposed to be rooting for Kong? I’m rooting for Kong here. Godzilla just seems like a real dick, frankly. 

Special effects director Eiji Tsuburaya deliberately gave King Kong a semi-comical personality, because he did not want Kong to frighten young children, and wanted the general audience to root for Kong over the more frightening Godzilla.

Ah. Good to know. 

The film features the Davy Crockett, a portable missile-launched nuclear weapon developed by the United States. At the time, this weapon was still classified.

Who would have expected this film to be a source of military secrets?

Late on, we see Kong practicing gavage using a tree! It’s actually a call back to a bit in an early production still from King Kong (1933) showing him doing that to a Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

Between Godzilla and King Kong, no historical monument will ever be left standing. 

Thanks to the English dubbing laying it on with a shovel, dialogue provides a fair few repeated statements about ‘electricity makes Kong stronger’ near the end. Thank goodness they do, as I certainly didn’t remember that from a few scenes ago and missed it the first five times time here. 

Godzilla disappears, presumed drowned…? Kong survives and we see him wading away from Japan, so the people of the Island Kingdom are safe once more! 

The best thing about this version is it leaves one with a strong desire to see the original version. 

★★★☆☆

[the-desolated-quill]

Whitewashing In Hellboy: Will Hollywood Ever Learn? - Quill’s Scribbles

Remember Hellboy? That mediocre fantasy movie starring Ron Perlman along with Rasputin, a fire witch and some fish guy? (That’s literally all I can recall from memory). Well it’s being rebooted. I’m sure if you’re a Hellboy fan, this must be very exciting. Do you know what’s even more exciting? They’ve announced some casting. Specifically the actor who’s going to be playing Major Ben Daimio. Well gee whiz, I wonder who’s going to be playing this Japanese American character...

OH FOR FUCK SAKE!

Hollywood, why do you hate Asians so much? Did an Asian person steal your lunch money when you were a kid or something?

Yes we’re doing this song and dance again. Yet another tentpole movie whitewashing a prominent Asian character. I wonder perhaps if filmmakers are doing this on purpose now just for the added publicity they’ll get from the controversy. Whatever the reason, it’s fucking disgusting. It’s objectively terrible. And the fact that Hollywood are still doing it and the fact that there are idiots still defending this reprehensible practice makes me want to hurl my laptop at the wall and immigrate to Mars. I’m so sick and fucking tired of the same trite defences being wheeled out every single time Hollywood does something undeniably racist. Ed Skrein is the best person for the role? No he isn’t. He’s white. The best person for the role would be a Japanese person because the character is fucking Japanese. They just wanted the star power? Oh yeah, I’m sure the film will do so much better now that they’ve hired whoever the fuck this guy is. Ed Skrien is a struggling actor and needs to take whatever work he can get? Two things. First of all, no he isn’t. Neither is Scarlett Johansson or Tilda Swinton. I know because I used to be a struggling actor before my alcoholism killed my career in its crib. Struggling is when you’re living in some shitty one bedroom flat and taking whatever work you can get in crappy commercials and rubbish comedy clubs just to put food on the table and keep the lights on, praying that some day you’ll be discovered. Ed Skrein is precisely not that. And second of all, what about all the struggling Japanese actors? Did you think about that? Them having to make do with some background role in some shitty crime drama because mighty whitey over here has nicked all the good parts intended for them.

What especially pisses me off is that I honestly thought Skrein was better than that. After the success of Deadpool, in which he played the villain Ajax, he said he wanted to help raise awareness for the pansexual community. Clearly that same kindness and generosity of spirit doesn’t seem to extend toward the Asian community. Oh yeah! I’m abso-fucking-lutely holding him responsible for this! He is just as much to blame as the bastard filmmakers! He has now become the latest in a long and terrible line of actors and filmmakers to make all the right noises when it comes to fairness and equality, but when the time comes to actually put it into practice, he essentially tells the minorities to go and fuck themselves. Ed Skrein knew the character was Japanese. He must have done. He must have read the comics to prepare for the role, right? He knew the role he was being offered to play wasn’t intended for him, and yet he decided to accept the offer anyway. Ed Skrein is racist. The filmmakers are racist. Anybody who defends this casting choice is racist. Whitewashing is racist. End of discussion.

I’m pleased to see that the backlash was pretty much instantaneous. We’ve gotten very good at this, haven’t we? Pity Hollywood can’t seem to take the fucking hint. Of course whitewashing has always been a problem within Hollywood for decades now and it’s always been offensive, but it feels especially insulting nowadays because you’d think we’d have moved past this by now. At the very least you’d think Hollywood would pack it in for financial reasons because movies that tend to whitewash characters of colour usually bomb at the box office. Movies like Aloha, Pan, The Last Airbender, The Lone Ranger and most notably Ghost In The Shell all flopped miserably at the box office and all suffered controversy due to whitewashing. In the case of Ghost In The Shell in particular, Paramount Pictures even admitted that the reason Ghost In The Shell failed was because of the racist casting. So if whitewashing is such box office poison, why do Hollywood still do it?

Well you see that’s the problem. Whitewashing isn’t box office poison. There may be a correlation between movies whitewashing characters of colour and movies failing at the box office, but correlation does not prove causation. Ghost In The Shell is actually a rare exception. In that movie, the whitewashing and racism was so blatantly on the nose that not even the studio could deny it. Look at the other movies I mentioned. While their respective whitewashing controversies I’m sure didn’t help, the main reason they failed at the box office was because they were shit movies. They were badly written, badly directed, badly performed etc. With this in mind, it’s not hard to imagine movie studios dismissing the whitewashing complaints and claiming that these were the real reasons why their movies bombed. And the tragic thing is, they would be right. That’s the real reason why those movies bombed. The whitewashing becomes immaterial. Don’t believe me? Let’s take a look at a movie that’s undeniably racist and yet was still a box office success:

Now yes I know some of you are thinking I’m beating a dead horse at this point, but this is something that is worth repeating. Doctor Strange is without a shadow of a doubt racist. They whitewashed a prominent Asian character and completely homogenised and watered down the Asian culture the original comics took influence from and then had the fucking nerve to call it progressive. They came up with some of the most pathetic justifications for their casting and production choices. They claimed it was to appease the Chinese market, but that was proved blatantly false. They claimed it was to fix the problematic elements from the source material, but it actually made it worse because they essentially removed the race and culture from the story entirely. They even had the audacity to try and pin the blame on the fans, implying we were sexist because the Ancient One had been gender swapped, despite the fact that nobody had a problem with a woman playing the role. We just had a problem with a white woman playing the role. The gist of it was Marvel knew what they were doing was racist, and they didn’t care. And yet this movie was a success. Audiences still paid to watch it, critics still gave positive reviews for it and some even praised the casting of Tilda Swinton in the role of the Ancient One. The amount of crawling and boot licking I saw was really quite sickening.

Another good example is La La Land.

While there’s no whitewashing in La La Land, there was still some controversy due to its issue of cultural appropriation, with Ryan Gosling’s character continuously whitesplaining why jazz is so culturally important. But despite this, the movie still received critical acclaim, did very well at the box office and even won six Academy Awards. 

Now you’d think any movie that contained racist, or at least problematic, elements would automatically earn it a downgrade. Racism is bad after all. I think we can all agree on that, right? Well in the case of movies like Doctor Strange and La La Land, it seems that critics and audiences agree that racism is bad... up to a point. If a movie is bad, racism, whitewashing and cultural appropriation are just used as another excuse to tear the movie to shreds. Another stick to beat the carcass with. But if the movie happens to be good, that’s all conveniently forgotten about.

Basically what I’m saying is if you paid money to watch Doctor Strange, all of this is your fault. You contributed to its success and you effectively gave Marvel and other movie studios the encouraging pat on the back that allowed them to keep doing what they’re doing. I’m guilty of this too. I still paid to see Batman Begins even though Ra’s Al Ghul was whitewashed. I contributed to this too (I was only eleven at the time, but that’s no excuse and I apologise).

If we truly want to stamp out these kind of practices, we’ve got to start taking a zero tolerance attitude toward them. If we know a movie has whitewashed a character of colour, don’t watch that movie. Even if the movie is actually good. Because think about it. If a movie does something as morally reprehensible as whitewashing a character of colour and thus erasing that race from the story, then the movie can’t possibly be that good, can it? If we really want to stop this despicable trend of whitewashing once and for all, we have to hit the film studios where it hurts most. Their wallets.

The long and short of it is don’t watch the Hellboy reboot. Not that I was going to anyway. I couldn’t give two shits about Hellboy. But this seems like a good enough reason not to watch it as well.

[iwillsendapostcard]

The Poisoned Chalice

Read on AO3 here. 

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six]

This is is part seven of my fic for the ‘seven days of robron’ run by @robroninlove. Obviously when I saw that this is the AU day I knew I had to write a fairytale, and it is from this prompt that the whole fic was formed. I’m strangely proud of this chapter- it has definitely been my favourite one to write. After all of the drama of the past week, writing 400 odd words of one character pouring out their heart to another has been wonderfully cathartic. 

The fact that I made @robertisbisexual cry is an added bonus ;)

Summary: There is a plot to poison Prince Robert and it is up to his manservant, Aaron, to save him.

Day Seven- Favourite AU- Fairy-tale (obviously!)

He arrives back in the rooms of the court physician to see Princess Rebecca standing over a prone and pale Prince Robert.

“What are you doing!” the exclamation is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Aaron!” Princess Victoria exclaims from another corner of the room. “You made it back!”

“I did, and I have the ingredients for the antidote.”

“We may not need them; Princess Rebecca says she has another cure.”

“I’ll take them anyway,” says Paddy taking the pouch from Aaron. “Just in case Princess Rebecca’s method should fail.”

“This will work. I am sure of it,” Rebecca says from where she is standing by Robert’s still sleeping form. “There is nothing more powerful in the world than true love.”

Paddy nods at her but moves over to his work space nonetheless. Victoria, on the other hand, moves over to Rebecca.

This is his chance, Aaron realises. He could speak out now and expose Rebecca for what she is, expose the harm she has done Robert. But as he looks at her he questions if he may be wrong. He has no reason to believe Christine over her younger sister. For all he knows, everything he has been told is a lie. More than that, Christine only told him that Rebecca’s kiss would not work because she doesn’t think Robert is capable of loving anyone. What if she is wrong, and Robert really does love Rebecca?

And how could he not? She is tall and graceful and pretty. She has shining blonde hair and big expressive eyes. She is elegant and refined. She is everything he is not.

She leans down, strokes a hand through Robert’s golden locks, and presses her lips to his.

The air around him is charged with something that makes Aaron feel like a storm is coming. He half expects a thunderclap to sound when Rebecca ends the kiss.

But nothing happens.

The heavens do not open, the ground does not shake, and Prince Robert does not open his eyes.

“I don’t understand…” the Princess whispers.

“It’s all right,” says Victoria, placing her hand on Rebecca’s back in a gesture of comfort. “Aaron brought the other cure. He’ll wake up soon.”

“No! This should have worked!” Rebecca pushes away from Victoria to lean down and kiss the Prince again. Her beautiful face is cracked with worry. Her shock at her failure is almost comical.

“I don’t understand,” she says again when more of her kisses fail to work.

Aaron takes a step towards her and leans in close so that Paddy and Victoria won’t hear their conversation from where they are preparing the antidote.

“Your sister told me everything,” he says to her, quietly. “She told me what you asked of her, of what you wanted.”

“Then you know this should have worked. True love’s kiss would have awakened him.”

“You need to ask yourself, Princess, what reasons your sister could have for helping you and what she could hope to gain from harming you.”

The Princess reaches out and slaps him clean across the face. He stumbles a bit; she is too slight to have really hurt him, but she has taken him by surprise.

Paddy too as he shouts, “what’s going on?” from where he is working on the antidote.

“I will not be spoken to in this manner by a servant!” she exclaims.

“What did you say to her?”

“I said only the truth!” he retorts. “When I went to fetch the antidote, Princess Christine told me it was the Princess that had poisoned Prince Robert, and why she did it.”

“And you believe what Christine said to you?” asks Paddy.

“I do.”

Rebecca stamps her foot, “I won’t stand for this,” she says, and storms out of the room.

“Is this true?” Victoria asks once she is gone. “Did Rebecca really poison Rob?”

“It is what she told me.” Aaron confesses, “Rebecca wants Robert back, and Christine wants Rebecca accused of murder so that she can take the throne.”

“Oh, this is all such a mess!” Victoria exclaims, her voice thick with tears.

“I brought the antidote. It’s going to be fine.” Aaron reassures her. But a look in her eyes makes him doubt himself.

“We were getting desperate,” she tells him. “That’s why we listened to Rebecca when she said she had a cure. Robert… I’m so sorry, but he doesn’t have long.”

Suddenly, every thought is abandoned. He has to be by Robert’s side.

The Prince is lying exactly where Aaron left him. His skin is still pale and clammy but now his hair also seems to have greyed as if every ounce of colour and vitality has been drained from him. Robert looks so vulnerable, lying there at death’s door. Aaron daren’t reach out and touch him, afraid that his body will already feel like that of a corpse.

“How long do we have?” he asks desperately.

“We don’t know,” Victoria tells him. “Aaron, I’m so sorry!”

“No,” Aaron says. “He drank the poison to protect me. This is my fault.”

“He stubborn,” Victoria replies with a comforting squeeze of his shoulder. “He never makes anything easy.”

“How is the patient?” Paddy asks from where he is stirring together the herbs Aaron brought back.

Victoria moves to feel her brother’s brow, then presses her fingers to his wrist to take his pulse. She stands as still as a statue for a shockingly long time as Aaron feels his heart drop through the floor.

“Not good,” she eventually says. “His heart is barely beating at all.”

“Aaron, could you hold him up please?”

He nods in agreement and arranges himself so that he is sat behind Robert on the bed, the Prince’s back against his chest, his head resting on his shoulder. He wonders, briefly, if this is how Robert felt that day by the lake as he held a shivering Aaron in his arms and tried to keep him alive.

Victoria and Paddy both stand over him as they administer the potion, Paddy dropping the liquid onto the Prince’s tongue as his sister massages his throat to make his body swallow. The three of them are tense as they wait for the potion to have any effect at all.

The Prince’s body suddenly stiffens and Aaron grips onto him tighter on reflex. Then, one enormous shudder wracks through his body, shaking the Prince so violently that Aaron struggles to keep him within his arms. There is one great gasp from him, so strong that it might suck all the air from the room.

And then nothing.

The Prince’s body suddenly goes limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His head lolls on Aaron’s shoulder and he looks down to see Robert’s eyes open and staring up at him.

But there is no life in them.

“What happened!” Aaron cries out. “What do we do?”

He cannot rip his gaze from the ghastly sight of Robert’s dead eyes.

He feels Paddy and Victoria step back from him. “I’m so sorry, Aaron. We were too late.” Paddy says.

“No! There has to be something more we can do!”

Victoria touches his arm very softly. “I’m so sorry, Aaron. He’s gone.”

She reaches out and gently closes her brother’s eyes, robbing Aaron of the sight of them forever.

…

Paddy and Victoria go to inform the King and Prince Andrew about Robert’s death, leaving Aaron to guard the body.

At first, he cannot bear to be near it. The skin and bones that he once adored so much have become gruesome now that there is no longer life in them. Waiting in the room alone with the body is torture because he cannot quiet the small voice within him that asks if maybe, just maybe, there is a chance that they were wrong and some part of Robert clings to life still.

“I cannot believe you have been so foolish!” he exclaims to the empty room, for the first time letting his anger about the whole situation boil over. “You’ve thrown your life away! And for what?”

Before he knows what he is doing he finds himself at Robert’s bedside, his knees buckling under the weight of his grief.

“It should have been me that drunk the poison. You and everyone around us knows this. Why wouldn’t you just let me save you?

“Why did you have to be so stubborn? Why did you have to be so chivalrous? Why couldn’t you let me do this one thing for you?

“How am I supposed to go on now?” he continues, the words pouring out of him, “How am I supposed to live knowing that the only man I have ever loved gave his life for me? And I loved you, Robert. I loved you more than anything. And now you’re gone.”

He buries his head in Robert’s shoulder, unable to stop the sobs that now wrack his body. He’d never admitted his love aloud before, and now he does not know what to do with himself. It is like a cork has been popped from a bottle and there is nothing to do but accept that everything will come pouring out.

“I love you… I love you…” Now that he has said it he is incapable of saying anything else. “I love you, and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. What I’ll do without your smile, without your humour, without your bravery, or cleverness, or wit. How can I wake in the morning knowing that I won’t see you anymore? How can I sleep and know that I will only ever see you in my dreams? How can I move on knowing that I never had one chance to kiss you?”

Aaron is sure his face must be a mess of tears by now. There is even a wet patch on Robert’s breast where Aaron has been resting his head. Though Robert’s face is pale with death at least now there is also an air of peace about him. Perhaps, if Aaron was ignorant of what had gone before, he might have thought the Prince was only sleeping.

This is his last chance. With all the reverence of a worshiper at the altar of their god, Aaron leans down and presses his first and only kiss to Robert’s lips. It is sweet, and it lingers, but then it is gone.

When he finally moves back and looks down at Robert again, he is shocked to see Robert’s eyes open, lively, and staring right back at him.