#i lost a night or two sleep my English is atrocious

[i-ate-your-dog-srry]

Istg if I hear my father spew the N word one more time.

[lisa972kdlz]

(The French version is below)

I just realized something.

About Dreamtale. Why we're so touched by this AU, and by the twins.

I just understood why Nightmare is so popular, why he touches us, why he touches ME, even though he's NOT my favorite character compared to Dream, Ace or Error.

Because we identify with his problems?

Yes.

Because we sympathize with his backstory?

Certainly.

Because we love drama and tentacles?

... Meh, for sure.

Because Dreamtale brings an extremely interesting symbolic theme about feelings?

Indeed.

Because fandom has developed the story of the two siblings in all its forms, and we've been taken on board without really realizing it by the fan creations - comics, drawings, fan fiction - that we discover as we go along?

Absolutly.

But that doesn't explain the intensity of this emotional involvement. Why did Nightmare inspire me so much, and still do today? Because very often MAIS CHIOTTE DE SES MORTS QU'IL ME SAOULE BORDEL DE SCROGNEUGNEU?! (Untranslatable in English, sorry QwQ)

And then I realised.

"The two siblings"...

Doesn't this story remind you of another?

I don't know why, but I get the impression that NOBODY makes this obvious parallel. At least I've never seen any comparative fanart or people talking about it.

The majority of Dreamtale fans are first and foremost Undertale fans, who went through the Gameplay, Let's play's, etc. before discovering the AU's. The majority have played or watched the game and discovered the Lore. Listened to the OSTs. Enjoyed the characters.

The majority witnessed the magnificent end of the Pacifist Timeline and the ensuing burst of tears.

And who, for God's sake, has never been touched by Asriel's fate? This child who died far too soon, who never meant any harm to anyone, who died because of a bad decision, then was resurrected as a sadistic, soulless being incapable of love?

Don't you think Night looks a lot like him? And that Dream is a cross between Frisk and Chara?

Not in personality, nor necessarily in the story, but in the way they touche the audience through their shared destiny.

Two siblings who love each other dearly are brutally separated by a quarrel in which one loses his life, transformed into a powerful, emotionless demon. The other sleeps for years before waking up, lost and confused... Then they embark on an adventure with a guide, discover the world that has evolved without them, grow up, meet new people, help, save.

And this co-dependent relationship. The demon is still a child at heart. He wants to play with his sibling, even to the point of committing atrocious acts to make them stay with him, even if it means taking their soul and killing them a million times over. But nostalgia takes hold of him again. Deep in his overpowering heart, he feels all the souls of the world bound together, he feels determination of monsters and humans, the love they have for each other. It's all too much for him. He succumbs to his feelings and bursts into tears. He apologizes. The two siblings reconcile.

It's the kind of story we'd all like to give Dream and Nightmare, isn't it?

We want to save Night.

But like Asriel, it's impossible. We all know by now that Corrupted Nightmare isn't Night, don't we? It's a revelation that hits us when we search a bit on the creator's Tumblr after reading the Prologue. The story leaves us no choice: he died five hundred years ago, and that remains unchanging. There is no hope.

He has to go. Become corrupt again. He has to die again. Because that's how it must be.

Yeah yeah, we love Sans in Undertale, he's pretty cool and the Multiverse revolves around him. But as soon as we play the game, it's Asriel we're crying for. For good reason, Dreamtale, the story that most closely resembles his tragedy, is one of the most popular universes. Is that chance? Or have we all unconsciously drawn the parallel?

Now, when I listen Hopes and Dreams, Save the World, His Theme, one part of me thinks of Asriel and Chara, the other part thinks of Dream and Nightmare.

It was to save Asriel that fans started developing parallel universes. And it's to save Night that we're repeating the process.

It would have been a lot cooler to put Dream and Nightmare in Chara and Asriel's bodies, I think.

And the HELL you imagine CORRUPTED NIGHTMARE WITH THE APPEARANCE OF FULL-POWERED ASRIEL ????

Damn, I would have fan-girled instead of foe-girl on him I guess 🤔

Or for those who love big, ugly monsters, in PHOTOSHOP FLOWEY mode!

Delightfully nightmarish, I approve 👌✨!

____________________________________

Je viens de comprendre un truc.

À propos de Dreamtale. Pourquoi on est autant touché par cet AU, et par les jumeaux.

Je viens de comprendre pourquoi Nightmare est aussi populaire, pourquoi il nous touche, pourquoi il ME touche alors que POURTANT, ce n'est pas mon personnage préféré comparé à Dream, Ace ou Error.

Parce qu'on s'identifie à ses problèmes ?

Oui.

Parce qu'on compatie à sa backstory ?

Certainement.

Parce qu'on aime le drama et les tentacules ?

...Meh, à coup sûr.

Parce que Dreamtale apporte une thématique symbolique extrêmement intéressante à propos des sentiments ?

Tout à fait.

Parce que le Fandom a développé l'histoire des deux frères sous toutes les formes et que nous avons été embarqués sans trop s'en rendre compte par les créations des fans, comics, dessins, fanfictions, que nous découvrons au fur et à mesure ?

Absolument.

Mais voilà, tout ça a le bénéfice de me convaincre, mais ça n'explique toujours pas l'intensité de cette implication émotionnelle. Pourquoi Nightmare m'a autant inspirée et m'inspire encore aujourd'hui ? Alors que très souvent MAIS CHIOTTE DE SES MORTS QU'IL ME SÂOULE BORDEL DE SCROGNEUHGNEUH ?!

Et c'est là que j'ai réalisé.

"Les deux frères"...

Cette histoire ne vous en rappelle-t-elle pas une autre ?

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j'ai l'impression que PERSONNE ne fait ce parallèle pourtant évident. En tout cas je n'ai jamais vu de fanart comparatif ou de gens en parler.

La majorité des fans de Dreamtale est avant tout des fans d'Undertale, qui sont passés par le jeu travers le Gameplay, le Let's play, etc. avant de découvrir les AU's. La majorité a joué ou regardé le jeu et découvert le Lore. Écouté les OST. Apprécié les personnages.

La majorité a été témoin de la magnifique fin de la Timeline Pacifiste et de l'éclat de larmes qui en découle.

Et qui, bon sang mais qui, n'a jamais été touché par le destin d'Asriel ? Cet enfant mort bien trop tôt qui n'a jamais voulu de mal à personne, mort à cause d'une mauvaise décision, puis ressuscité en un être sadique et sans âme, incapable d'aimer ?

Vous ne trouvez pas que Night lui ressemble énormément ? Et que Dream serait le mélange de Frisk et de Chara ?

Pas dans la personnalité, ni dans l'histoire forcément, mais dans la manière dont il touche le public par leur destin commun.

Deux frères qui s'aiment énormément sont brutalement séparés par une dispute où l'un perd la vie, transformé en un démon surpuissant et dénué de sentiments. L'autre dort des années durant avant de se réveiller, perdu, confus... Puis il se lance à l'aventure en compagnie d'un guide, découvre le monde qui a évolué sans lui, grandit rencontre de nouvelles personnes, aide, sauve.

Et cette relation co-dépendante. Le démon est encore un enfant au fond de lui. Il veut jouer avec son frère, au point de commettre des actes atroces pour rester avec lui, même s'il doit s'emparer de son âme et le tuer un million de fois. Mais la nostalgie s'empare à nouveau de lui. Il sent au fond de son cœur trop puissant les âmes liées entres elles, il sent leur détermination, l'amour qu'ils ont les uns pour les autres. C'est beaucoup trop pour lui. Il succombe à ses sentiments et éclate en larmes. Il s'excuse. Les deux frères se réconcilient.

Belle histoire qu'on a tous envie de donner à Dream et Nightmare, pas vrai ?

On a envie de sauver Night.

Mais comme Asriel, c'est impossible. Nous savons tous à présent que Nightmare Corrompu n'est pas Night, n'est-ce pas ? C'est une révélation qui nous percute quand on cherche un peu sur le Tumblr de la créatrice après avoir lu le Prologue. L'histoire ne nous laisse aucun choix, il est mort il y a cinq-cents ans et cela reste immuable. Il n'y a aucun espoir.

Il doit s'en aller. Redevenir corrompu. Il doit mourir à nouveau. Parce que c'est comme ça que ça doit se passer.

Oui, on aime Sans dans Undertale, il est vachement cool et le Multivers tourne autour de lui. Mais dès qu'on joue au jeu, c'est pour Asriel qu'on pleure. Pour cause, Dreamtale, l'histoire qui ressemble le plus à sa tragédie, est l'un des univers des plus populaires. Un hasard ? Ou bien avons-nous tous fait inconsciemment le parallèle ?

Maintenant, quand j'écoute Hopes and Dreams, Save the World, His Theme, une part de moi pense à Asriel et Chara, l'autre part pense à Dream et Nightmare.

C'est pour sauver Asriel que les fans ont commencé à développer des univers parallèles. Et c'est pour sauver Night qu'on réitère le processus.

Ça aurait été vachement plus cool de mettre Dream et Nightmare dans des corps de Chara et Asriel je pense.

Et bordel vous imaginez NIGHTMARE CORROMPU AVEC LA FORME D'ASRIEL FULL-POWER ????

Ah bah j'aurais peut-être fan-girlé au lieu de foe-girler pour le coup 🤔

Ou pour ceux qui aiment les gros monstres pas beaux, en mode PHOTOSHOP FLOWEY !

Délicieusement cauchemardesque, j'approuve 👌✨!

[you-can-stay-mp3]

✎ stray kids as your classmates headcannons

masterlist | navi

the chaos. the idiocy. the lack of sleep

these hcs are also ?? so specific to my school ?? my friend and i wrote them so long ago and i figured they were pretty solid 💪💪

˗ˏˋ bang chan ˎˊ˗

↠ studies english, maths, physics and history

↠ does four a levels and has left the mortal realm

↠ for some reason you can find him in every subject department ????

↠ he only gets away with it because every teacher LOVES him

↠ he gets to keep his break in the staff fridge

↠ at lunch, he brings you out to eat

↠ always has snacks in his blazer for when jisung gets fidgety during maths

↠ chan used to be allowed in the recording rooms in music until he started bringing hyunjin

↠ he lost recording room privileges and was moved to one of the mac rooms instead

↠ i say ‘bringing’ but it’s more like hyunjin ‘followed and would not leave’

↠ takes technology classes after school for fun - he’s really good and gets a kick out of his work being used as a good example

↠ gets to keep his break in the staff fridge

↠ he’s either really great to sit beside or really annoying

↠ on one hand he’s hardworking and smart and will help you with answers and let you copy off of him on tests

↠ on the other hand when he’s in a super playful mood he will not stop poking you in the ribs for no reason

↠ his school bag is worryingly heavy

˗ˏˋ minho ˎˊ˗

↠ does triple award science and digital technology

↠ likes science :)

↠ also does four a levels but is glowing

↠ every teacher loves him??

↠ like you get away with so much shit because they see minho with you and go ‘ah this is all a misunderstanding minho wouldn’t set the bin on fire :)’

↠ minho just shows up to orchestra rehearsals sometimes like baby you don’t belong here

↠ he only turns up because he has a few friends who do it but every year for their concerts he gets roped into playing the bodhran

↠ it started in third year by mistake and every year he announces he hates doing it and just won’t this year but he always comes crawling back

↠ he always gets something to share at lunch and ends up throwing bits of it at you

↠ complains the whole time and you’d just be like ??? i didn’t ask you to get me anything???

↠ he’d tell you to shut up and eat it.

↠ chooses his snacks with you in mind

↠ always has plasters and painkillers on hand

↠ drives to school

↠ won’t give you a lift

↠ tells you to get the bus like a common wench

↠ they all come up with a random catchphrase every other week and minho is losing his mind

↠ ‘if chan says that boils my piss ONE MORE TIME-‘

˗ˏˋ changbin ˎˊ˗

↠ does physical ed, art, english and technology

↠ goes to lunch with felix but will always bring you back a snack

↠ always has a hoodie in his bag and an earphone ready for you when you’ve had a bad day

↠ has an extra tie in his bag because all of his friends are dumbasses and he KNOWS they’ll forget it at least once a week

↠ also drives to school

↠ he brings jeongin

↠ if he sees you walking to school on his way he’ll let you get in

↠ everyone steals his t-shirts purely because of the big arms and they’re comfy

↠ no more fitted shirts the world has surpassed the need for fitted shirts

↠ will always ask to copy your homework but when you ask to copy his he says no

˗ˏˋ hyunjin ˎˊ˗

↠ does history, religion and single chemistry

↠ he’s,,,, not so good at chemistry

↠ considered taking drama but realised he’d have to actually participate in productions and shows

↠ he does drama club after school instead

↠ but would never be caught dead in the department during school hours

↠ also takes technology classes after school

↠ only because his mum makes him

↠ sleeps on the bus home and often misses his spot

↠ sleeps over with whoever’s stop he wakes up closest to

↠ everyone in the group has a collection of his clothes in their houses for when he decides to do this

↠ for lunch, he always leaves his chocolate milk aside for you

↠ Does Not Know His Timetable and relies on you to tell him what class he’s in next

↠ if you’re working in the library together, he’ll try his best to be super quiet and will help you tie your hair back because he knows you can’t do it properly yourself

˗ˏˋ jisung ˎˊ˗

↠ does chemistry, maths and english

↠ no one knows why he does english but they don’t question it

↠ he sits in the back corner and throws paper balls at the back of your head and kicks your seat

↠ chan tried to stop him, he really did

↠ his subject choices are fucking atrocious

↠ he took technology but dropped it after two weeks

↠ he’s oddly good at chemistry???

↠ when you ask him a question he shrugs and says he guessed it

↠ you know he’s full of it and studies at every chance he gets

↠ he took german a few years ago and won’t shut up about it

↠ would buy lunch for himself

↠ when you ask for some he says no.

↠ don’t be fooled he pretends to be annoyed but he always planned to give you some anyway

↠ always accuses everyone of stealing his clothes when in fact it’s him who has the most of other people’s clothes

↠ chan has to call him every morning to wake him up so he won’t miss the bus

↠ makes you buy him bottles of water at all hours of the day

↠ will not stop whining if you don’t

˗ˏˋ felix ˎˊ˗

↠ does art, french and home ec

↠ ngl he goes to lunch with changbin

↠ will scrounge the snack changbin brought back for you

↠ makes up for it every friday when there was a home ec practical and he got to bake

↠ the type to push you into an open classroom door while you’re walking past

↠ HUGS ALL THE TIME

↠ like there’s always some sort of physical affection; linking pinkies, arm over your shoulder, just general poking and prodding

↠ minho has to separate you

↠ also throws paper balls at you in class but you can’t be mad because he just wants to play hangman

↠ the most active in the groupchat

↠ please turn off your notifications when you go to sleep

↠ will actually help you with your homework, but also makes sure you’re not taking everything too seriously and reminds you to enjoy yourself

˗ˏˋ seungmin ˎˊ˗

↠ does english and triple award science

↠ curses the day he chose science

↠ he hasn’t done the english homework

↠ he will call you at 4:27am to get it

↠ played cello in orchestra for a few years

↠ least active in the groupchat

↠ exclusively steals your food at lunch

↠ he used to bring his own but when he realised you were willing to share / he could just take some of your food, he just stopped

↠ will still buy a cookie and when you ask for one always says no

↠ he brings one back anyway

↠ makes you come study at the library with him because he knows you won’t do it if you’re left to your own devices

˗ˏˋ jeongin ˎˊ˗

↠ takes english, sociology and french

↠ jeongin is the only one who does choir

↠ but somehow ?? jisung is always at their concerts ???

↠ makes you bring him back lunch and then ends up stealing half of yours

↠ he shares his drinks with you if that’s any condolences

↠ he does not come to class

↠ ever

↠ always gets a ride to and from school from changbin

↠ he always calls you at the same time every night just to talk because he didn’t see you much that day :(

↠ uses his baby status to his advantage

↠ decides he’s coming to your house after school

↠ you don’t get a choice in the matter

[iwasabs]

first meeting - levi x reader

Hi everybody, this is my first post/fanfiction. I wanted to write down all the stories and scenarios that I set up in my mind, so I decided to download Tumblr since on of my closest friends suggested me to. I'm sorry for my bad English, but I'm Italian and I'm currently studying this language, so this is also a way to improve my vocabulary. if you spot any mistake, feel free to correct me.

Thanks for the attention and now let’s move on the fanfiction’s details.

𖥔 pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader

𖥔 genres: fluff

𖥔 TW: references to abuse, wounds and blood

𖥔 word count: 1.6k

𖥔 summary: you’re found in the woods by the survey corps during an expedition. you passed out after hours and hours of running, trying to escape your abusive adoptive family who lived in the underground.

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

you’ve lost count of the hours you spent laying on the ground. after a couple of hours running aimlessly and insanely fast, you started to feel dizzy and numb. since the sun was about to rise, you decided to rest a little before you started running again. little did you know you were going to faint and be unconscious for at least ten hours. 

meanwhile the survey corps was returning to the walls after an unsuccessful expedition. they killed only a couple titans and they were disappointed in themselves. captain levi felt the worst since it was his bad if mikasa got injured. “don’t worry, captain. it’s just dislocated, I’ll be fine.” she said to comfort him.

the truth is that levi was sure mikasa would be fine but he was mad at himself for getting distracted. times were tough and he was feeling worse everyday that went by. he couldn't sleep more than half an hour a night. he wasn’t feeling tired physically, but he could easily get distracted. and that’s not good if you're humanity’s strongest soldier. 

he was riding his horse beside erwin and hange, when the woman gasped and screamed so loudly erwin jumped and stopped his horse. “you psycho four-eyes want to kill us all, don’t you?” a bothered levi whispered in a low voice. “dear god!” now erwin was talking. levi was surprised by his tone, so he looked up at him. erwin got off the horse, followed by hange and the cadets. levi took his time because he wasn’t really aware of what was happening. he got off the horse too and he leaned on the animal’s side.

“levi!” erwin screamed. levi rolled his eyes and proceeded walking towards his squad. when he saw what was happening, he opened his eyes wide and he followed erwin, who was sitting on his knees near your defenseless body.

“is she... dea-” eren tried to ask, but he was immediately stopped by levi.

“shut up, brat. she just passed out.”

“what in the hell happened to her...” jean was shocked and continued to stare at your body. you were covered in bad wounds and purplish bruises.

levi carefully looked at every part of your body. he stopped for a minute to think, then he turned around, facing the cadets. “does any of you guys recognize her?” he asked, but no one seemed to know you. and how could they? your body was full of blood and your face was swollen. it was clear that you had been beaten up. 

he sighed loudly and he leaned back over you. he wrapped a hand around your neck and he slightly lifted your head up, placing it between his lap and his stomach. he started to give small taps on your cheeks, trying to wake you up, while he was holding some strands of your hair in his other hand. 

“come on, brat” he whispered in his low but strong voice. he was afraid to hurt you, so his touch was soft and gentle. you moaned feebly because you started feeling an atrocious pain in your head and you placed a hand on your temple. on the other hand, levi gasped imperceptibly because of the sound you made. he cleared his throat and he continued tapping your cheek. 

“hey, can you hear me?” everyone was slightly surprised that he didn't address you with one of his usual nicknames. it must be said that levi’s temper is famous for being... particular. he’s never been friendly or kind with others, not even with people he cared of. mean nicknames and comments were commonplace. 

Levi tried to think about what to do to wake you up, when you started moving. you turned around on your right hip, you placed your right cheek on levi’s inner thigh and your left hand grabbed his lap. you started to sigh and pant because in your head you weren’t in the woods. you were back at your house and your adoptive father was punishing you for escaping. levi raised his brows embarrassed and all the cadets widened their eyes, not knowing what was really happening. hange giggled softly.

“she seems to like you, heichou”

“shut up hange” levi rolled his eyes. he decided to try something else, so he started shaking your body. you suddenly opened your eyes and lifted your body placing your hands on levi’s thighs. you gasped loudly searching for air and you started coughing violently. you were uncomfortable on the ground, so you unconsciously sat on Levi. you calmed down and placed your head in your hands. once you noticed you were sitting on something soft, you turned around and died inside. you jumped to your feet and you stared frightened at levi, to make sure he wouldn’t try to reach you. you looked around you and you noticed you were surrounded by guys staring at you. you tried to run away, but you stumbled in the grass and fell down. erwin tried to help you but you were terrified and didn’t let him touch you.

“don’t touch me!” you screamed loudly “don’t you try to touch me!”

erwin was shocked by your reaction. “i just want to help you, I don’t wanna hurt you.” he said gently, but as he started reaching you, you stepped back.

“please stay back, please.” you cried out as tears began to stream down your face. erwin didn’t know what to do. he was about to speak, when levi stopped him with his hand.

“look, I don’t wanna hurt you. I just wanna talk to you, I'm not even going to get close to you. my name is levi, I'm the Special Operations Squad captain. this is erwin, the commander of the Survey Corps and that is squad leader hange. what’s your name?”

you wanted to answer, but you were so afraid of him and the other people around you that you couldn't make any sound leave your lips. you opened your mouth a couple of times. levi noticed that your confused gaze moved from person to person.

“guys step back” he said in a strong and linear voice.

hange and erwin didn’t hesitate and took two steps back. since the cadets weren’t leaving their places, levi cleared his throat. they looked like they just got up from a trance state and they took a couple steps back too. 

“is it ok now?” he asked you. you nodded and started to talk.

“my-” your voice cracked so you stopped talking. you took a deep breath and closed your eyes for some seconds. when you opened them, you felt ready.

“my name is Y/N”

“ok Y/N, do you remember how did you get out here?” you slightly moved your head to deny. in fact, you didn't remember how you went past the wall.

“and do you remember where you live? we could bring you there” as soon as you heard his words, you started crying and screaming again. 

“please no, don't bring me back there. I don’t want to-”

“it’s ok, Y/N. don’t worry, we aren’t going to do something you don't want. I repeat, we want to help you. can I come closer?” levi asked in a soft voice that somehow made you trust him. you allowed him to get closer to you and he sat some inches in front of you. he brought his hand to yours and you grabbed it. 

“so, Y/N. do you know who did this to you?” you nodded vigorously.

“do you want to tell me?” you didn’t want to, so you haven’t agreed to tell him.

“that’s fine, don't worry. listen, we really need to go back to the headquarters, but you can stay with us, right erwin?” levi looked at him, waiting for an answer.

“sure...” he said still shocked by how levi could handle the situation that well.

“you see, we can solve this out. is it a problem for you to ride my horse with me?”

“i-i can't ride a horse...” you said awkwardly.

“oh, don't worry. I can do that for you” he smirked at you. then he got up and he held out his hand. you grabbed it and stood on your feet. your legs where shaky, so you struggled to walk. he noticed it, so he pointed your hip with his hand. “can I?” you nodded, so he placed his hand on your hip, making a shiver run down your spine and spreading goosebumps allover your body. 

he helped you reaching his horse and than he grabbed your hips and lifted you up so you could sit on its back. he easily jumped on the horse and made sure you were comfortable.

“are you cold? your dress is pretty thin. here, take this.” he placed his jacket on your shoulders, while everybody was staring in shock.

“tch. why are you brats standing there like statues? get on your fucking horses before it’s to late to go back home.” levi started riding his horse and you automatically wrapped your arms around his stomach. when you realize what you were doing, you instantly take them off, hearing levi giggle.

“it’s ok. you have to wrap your hand around my stomach if you don't want to fall off.”

you never trusted man, but he really looked like he didn't want to hurt you, so you slowly put your hands back where they were. you suddenly felt tired, so you placed your head on his back and you closed your eyes. 

“thank you mr.captain” you said before falling asleep.

“you can call me levi.” he giggled.

[urlocal-bienbee3]

Rules: answer 20 questions and tag 10 people you wanna know better.

I was tagged by @parrlyn-4life @sixsclassic @that-gremlin-girl

Name: Abigail

Pronouns: She/Her

Nicknames: Abby, Abs 🤦🏿‍♀️, psycho, Jamaica (we're not gonna go into detail about the last two, all I'll say is that I have weird friends)

Zodiac: Leo {moon: Gemini, rising: Scorpio}

Height: 5'0"

Languages: English, German (GCSE) and learning Spanish with Duolingo

Nationality: British-Caribbean

Fave season: Summer

Favourite scent: oranges and mango

Fave colour: blue, purple and pink

Fave animal: Monkeys, lions, wolves and foxes

Fav fictional character: Tracy Beaker

Coffee, Tea or hot chocolate: Tea but I love a good cappuccino in the morning... and night.

Average sleep hours: I have no clue. Even before quarantine my sleeping schedule was atrocious, now? An average doesn't exist in my case.

Dog or Cat person: tbh, both! But ngl I like cats a bit more considering I've had a fear of dogs pretty much my whole life but now I have two dogs, Kai and Sparkles (I didn't name her).

Number of blankets: 2, sometimes 3 ����

Dream trip: London to see as many west end shows as possible, Universal Studios and Disney World... technically I've been to London many times but haven't seen any shows (I'm born there what do you expect)

Blog established: April 2017, I don't even remember getting it.

Followers: 40

Random Fact: I have a slight obsession with fire, when I say slight I mean

m a s s i v e ! !

Extra- I lost my tooth playing Stuck In The Mud in Year 2/3 (ages 6-7 in my case being born in august 🙄)

@violent-bulldog

@beetle-six

@boleynhowards

@jane-seymours

@thatboleyn-girl

@one-word-in-a-stupid-rhyme

@bookishbea

@homosixual-dumbass

@hopeless-fanatic

@thatenglishmuff

[berniesrevolution]

In Dilley, Texas, there is only one grocery store, and that grocery store is Lowes. (It is not a Lowes, like the home improvement center. It is a totally different and legally distinct store that also happens to be called Lowes.) Lowes is a place of many mysteries. I once went there to buy vegetable broth for a sick coworker, and combed the soup aisle for nearly 20 minutes before being forced to admit that no, Lowes does not carry vegetable broth. The closest thing they had was a can of something called “vegetable beef.” Lowes does, however, carry bacon-flavored pancake syrup, quite a lot of animal pheromones in spray cans (including such choice selections as “raccoon urine” and “sow in heat,” which I assume are for agricultural rather than cosmetic purposes), and a large selection of devotional candles in glass cylinders.

I had never paid much attention to the candles, but a friend of mine was in town, volunteering at the child internment camp where I work as an immigration lawyer, and he wanted to bring back a candle for some eclectic ofrenda-type situation he had set up in his D.C. apartment. He is a meticulous and thoughtful sort of person, and took a long time debating between various candidates. I had come to Lowes primarily to buy Cheez-Its, and was getting impatient. I picked up a candle at random. “How about this one?” I said.

The candle had a picture of a Little Lord Fauntleroy-type in a plumed hat and a white ruff, with a pink seashell pinned to his cloak. I glanced at the label on the back. Glorioso Santo Niño de Atocha, it said, patrón de las que están injustamente en prisión, protector de viajeros y que das la mano al que se encuentra en peligro…

I didn’t know anything about this saint at all, despite having grown up Catholic, so I looked him up on my phone. I soon discovered that he was not really a saint, per se, but a special Limited Edition version of baby Jesus. Wikpedia offered up the following backstory:

In the 13th century, Spain was under Muslim rule. The town of Atocha, now part of Madrid’s Arganzuela district, was lost to the Muslims, and many Christians there were taken prisoners as spoils of war. The Christian prisoners were not fed by the jailers, but by family members who brought them food. According to pious legend, the caliph ordered that only children under the age of 12 were permitted to bring food. Conditions became increasingly difficult for those men without small children. … Reports soon began among the people of Atocha that an unknown child under the age of twelve and dressed in pilgrim’s clothing, had begun to bring food to childless prisoners at night. The women of the town returned to Our Lady of Atocha to thank the Virgin for her intercession, and noticed that the shoes worn by the Infant Jesus were tattered and dusty. They replaced the shoes of the Infant Jesus, but these became worn again. The people of Atocha took this as a sign that it was the Infant Jesus who went out every night to help those in need.

This all got me rather excited, because I am very fond of medieval history, and regularly drive around rural Texas blasting 13th-century Spanish pilgrimage music. Who would’ve thought that a little vestige of the medieval world would turn up in my local grocery store? Secondly, what better patron for someone who works at a jail for child refugees than a child-saint who defends both travelers in peril and the unjustly imprisoned?

And that was how I first ended up buying a Holy Infant of Atocha candle for my kitchen table.

Later, when I researched the matter further, I found out that the Wikipedian history of the Holy Infant was—shockingly—likely incorrect. The medieval origin story was a post hoc invention, an attempt to give an older European pedigree to a wholly Mexican tradition. The Holy Infant’s mother, as it turns out, was an authentically medieval character: Holy Mary of Atocha appears in several of the 13th century Cantigas de Santa Maria (a.k.a. the sick beats currently blaring from my Kia Forte), mostly as a patroness of field workers. When her shrine at Atocha was selected for special favor by the Spanish monarchy in the 17th century, she was transformed from a saint of the people into an emblem of Spanish governance. It was in this capacity—as a defender of Spanish colonial might—that Mary of Atocha found her way to Mexico. Sanctuaries in her name were built in the state of Zacatecas, in Fresnillo and Plateros.

But through some obscure evolution of local devotion, it was the image of her child, the Holy Infant, that became the primary locus of worship. The Holy Infant of Atocha eventually came to be revered as a protector of ordinary people, especially of miners, travelers, and prisoners. An 1848 novena written by one Calixto Aguirre was instrumental in popularizing the cult of the Holy Infant, and the cover illustration of the printed pamphlet version was the first to show him as a pilgrim rather than a prince. Instead of a crown, a globe, and a scepter—the traditional iconography of power—he had a big hat, a food basket, and a traveler’s staff with a gourd hanging from it. The first episode of the novena tells of a legal miracle.  It begins with the tale of a poor woman by the name of Maximiana Esparza, who wanders to four different cities, seeking succor. In each city, she is imprisoned for her malas costumbres—some unspecified bad manners—and, having no family or other advocate to speak on her behalf, she languishes for years in prison in each place. At last, after being in prison a year in Durango, she prays to the Holy Infant of Atocha:

…who listened to her kindly and took her out of her captivity; for in all the time that she had lived there, there was nobody who would defend her, until the Holy Child of Atocha, dressed as a handsome youth, visited her in that prison and gave her some bread in the name of his mother, saying to her that same afternoon she would see the judge and he would take up her case, which caused no little amazement among the rector and the other inmates; and when the time arrived that the Child had named, she was set free.

Mary of Atocha, the former people’s saint, may regrettably have become more conservative in her waning years, but she nonetheless succeeded in giving the world an even more radical son. We should all be so lucky!

It’s actually pretty absurd that I knew nothing about the Holy Infant of Atocha until a few months ago. Once he was on my radar, I soon realized that he’s a pretty standard figure in Mexican and Chicanx Catholicism. But I stumbled into immigration advocacy three years ago knowing next to nothing about Latin American cultures, and even now there are huge gaps in my understanding. My Spanish, too, is still pretty atrocious. I have been working at it for three years, but it’s like speaking through a mouthful of broken glass. I muster my words with pain, and my meaning comes out all mangled. I now feel a strong affinity for all those immigrant grandparents who understand English perfectly and never learn to speak it; I am sure I would be just the same if I were ever to immigrate to a non-English-speaking country. I often feel that any bilingual person, with or without a law degree, could do most of my work a lot better than me. But I am here, so I do my best.

Sometimes I wake up in the mornings very anxious, usually when I have to draft a big court filing or an important request to the asylum office, to try and stop a detained family’s deportation. I come up with soothing little rituals to ease my transition from fretful sleep to focused work. I put on some music. I make a big pot of coffee. I light my Holy Infant of Atocha candle. It’s really because I like the way the candlelight makes me feel, not for superstitious reasons. I’m really not one for good luck charms, astrology, or premonitions. I remember that shortly after Trump first announced the family separation policy this summer—this was when I was still in Massachusetts, getting ready for my move to Texas—I was walking down a familiar street near my home, feeling very disturbed and heartsick. All of a sudden I saw a rabbit on the sidewalk a few feet ahead. It was standing quite still, and it let me walk up close. For a moment the encounter felt almost magical. Then the rabbit loped off, and where it had been, I saw two small baby bunnies lying dead on the pavement. When I bent to look, a little cloud of flies dispersed, then settled again. As omens go, that was some Roman-level bullshit. But I don’t think it was anything but coincidence.

The area of south Texas where I live now is teeming with strange sights, and sometimes everything I see feels pregnant with meaning. The drive from my apartment to the internment camp is only four minutes, but the road is always strewn with strange corpses. A dead dog or house cat is an everyday casualty; but I have also seen bodies of armadillos, bobcats, and javelinas, all mowed down by a speeding truck, or a passenger-bus of incoming detainees, or one of the heavy tankers that barrel continually to and from the nearby oilfields. No waste collection service ever disposes of the animals, so I watch their corpses bloat and distend and then disintegrate over a period of weeks. I have heard a rumor too that there are zebra on one of the ranches around here, flown in and kept in captivity so that deer-weary hunters can have something exotic to shoot. I’ve yet to see an escaped zebra lying dead by the side of the road, but give it time.

Also on the same road as the child internment camp, if you can believe it, there is a Texas state prison. It lies alongside a large ranch, and in front of the jail there’s a field of watermelons. Sometimes in the early morning, on my way into work, I see a group of prisoners in white jumpsuits and white caps, working the watermelon field. Ringed around them are three or four heavily-armed officers on horseback, in case anyone tries anything. The thing is so ludicrous it’s hard to know whether to laugh or cry. It’s as if this tiny town has been selected as a kind of roadside showcase of human cruelty.

(Continue Reading)

[gilesian]

FULL NAME.  Rupert Edmund Giles MEANING. Rupert is a German variation of Robert, began as Ruprecht before the English thought there were too many consonants in that name. Giles, however, is an Old French name meaning ‘young goat’ and I haven’t stopped laughing (thanks, behindthename.com!) NICKNAME.  Ripper, Rip, G-Man. Shan’t answer to any of that these days, what a bore. GENDER.  Male HEIGHT.  6′ AGE.  40s, the great and wonderful middle-age assuming he lives until 80, an age he doesn’t even think possible. ZODIAC. Sagittarius, will rebel and fight you for a cause. SPOKEN LANGUAGES.  Reads bunch of dead languages (Latin, Ancient Greek, Sumerian, Akkadian), reads quite a few not-dead languages (Arabic, Japanese, German), then will argue about the price of tea in English, French, and a little Spanish.

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOUR. Brown when he was young, then it gets darker as he aged but also simultaneously graying. It’s rather distressing. EYE COLOUR.  Like sunlight filtering through spring leaves. Green, okay, they’re green. Has a spot of brown on one iris, nothing special just the quirk of being human. Or is it? SKIN TONE. Garden variety white man. Will tan if he try. BODY TYPE.  Uh, bulky? Broad shoulders, thick middle, strong legs. Nothing defined, but he packs a punch and can be quite fast when he remembers to be. ACCENT. Posh RP. He isn’t the villain simply because his colour-coding dictates otherwise. Get him drunk and it swerves sideways and crashes into cockney.  VOICE. Imagine a posh bird from England who has a mild case of anxiety. Light, airy, very rarely does it go an octave below his speaking voice unless he’s very angry and wants to intimidate. Or very drunk. You know, the fall of man. Also, a pretty good singer.   DOMINANT HAND.  Left. POSTURE.  Stands tall and proud. Doesn’t look big until you stand right beside him and go woah. SCARS.  Hoo boy, here we go. Under those layers of tweed? Plenty of battle scars. Cuts here and there, burn marks, et cetera. No, he won’t tell you what those are from. Other than that he has no visible scarring save for the thin, pale marks on his fingers when Angelus broke his fingers. TATTOOS.  Mark of Eyghon on upper left bicep because he was Young and Foolish, then a classic panther’s head on his shoulder because He Young, Foolish, and Basic, shut up. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).  Probably the big nerdy cute glasses. And tweed in SoCal. WHY???

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH. Bath, Somerset. Ma insisted they went there. HOMETOWN.  London. BIRTH WEIGHT.  The certificate was lost in the fire. Okay that’s a lie, but it’s back in England and I can’t be bothered. BIRTH HEIGHT.  Ibid. MANNER OF BIRTH.  Nothing to write home about. FIRST WORDS.  "Hello!” SIBLINGS.  Mr. Giles calculated the cost of bringing up a baby in the late 50s and decided to forgo siblings. PARENTS.  Mr. and Mrs. Giles. PARENT INVOLVEMENT. They’re alright. Ever heard of projecting one’s own goals, desires, and even failures to one’s child? That.

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION. Watcher to the last known active Slayer, librarian, gentleman of leisure, lounge lizard. CURRENT RESIDENCE.  Sunnydale, the quaint little apartment, vaguely Spanish in decor. Post-series is South London. CLOSE FRIENDS.  Uh, the Scoobies. None his age, unfortunately. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.  Single and not ready to mingle. FINANCIAL STATUS.  Comfortable. DRIVER’S LICENSE. It’s probably been dead for several years and for the wrong country, but you know, no one has ever stopped to ask him for it. CRIMINAL RECORD. Somewhat uncomfortably squeaky clean.  VICES.  Can be surprisingly narrow-minded and has a tendency to wear his rose-tinted glasses a little too comfortably.

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION. Bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.  Bit more disastrous but still bi.  PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.  submissive       |       dominant     |       switch PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.  submissive       |       dominant       |       switch LIBIDO.  Uh. Laughable. If he remembers to socialize he might remember he has it but *shrug emoji* TURN ON’S. A good debate. A pretty face. Push him against a wall. TURN OFF’S.  Unsympathetic jerks in positions of power. Incompetence. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  They mostly always end in pain and destruction. So, yeah. Nothing long term. Would make a good house-husband if you let him, though.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG. Cream - Tales of Brave Ulysses / I Am Kloot - Avenue of Hope HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.   Um, cross-referencing--okay you know he was just playing to the stereotype, right? He plays guitar at the local coffee shop, exercises on the regular, and dusts his collection of records. MENTAL ILLNESSES. All un-diagnosed but mild PTSD in the form of night terrors and atrocious sleeping habit. Tapers off as he got older (and further away from Eyghon and the Council), but it’s there. PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.  Nothing that was caused by getting hit on the head repeatedly, eh? 🙂 LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED. Whole brained. Get it? Like the bread... PHOBIAS. Strong man fears none. But okay, I suppose this isn’t the realms of phobia as a complete, irrational, debilitating fear and more to the nature of his job duty. He fears death; not for himself, but for everyone else he cares about. It’s inevitable, he knows. The Council never gave two whit about the past Slayers--he wasn’t supposed to care, perhaps they’d even arranged him to perish alongside Buffy. The fact remains that he does care so he won’t stop raging against it. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.  He’s alright. He’s good at what he does and he knows it. VULNERABILITIES. Feels too much, cares too much, and is very English about it. Also a terrible glass jaw for someone who gets in physical altercation on the regular.

TAGGED BY:  @liminalchaos my one and only

TAGGING: hoo boy, any of yous feel free~

[anime-matchmaker-blog]

Hey! Could I get a match-up please? (Danganronpa and Mob Psycho 100, if it's not too much work for you ;v;) I'm a short INTP/INFP girl(5' orz) and have dark brown eyes and black hair. I'm really bad at small talk or holding a conversation generally and I keep blabbering stupid stuff (like "Do you like sprinkles? I love sprinkles."). I'm also super lazy and unathletic and have like zero stamina OTL. I'm always daydreaming and get confused quite easily. [1/3]

I also get sick super easily which is really annoying and frustrating ;;A;;!! I’m a sucker for cute and romantic things love wearing skirts and dresses

My ideal first date would be in a café talking about our interests and just enjoying each others company

It’s definitely not a bother or too much work, anon! ^^ Thanks for the request and I hope you’ll like your matches!

Your matches are…:

Mob Psycho 100 - Hanazawa Teruki

Teru was that kid who was virtually unapproachable in the beginning. Once he got a change over, he seemed like someone who may be nice, but you decide to keep your distance from him anyway. When you get caught in a bad situation, Teru comes to diffuse it, using his experience as a thug to pull you away from the tension. You thank him and as you’re about to pull away, he recognizes you from his class. You two end up walking home in awkward silence, neither of you unsure how to start a conversation. Your awkward bursts help guide the topics that arise and you end up talking to him about subjects like literature to shopping to ice cream. He isn’t as bad as a guy you thought he would be.

A day off leads you two to a popular ice cream parlor in town. This gives you the opportunity to witness Teru’s atrocious fashion sense yourself and after some ice cream, you take him to the mall to buy him new clothes. During the colder seasons, you make him a scarf and a pair of gloves since he neglected to buy those himself. Teru feels guilty for being unable to repay you and he hopes you accept payment in the form of affection. His interactions with the other girls grow less frequent and more sincere as he spends more time with you, realizing he can be himself when around you. This freedom allows him to be more affectionate and intimate for the person he truly loves.

In your downtime, the two of you can be seen out in the streets, walking around, people-watching, or sitting at a cafe and chatting for hours. Other times, you’ll be at one another’s houses enjoying each other’s company, watching movies or anime, or helping each other do homework. Teru loves it when you randomly give him a hug and he tries to do the same to you whenever possible. He also enjoys teasing you for your sense of direction and claims that you can never go anywhere without him since he can’t bear the thought of you getting lost somewhere.

It doesn’t take long for the rest of the school to label you two as an official, honest couple. There are always girls who approach you to try to scare you off, but Teru shuts them down quickly. His former followers help keep the peace among the jealous crowd while rooting for your happiness. Teru used to play around due to his popularity, but now that he’s found someone to love, he can only hope you’ll forgive him for his past actions and help him become someone he strives to be.

HagakureYasuhiro (Danganronpa): With his cheery and laidbackpersonality, it won’t be difficult at all to befriend Hiro, even with your moreintroverted nature. The two of you will get along pretty well, actually, thoughHiro might come off as intimidating at first due to his height and appearance.The fact that you’re not good at holding conversations isn’t much of a problem,at least not to Hiro, since he can get rather ridiculous himself when it comesto conversing. If you don’t shy away and actually listen to him, he’ll bereally happy about that. He wouldn’t mind the things you tend to blabbereither. Though he might be confused at first, he’ll likely roll along with you,much to the confusion of everyone else around you two. Hopefully you believehis fortune-telling is not the same as the occult, or you can prepare yourself tolistening to him explain why they’re not similar in the slightest. However, ifyou do believe that, Hiro would be genuinely happy about that. He doesn’t havemany friends (or any, if not counting Makoto and crew) so having someone thatwon’t mind his eccentricity would be a highlight in his life.

Hiro isn’t the most athletic person around either, and wouldmost likely enjoy just chilling around somewhere with you. He’d be interestedin seeing the pieces of artwork you’ve created, thinking it’s pretty cool ofyou. He isn’t as artistic of course and will praise your skills since in hiseyes, your creations look amazing. It’d catch Hiro off-guard if you were togive him something you’ve knit, especially if you let him know that you like todo that for your family and friends. As much as Hiro enjoys hanging out withyou and talking about a random assortment of topics, he didn’t think your friendshiphad gotten that deep, not that he’s complaining. Your hugs would also be asource of surprise for Hiro and the first time it happens, he’ll stiffen at thecontact, not expecting something like this. He’s never had many friends afterall, so receiving such affection is a bit foreign for him but after a few moretimes of this happening, he can say that he loves your hugs and will startreciprocating them. Your declarations of love will be processed in the sameway, though the first time he’ll be more shocked than surprised and getextremely flustered. Of course, after learning that you mean as a friend, he’llcalm down a bit more but he’ll still be quite nervous around you for a whileafterwards.

Hiro can be rather slow in the head so when he finds himselfnot feeling quite as happy as he normally feels when he hears you saying youlove him, he likely won’t be able to figure out that he has feelings for you. Hecan’t tell you this since he’s afraidof hurting your feelings so he’ll likely turn to Makoto, who’ll help him learnthat he likes you as more than a friend. Telling you this is the scary part,since what if you don’t feel the same?? He’ll try doing some fortune-telling tosee the outcome, and when it comes out positive, he decides to take the plunge.As endearing as you becoming easily confused can be, he really hopes you’ll beable to understand what he means and not take it to meaning that he loves youas a friend.

If you do accept his confession and feel the same way abouthim, Hiro would feel ecstatic but also become very flustered at the same time.What does he do now? Before he can actually think of anything, he’ll justoutright asks you what you’d like to do on a date and at hearing what yourideal first date would be, takes you out for exactly that, after asking Hinafor good café recommendations. Hiro might be a bit more awkward since this is adate, not a regular outing with you.While nothing has changed, at the same time, everything’s changed. He’s yourboyfriend now! He’ll try to act more like a gentleman but he really isn’t thatgreat at it. Hiro always thinks you’re adorable but especially today, he’llthink you’re simply gorgeous. Your clothing choices accentuates your cutenessand Hiro really can’t help but stare. He’ll attempt to do romantic things foryou but he totally lacks knowledge in that department and once again, will turnto his friends for help though both Makoto and Hina aren’t knowledgeable aboutthat either. He’ll bring you flowers sometimes and chocolates another, and evenoffer to tell you your fortune for free!

Because Hiro never really had friends, he treats those hecares for with great sincerity and that doubles for you. Your tendency to easilyget sick, as much as it frustrates you, would have Hiro worrying a lot for you.He’ll want to take care of you to the best of his ability and he’s alwaysfretting about if you have the medicine you need and if you’re getting enoughrest. Like you, Hiro can be easily scared too, especially if the topic ofghosts comes up. The perfect combination would then be the two of you in thedark, talking about ghosts. He’d try to comfort you and find the light to turnback on, or another light source so you’d be able to sleep, but once the topicof ghosts comes up, he’ll be freaking out rather badly and hurried change thetopic. This would be a rather interesting experience for you both to go throughat least, but Hiro would then adamantly tell you to never bring this up again.

[lesmauvaisesfilles]

Diary of a week

Monday 28 january 2019

Blue Monday, one last kiss and you flew away

I do not know if it's alright, these stealthy departure, too early in the morning for me to be really alert to what was happening. Your presence, which suddenly was going to disappear. To see you leaving this way. Disguise yourself in a material that ceases being visible, flees, disappears, goes away, withdraws like a snowflake that melts on the ground so quickly. I would have preferred to see your flight canceled to Vancouver. At the moment, I did not realize what was happening, in my head I claimed that you were going to get bread. A bag of baguettes. The hours passed and I did not see you coming back. I thought that in the absence we could still be surprised. In the silence maybe you did not leave earth this morning. I did not want to believe it, even though I knew it. The Belgian weather had understood it with its torrent of rain. It undoubtedly premeditated my tears in the evening.

We had signed a pact of silence the day before you left. I do not count the number of times I had a terrible desire to send you a message. I do not even know if you've arrived. If your stop over Montreal was going well. I wonder if you slept in the plane. If you deluded yourself with podcast and music same as during our flights in Europe or if you read your book, so sad today, (so my case nowaday). If the food were good and if your neighbor were pleasant.

 Before leaving home that morning, I turned off the heat and I had closed everything without saying goodbye to anyone. I knew that the apartment was going to be empty when I got home in the evening and I wanted it to be terribly cold, icy as usual before your warm welcome.

 Blue Monday had taken its place. I had tears come to my eyes as I climbed the terrible steps to catch my train. The nostalgia of this improbable morning where you accompanied me in the routine for an interview in Antwerp. That day, when you captured my face smoother than ever, the heavy and tired glance of an excess of love. 

Today, I read my book alone, at least I try, not to cry, to have something else in mind than you. I reconsidered those twenty days that seemed to me eternity. I thought I was fine, that we quickly get used to sharing, to being accompanied. Time passed quickly in living together.

It was 09:35 when I settled at my office, eyes swollen with sadness, I was incapable of anything. Sitting behind my desk I typed best memoir of all time in the google search because I was curious not to have understood the title of the book you told me about while leaving the bookstore the Sunday afternoon. Neither the author. Only that the name started with a B and that the author was French. I found le scaphandre et le papillon, and to read the title in English I think that's what you whispered in my ear. I had more than one desire. Quit work, go looking for the book since he had upset you and read it. 

Locked in between these four noisy walls, I started looking for your flight, you were over Greenland when I started to follow the live, I thought your dad would have done the same if he was not in his night at the moment of the flight. You took off 24 minutes late and I thought it was 24 sufficient minutes to change your mind. The one to stay here. Oui.

I found that the trajectory was a disgusting crescent moon, what a detour,... to go to Greenland for a "just in case" that never happened to be. Why doens't he make a straight line ? I asked that question at my dad once. I thought of all the tired people inside, hurried to be on their houses.

The office was so noisy that day, that I finally end up by putting my earphones to listen to new songs, at once the following song passed to Joji's Right Yeah, I had a retching, the feeling that make your stomach turn by seeing us again in Venice. I had to pass the song, it still evokes me too much memory. You just left and it's as if I missed you more than ever. Listen to unknown music returned me to our evening at the Jazz bar, at the time I thought I would do that more often, alone, because I loved it. Today, I realize that I will be unable to go again to a Jazz bar. That does not make sense without you.

Following Joji and the hints of nostalgia that all that evoked me, I typed in my best friend research (which is google) the memories that provoke our five senses following the discussion we had at the Italian restaurant on Friday evening. I did not find an answer to what I was looking for. "No speaking written evocation". They said that it is the sense of smell that causes the most powerful memory because it is in an area close to the brain that appeals to memory. This has nothing to do but this Monday at work. I also drank a lot of water thinking of “moisturizing” myself a lot.

I finally left at 17:51 to catch my train at 18:05 (to avoid the question or your count, its 6pm bb). On my leaving, it was still raining, as much as in the morning. Your flight was still flying and I missed you again and again. I held my tears three times on the way to the apartment. I inspired loudly when I put the key in the door lock and burst into tears knowing that I would not find you there. Hope is endless... I cried so hard that I regretted not having thought of taking an empty glass of water to show you the amount of water spilled by my body. Me, who thought to rehydrate me, it was missed. My tears reminds me a bit of your orgasms. It's sometimes surprising and powerful. I was not prepared.

I walked in the L-shaped of my apartment, contemplating the details you had left here and there, and that I would let there for a time to keep a semblance of your presence. Your worn gray sweater on the armchair, your brown coat hanging on the hanger which you preferred to exchange for another who accompanied you during the two weeks. Then there were also your short notes left and right.

I found a word in Paul Auster book, which ask about when the french fries was made for the first time? I have to admit that I had already found it the evening before when you took your shower because I was going to do the same thing. Of course what I was going to write to you was foolish. It's always bad when I have to do that ... It's short in time, it's so short and I need to think. What to write? But you are creative so it comes to you like that. I forced myself not to read it, the little word in the book. I would wait Monday.

And then in the tonight sobbing, my pc, I found the second, I opened it, and I laughed in my tears with your second question, if shallots were little onions. I looked for places to find others. I thought that the pocket of the jacket seemed logical to me, I found one there too, I even looked in my shoes. And I thought it would have been incredible if you had left me a word in the shoe. Maybe you know why already. I had found three yet. In the way you tore them, I tried to put them as in a puzzle to understand how many i would have to find. I supposed I missed two more, the first and the last one, those  who have the smooth and the corner side of a paper. 

Then on my way to eat some baguette, by chance and in an unexpected way, I came across the book bluets by Maggie Nelson, I wondered what the book was doing there and saw a piece of paper sticking out of the book. The letter could not find a better place, since it was the bluest day. I had to sit down to read it. And once again I burst into tears. I thought about our magic moments, your so special presence and this atrocious loneliness now. How could I loved it so much? In this heavy void I wondered what you had done to me. Touched in full insides. I love you. You get used to the absence, no doubt, as you get used to a presence.

I ate the risotto in one-to-one with myself. I thought of your salad that has the same flavors as to look at your smile. Tropical and amazing are perhaps the most accurate words. I made Oolong tea while eating biscuits without movie. I did not find the desire to eat chocolate. I was in my though. I wondered what you would do first, while returning in your apartment. Washing machines or smoking a little grass. Sleeping seemed to me the most valuable. I wondered if anyone would pick you up at the airport. If you would have a long talk with the person. If the softer air would make you feel good and if you felt well to return back home. I understand you now, I realize that being left is much harder. That it is on the verge of terrible.

I opened my computer to start taking these notes and realized that the screen was stuck on the movie before sunrise that we watched together in Vienna. I had not opened my pc for nine days. 

I think back to last night. The last nights together are for me the best, the strongest. I find them prettier than the “meeting again”. The last nights remind me of the whole trip to New York. With the passing of time I realize how beautiful it was because it was without past, at that time we still had nothing together to remember. This is what happens on the last days. They seems without yesterday and they are without a tomorrow. Nothing to remember excepting live, so we live, like a last day, one hundred percent and entirely. We make love one last time tenderly. We embraces gently not want to leave one another. I realize how soft your skin is. I realize that we fit well like two little spoon lost at the bottom of a cupboard. I wish that time stops and that there is never another space so far between us. Non. We do not have a train to take the next day. We have nothing to do together tomorrow. Only to leave each other with a kiss. We fall asleep naked, very close. The sleep is heavy.   You will not tell me your dreams in the morning. 

Tuesday 29 january 2019

I dreamed of an egg whose yellow would be golden.

The blue sky of the night was melting into the yellow, which foresaw a very sunny day. Tuesday morning was overwhelmingly beautiful, and taking all my time I watched the smoking chimneys on all the houses. It took me time to get out of bed, sleep was deep. I did not dream of an egg whose yellow would be golden, at least I do not think, you know me, you know that the morning when I come out of my coma everything is always vague. I never have anything to tell since my nights are black, unlike you.

I put an alarm clock hoping to remove bad habits, to get back into the swing, the one of work. After having delayed it three times, I finally manage to get out of the sheets. I had only one desire, purr like a cat, stick me against you. For no particular reason I was hanging out in the apartment, astonished to see that even in the solitude the time could go on until we passed. I was trying not to do anything, I wondered if watching boiling water was an action. I was going to prepare a tea because since your departure I tried to avoid coffee. I contemplated the disorder. I did not feel cured of your absence but I was better.

That morning I did not masturbate. I did not emphasize it in the day one but to be honest I did my little thing in the morning after you left. No doubt you were still on the train, maybe already at the airport. I thought it was too shocking to write it to you because this sudden excitement was a tiny parenthesis of pleasure in my blue monday of sadness. I loved the idea of enjoying hard while you were still there not so far from me. By taking my underwear in the bathroom, one of your little words fell to the ground. I picked it up and I laughed a lot because your question was funny,  it was between the small size of Belgian in comparison with the tall size of Dutch people, how is that possible for neighbors ? I realized on Tuesday morning that it was very nice to stumble upon your little attentions by chance.

I went to work more optimistic than the day before, trying to concentrate hard. I forced my mind to desert your body. At noon, I had a meeting with Julie, my former colleague on the fifth floor, for a reminder, a twisted trick very complicated. At the end of five minutes she invited me into a meeting room with all the other ex-colleagues ready to brag. They ordered pizzas and Cava. I saw only the fire (i saw nothing). This brief surprise did me a lot of good. For dessert, Julie had prepared a chocolate brownie and Cindy a limoncello cake. The theme was Italy. They gave me a gift card at the Bozar museum. I was happy that on the table there was no Aperol spritz. He would have left me a very bitter taste across the throat. While writing this, I have a split-screen cinema that hangs in front of my eyes, you lying in the grass, at the edge of the water with anti pastis, a plastic cup filled with spritz in hand, we were fine. The second split-screen is you who sat on the stairs of a little Venetian bridge with a big glass of spritz in your hand, peeling an olive on the tip of a toothpick, we were really fine.

That day, I came home from work around 7pm, after eating so much, I did not find it useful to cook at home in the evening. I was still writing the first chapter of the week, accompanying my meal with an avocado, butter, bread and a glass of wine. I stared at the camera wondering when I would go to develop the pictures. I wanted to wait. Suddenly, it seemed obvious to me, I put down my fork and got up to go and see. Take it in hand. I did not understand how I did not see it earlier but I found the fifth piece of paper. I read it, superimposed it on the others, the impression of having found them all.

Settled in my bed, my reading was interrupted by a few thoughts and questions. I was wondering if you had survived both flights. If you got sick on your way home. How did you feel? If the first day at work would be hectic or if some crazy news would whistle your ears. Did you receive a phone call from your parents? Would it take you a long time to find a normal night. All in all, I opened hangout, then Facebook to see your last hours of connection. It was at one o'clock in the afternoon here, it was in the middle of your night. I wanted to make sure you were alive and well. I wanted to hear from you. I wanted to hear you, I remembered that I had two audios. I listened first. Your voice. The urge to catch you through my phone. Want to go back, down in time. Feel yesterdays. Your arrival. I tried to put the context in my head. Where and when. First night. Wake up in a beachside studio, our raucous morning voices almost unrecognizable, especially yours, your voice rocks me, you tell your dreams, it lasts, it lasts about four minutes, you laugh, you take breaks and it's incredible, the length, the details, your memory, this stifling heat in your tone. I feel the sleep reach me, yet I am on fire, it dissolves me slowly towards other country. I found myself enjoying three times to sharpen before I really flew away. I miss you. If I had to shoot the petals of a daisy now, that's for sure, it's madly.

I do not know if you know the game of Sunday afternoons pancake yourself in the sun. In trouble, our hands in the grass catches a daisy, we say I love you and we draw the petals of the flower one by one until she is naked: Je t’aime, un peu, beaucoup, passionnément, à la folie. A little, a lot, passionately, madly.

Wednesday 30 january 2019

Dans le blanc de mes vides

It was snowing hard in the morning, the roofs were covered with a thick layer of snow. I got out of bed more easily, probably because I had not woken up with an alarm. And that without that sort of waking up the mornings are precipitated.

I'm not ashamed to admit it to you but I took my first shower today since you left. My skin was so dry, eczema on my arms, I preferred to refrain from soap, water, doing my best to induce cream twice a day.

The chaos of snow drives people from work to home. The trains were empty, the trains were late. At work I am almost alone, a single colleague is present, Olivier, he must have about forty years, he looks at me, I close the first chapter of writing, he tells me that I look sad. I'm looking for excuses. I change the music. I reread and I let myself be invaded. I concentrate on the English translation. Everything gets tangled up in the days. I'm trying to organize. To put dashes in my actions to not forget anything when I come to make complete sentences. I'm afraid the reading is boring, I'm afraid you will not miss me. Maybe I'm relapsing. And if you never spoke to me again. If you felt free. Less attached. If you disappeared for real. If you decided never to come. That all this paperwork is too complicated.

My head encompassed a lot of questions. I wondered if you had fixed a day to annoy the embassy. How did you come to work this morning ? If you'd preferred walking or if you preferred calling a Uber. I thought of your foot, wondering how he was, if you had bandaged it. If you had eaten Japanese. If together we could falsify your age, remove three years. Simplify life. There are so many people on earth who do not even know in which year they were born. I wondered if there was a miracle visa. I like the idea of you as a refugee. I like the idea that you as a refugee of my neck, my belly, my mouth. My body is ready to welcome you. My mind is ready to teach you the language, the words, the expressions, the humor, the taste of certain things, the bad taste of other things, the lament, the tiring life, those things of which you never complain.

At noon, I went to the store to see if he had the book in store, the diving suit and the butterfly, I had searched for the life of the author on the internet. And the way he had written this book seemed improbable to me. I was curious to read the result. Unfortunately, the book was not on the shelf.

Tonight I drank two glasses of wine. Arms of lead to find the courage to cook, I made myself an egg, a tomato and some bread. I had nothing in particular to put forward. I finished the book in bed that I read in your company. And my heart swung between two other new book to ready, Love, etc. from Julian Barnes or Medium by Philippe Sollers. His sarcasm is killing me, I believe he's becoming one of my favorite writers. It is so far from Canadian style. It's so French. When I think about it, I tell myself that you will never be attached to French. But it is said that the opposites come together. Sad I’m not french.

Thursday 31 janvier 2019

My grey garden fade again

Grey, and yet. Such happiness to take underwear in the wardrobe and once again fall on a word. I thought it was over. You raise Lolo as a detective. I thought maybe there were four more to find. It was the case and it was better than a children's game. By coincidence, putting on my coat before leaving the house, my gaze fell on my library, on Jonathan Safran Foe's book. Standing perpendicular to the pile, I saw a piece of paper sticking out. I read the word, smile on the lips. I wish it were infinite until your next coming. Morning gray, gray I smile. Two words at once and I still want some words from you. Words from you everywhere.

I hope you prepare crazy pages, mischievous, childish questions or other things.

For example : I want you, go take your shower, I cook, you choose the film. How was the job? Today you can wear jeans. We'll be out tomorrow night. I have my period, I'm dizzy, there's a promotion on flights, what's the next trip, make love to me, you're late, I bought flowers, guess-what? , You bring back onions, It's our day without internet. Coffee time. French lesson. I hope that next time you will never have to leave me again.

My head was escaping regularly, I was overcome with frustration by the obligation of the work which filled me with a lot of despair. The gold it was, that silence that you left me. I thought I could do somethings. Ask my thoughts in writing. Make a monologue that makes no sense to anyone. Relive history as if it were the only thing I had left. To face. Relive the aberrational loneliness, the before and the after value of my existence following our encounter. Coherence. The meaning of your existence that comes to reinforce in mine. Give pictures of how we confront each other and then overlay. Coincide, coexist and get tangled.

In silence, there was my desire to return to my passion for hardcore photobooth. To draw my self-portrait which displays the days without or the days with, (after holiday, my tanning). But normally days with does not exist in photobooth. I finally objected the opportunity to see my face. My summary face was a duplicate of the Belgian sky. All grey. Slanderous looking, I realize my face is a joke in the winter, sometimes a fight. The need to shoot myself has not happened to me for six months. And if you have to make a turnover, I would say that I decreased this need without interest, for 88% in a year and a half. Love draws a line on the ego since it is the other of which I want the portrait.

My mind escaped here, sorry...

It is not credible this week of silence, that it never happened in a year. And again, I broke it with my email. It's terrible. Showing my lack puts me in a position of extreme weakness. I wonder what you feel at the bottom. If I miss you. If you see friends like me, to fill the gap. If space makes you feel good. If all this makes sense. If what lives makes sense. When you disappear it's a strange feeling it's as if you do not exist, you haunt me at once. we have never lived long together.

We live elsewhere, in sets that is foreign to us. I tell myself that if I did not see you again, these episodes would be like ephemeral dreams. I thank the photos.

Later that day.

I'm in a bar, looking for internet to write to you, I drink a glass of red wine alone, in the our bar. I tried the belga but it was complete. I'm at le petit canon,  the bar on a corner where we had smoked a cigarette sitting by the sidewalk when you came in October.

The couple next to me is tiring. I wonder if they are French (from France). They ordered a bottle of wine with some cheeses, they swelled my nostrils, terribly. you want to drown, she said, drinking her wine. I think I should listen to conversations more regularly. People are so demanding. They want to try first. In an hour I'm having dinner with Elisabeth, I feel like I have not seen her since the summer. She must tell me about her trip to Egypt and I have to tell her mine with you. I realize that I arrived in time in this bar, cause it is full. On the other hand, it is difficult to write when you have the impression that the neighbor is reading and rereading your notes. What the fuck is she doing, write so much with wine... In which magazine is it for ? I remove the brightness, I decrease the typo. I miss you Thea, this silence is strange. I wonder if we could live with it. To pretend. Live each one's life and end up in the journey. I wonder if it's absurd. If talking constantly keeps us from doing things. I can not wait for you to be there, to shoot plans on the comet without rushing. Doing activities or not without time matters. Sometimes. I wonder what you hate the most about me. If sometimes I pushed you to the end. If that pleases you. Sometimes you put me in the right place. And it's pleasant, despite my rejection, my silences because it annoys me, your reasons, my wrongs. This need so strong to tickle you to laugh at the bottom. And me who thought first I had found the last of your little word below my camera on the wednesday. Thursday gray. I was better but I still missed you. Cruelly. I forgot... but tonight i found one more of you in my perfume box.

Friday 01 February 2019

Pale pink eyes

I would say that today is pale pink, like the city of Vienna despite the green water color roofs. Probably because of Sissi's little house, the cafe a little godiche when we arrived. My inner lightness. I work from home, I breath. I thought it was an opportunity to see Simon. We talked about you, your meeting with my parents, his last weekend and his next weekend, the boys he had seen and the boys he was going to see. I told him the words that you left me in every corner of the apartment, he said I love her so much by talking about you, I told him our disagreements, your smile, my questions, our journey , your visa story, and the near future. At noon I went home, I vacuumed and I started to puzzle all the pieces of paper according to the tearing, to know how much paper was still missing, I had a hard time knowing. I looked in the microwave, the fridge, I lifted the saucers of each plant, I made the cabinets, separating each plate, the glasses, the pans, the egg box, my bags, my pockets , the bag of tea, the most unlikely places such as my dirty laundry, I was sure that there were still questions. I do not know how, my Moscow eye, perceived a slip in my tampons. I congratulated myself for that one. I added it to the rest and could puzzle everything. But I was still missing one.

Saturday 02 February 2019

A color in between

it snows again. I imagine that this day would have keep us in bed. Until noon without a doubt. Jazz goes, maybe a semblance of love under the sheets. Maybe you would have abandoned me for a weekend in Paris, London. I dream about it. This daily with moments elsewhere, meet your friends living nearby, watching you laugh, be.

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

life story part something.

Before I continue, I just wanted to give a quick apology for making an error in my previous life-story post. It was brought to my attention that it was not Britney who brought hip huggers to the scene of the late 90's, but Aaliyah RIP. Also though nobody actually sent me a message regarding this exactly, it may seem like I am picking on Britney Spears, but I really am not. She's fine. Aaliyah pants are fine. I am not an avid modern pop fan so there are a lot of things I really just do not know. I would be far more likely to know about some obscure detail about some early obscure 80's twee group than I would sometimes the most notable musicians of today.

And now. To explain my first trip to Florida.

I had never boarded a plane before. I think flying might be one of my favorite things in the world. I honestly can think of nothing better than being in the clouds looking down on everything. I don't think there has ever been a situation where I got on a plane and didn't come off that plane a better more complete human being. And to this day, if the pay was better, I was a little less of a daydreamer and more of a direct kind of person who liked facts, buttons and numbers more, and my eyesight was anything close to decent I think I would have gone to flight school, I love flying so much. We stopped at the Denver Airport, which was the biggest place I had ever been. When we got to Tampa, we had to board another plane and while that was happening, I looked out at the ocean – which I had never seen before either, and there was a cyclone out there. It was pretty wild, at least for me. I am sure local Floridians look out at the ocean casually on a daily basis and see these kinds of things. It's like when people vacation to Idaho, they often get excited about jagged rocks on the sides of canyons, and to me they are pointing out the most obvious mundane thing in the whole world.

It was also really different for me because there is a lot of culture and different skin tones that you honestly just don't see in rural Idaho. Everyone here is white, with the exception of Native Americans on occasion. There was not only people of every ethnicity, color and nationality, but the default music that played in stores was often times reggae, whereas here it's always country or Nickelback, and maybe just maybe some bad butt rock from the 80's where I come from. It was kind of eye opening for me to realize that not everywhere was Idaho.

My uncle Bob lived down in Florida. He was very rich. His job was to be one of those super attendants to super attendants for a school district in Fort Lauderdale. He had a swimming pool and a fancy motorcycle and a bunch of cars. I made the mistake of swimming one night, and he turned on the light in the pool. Suddenly, cockroaches began jumping into the swimming pool from every direction. The lizards were pretty cool however.

The air made me sick though. It was thick and murky. Idaho has very dry air that I am used to. Florida's air is like warm sticky water all around you that you can't get out of. And I am allergic to mold spores, so that was a problem. My throat swelled up and my eyes watered the whole time. Also, it was here that I learned that I have some serious issues with the ocean. I cannot be in the presence of the ocean, however fascinated I am by it, or I start to feel like I have the stomach flu, and I start to feel like I am going crazy. My father and I visited the beach. It was strange to me, but ocean beaches that are open to the public are covered with people. Idaho beaches are very easy to be alone and secluded on.

I really was enjoying myself, but then I started feeling this crazed feeling. First it felt like I was moving, and then it felt like the ground beneath me was dropping. I started crying for absolutely no reason. My father tried to ask me what was wrong and I snapped at him aggressively in a way I would never ordinarily do. This wasn't one of my typical sensitive fits I get when someone has hurt my feelings either. I really just lost my mind and had no idea what I was doing. He actually had to physically haul me off the beach as I kicked and cried. The ocean makes me crazy. I don't know why. As we drove off, I suddenly realized what had happened and I apologized. It's not that much different now that I am an adult. I was visiting the Pacific last year, and though I was able to control myself, I started getting shaky and nauseated and feeling like there was no reason to be alive, and this wasn't coming from my typical morose self. There has to be some kind of scientific backing for why this happens. I suppose I could just be that much of a landlover that even looking at the ocean makes me ill.

We went to Disney World. It was a great place if you have a million dollars to spend and are somewhat patient, but you don't want to eat there because everything is a trillion dollars and tastes like it is made out of whatever Mickey Mouse's gloves are made out of. Sadly, this is the only place I have ever heard people in real life with English accents – except maybe when I saw Richard Thompson and I am not sure, but when I saw the Arctic Monkeys, I think Alex Turner said something short once during the set.

This was also a strange visit because I hung out with my aunt Marty. I didn't really understand it back then, but she is a total racist. There are several different forms of racism naturally, and I couldn't for sure say that one was better than the last, but if I were to peg her form of racism, I would just flat out say that she was a hardcore Jim Crow racist. She was actually is just this openly vile little woman who constantly spews hatred in every which direction, but for some reason that I can only conclude leads to his own racist instincts, my uncle Bob thought it was cute for some reason for her to go on this way, and my dad would just laugh and laugh as she would go on and on with her extremely atrocious little rants. It kind of gave me a precursor to understanding the 'appeal' of Donald Trump for a lot of people. He was unabashedly hateful and racist, and people liked it because they felt like he was giving them permission to say this crap. She really seemed to randomly like me, so it confused me then, but I honestly don't think me or my siblings would have agreed to stay in a place with her. I could not sit in a room with her. She's really just that bad.

On our way to Miami we got into a car accident and we never made it there. We were in the middle of this six car pile up. I remember two girls with matching tube tops were running around upset speaking in Spanish desperately in confusion. There was this old lady that had to be taken to the hospital. My father turned his head instinctively in fear I suppose that I was not wearing my seat belt – which fortunately I was, and I have never forgotten it since because if I hadn't I would have gone flying. When he turned like this though, he permanently fucked up his neck. The super fancy old vehicle was totaled.

On our way back home a few days later, there was also some very extreme turbulence that scared me to death. We were flying over the Midwest, and the plane became very jerky. I was alerted that this was perfectly normal, and I continued to drink my ginger ale and look out the window. But it started to get more extreme. Pretty soon the entire plane was shaking and free falling. My plate of food flew off the table and women and children were crying upset. I was crying. Somehow, everything was alright, though that much turbulence was not considered to be very common. We flew out of the storm, which I heard was spread out from Indiana to North Dakota.

After Florida, life just kind of went the way it always had. Vacations don't generally fix all that much, from my experience, though I am still very glad I got to leave. I think it's very important to always have a trip planned out in the next six months. It keeps you ever hopeful for the future, and it gives you these little breaks in the monotony of what you know.

One day, I decided to play sick and skip school, presumably to get some hours in on the gameboy, get a few hours extra of sleep, eat some candy, read some chapter book about knights, princesses and dragons all that good stuff. I told my father I felt achy and nauseated. I can't say I feel too badly, but my father has always had a lot of faith that I am always telling the truth. And often times, he has good reason to believe I am, I usually am honest to a fault, am prone to oversharing and I don't just lie every time I am in a bind. I will often times rather just turn myself in. I don't believe people should lie whenever it is convenient. But this isn't to say that I don't lie. Sometimes I lie for sport. Mostly I just like to see what I can get away with. I hand select when I am dishonest, and it has to meet various requirements and the lie itself has to be somewhat satisfying. I don't think it's satisfying to lie often to make people think you are cool or to always get your way, but I have always liked to play hooky. I lied A LOT about being sick growing up, and even though most of the time it was bullshit and everyone knew that, my good old dad always believed in me. I also was always buying snacks at the local grocery store on the charge account and he never looked at the purchases that were made. He always just dutifully paid off the account every so often. To be fair here, he didn't leave any food in the house, and what would you expect a hungry preteen to do if they had a charge account at their disposal?

I was sitting in the corner on this such day, and suddenly my whole body was in the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my entire life. My lungs stopped functioning. I felt like I was breathing rocks. My head was on fire, my jaws wouldn't move. Pain was shooting down to my toes. My muscles stopped working. I tried to tell my dad what was wrong, but no words would come out. I began convulsing. I could not even scream. I was on the floor in agony. I couldn't even move my arms voluntarily. The joints had tensed up so much. I made some kind of guttural noise of some kind and had tears running down my face, and my father was trying very hard to get me to tell him what was wrong. The pain was absolutely unimaginable, and I have to this day nothing that compares to it. He picked me up off the floor, and hauled me up the stairs. I passed out from the pain, and he put me in my bed. When I woke up two hours later, I was perfectly fine somehow. My muscles worked. I could talk. I have no idea what happened. And I never found out.

My mother moved into a new home. I think she got the lump some of the divorce money at this point, and her and Germaine were starting to have disagreements. So she began renting this brand new little white house a few blocks from where Germaine lived. I had to get rid of Crom – we gave him to James's rich family. This brand new house quickly became totally disgusting and trashed. But it was here where I first got to really enjoy cable television. My dad didn't think that tv was good for kids – he's probably got a point there. It was otherwise a completely disgusting mess though, and I often had to fight and manipulate for the best places to sleep and my rights to the controller. I think after a few years of dealing with adult's bullshit, I was starting to finally figure out how to plan ahead to put myself out of harm's way and to best benefit from my situation, if even in small little ways.

My dad would always take me to my mom's very early in the morning. He had to be at work at five am, and so we had to be on the road by 4 am. He would drop me off, and the first thing I would do when I opened the door was assess just how wasted everyone had gotten while I was at my dad's. You could tell by how the place smelled, what kind of trash was in the garbage, how long the dishes had been out, along with more obvious details like what and who was sprawled over the floor. I would make a headcount of people sprawled out on the floor, and try to establish the most pleasant place for me to rest. I would find the controller. Then I would go through my mother's bedroom while she was drunk and passed out with James in the bed, and go through her pants and coats for loose change. Often times, it would be dumped all over the floor carelessly. I would also go into the bathrooms and do the same thing. If there was anyone else there I would go through their things as well, usually finding their little baggies of drugs and pipes to get to the money. I never would take anything more than a dollar bill, but the money quickly began stacking up.

I eventually had 60 dollars, and to put that into adult perspective, that's like a 1000 dollars in Renee money today. At the end of the year, I went to an arcade and I went to the circus, and completely wasted all of it – but I didn't regret it one bit. The entire experience was perfectly delightful. I took great pleasure in being able to spend carelessly. My father kept such a tight hold of his money – I one time asked him for 25 cents and he told me the family simply couldn't afford it. This coming from someone who made over 40,000 dollars a year. I wore handmedowns, and ate left overs from the worst fast food in town. I was always on the receiving end of duties and responsibilities for my younger siblings, I had no power over my life at all. The money felt even better since I had stolen it the way I had.

Everyone around me was quite unpleasant for that entire time I stayed there. It was just a gross mess, before we finally moved again. Other than watching enormous amounts of television, I remember I would spend all day waiting for the sounds of the ice cream man to come down the road. It was the point of my existence at one point in my life to lazily lay about and anticipate the sound of ice cream man music to go down my street so I could run out there and buy a plastic tasting fudgsicle.        

to be continued.

If per chance you want to know more about this project of mine, i am writing my life story down - i have never actually done this. Here are the previous parts i have written so far.

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Play Me (Skam - Chris x OC) Part 7

Pairing : Chris x OC (name’s Elin)

Synopsis : Player 1 meets Player 2. The score is tight.

Word count : 3.1k (not the last chapter)

A/N: Listen to this while reading! For the sake of me and you, from now on I will call Chris Christoffer every time he shares a scene with Chris Berg. Do you guys have any idea how exhausted I am right now??? I've been writing a chapter a day since I started Play Me while also working on the home essay I have to turn in Monday, my brain h u r t s and my hands are stiff

Warning: sexy time ahead, the usual swearing, atrociously oblivious characters who need to get some sense knocked into them

MASTERLIST

Part 6 <<<< >>>> Part 8

Pretending that nothing had happened turned out to be a lot more difficult than planned, and not because Elin wasn't good at lying or pretending, but because of that sneaky little shit Christoffer who kept winking at her when no one was looking, poking his tongue out of his mouth, biting his lips and even played footsie with her to drive her mad. At some point she kicked him and he had to pretend to choke on his water to explain his odd behavior.

“So, have you two known each other long?” Chris' dad asked, looking at Elin for an answer.

“A few months only. I only moved in this summer,” she explained.

She was good, Chris thought, she was really good. She had this smile and this whole nice girl vibe going for her, and parents in general must dig it. He didn't have the slightest idea where that came from because she never used this sugary voice with him. Was it because she didn't feel the need to sugar coat her words with him? Or was she simply being subtle about not liking him? She had to feel something though. He didn't imagine that kiss, he knew he didn't have it in himself to make this up.

“Oh? Where did you live before?” Chris' dad continued to make conversation.

“In France. I was born in Olso, then we moved to France and I wanted to come back. I was too young to remember anything from Norway so I wanted to see where I came from,” she said before digging in her plate.

“That's great! To be able to travel at such a young age. Chris has never set a foot outside of Norway, after we found out he was airsick, we stopped traveling abroad!”

“Dad,” Chris simply grumbled. “Do we really have to mention this?”

“It's fine.” Elin shrugged. “I'm seasick, and claustrophobic too. It's not like we have control over our phobias.”

“And so,” his dad resumed. “You speak French I suppose?”

“Yes, I'm fluent in French, Norwegian, English and German,” she said proudly, and Chris nearly fell of his chair. “You knew it right?” Elin directed the question at Chris.

“You left out German last time,” he said.

“That's impressive!” His dad exclaimed. “Why so many languages?”

“My mom is French, my father Norwegian, and when they met the only language they could communicate in was English. Now they are fluent in each other's language, but at the time when I was born, it wasn't yet the case. Oh and, we lived near the German border, so learning German was mandatory in my school.”

When she put it like that it made perfect sense and almost – almost – sounded easy.

“It's incredible! Your parents must be so proud of you! Are they finding their bearings in Oslo? It must be so different from France!”

At this, Elin paled. Chris had been watching her so intently that he noticed the slightest change in her expression, and upon seeing how uncomfortable the question made her, he decided to answer for her.

“Elin lives alone. Her parents stayed in France,” he stated simply, earning the attention of everyone at the table.

“And... aren't you a bit lonely?” His mom worried. It had been so long since Elin was at the end of such a motherly gaze that she would have excused herself and gone to the bathroom until she was sure she wasn't going to burst in tears if Chris hadn't once again answered for her.

“I don't leave her alone long enough for that to happen,” he joked, shooting a grin to his mom, who now understood that it was a touchy subject.

“I'm sure they miss you just as much as you do,” his father stepped in again. “Now you must tell me who taught you to play the piano, you are obviously a very gifted young person, but your performance was stunning, anyone would agree with me!”

Ensued a long conversation about Elin's musical education, and Chris completely lost interest in what was being said, so he settled for looking at her. They all finished their plates rather quickly, and Christoffer was glad to see Elin's smile reappear. He didn't participate in the conversation much. At the end, Elin was about to stand up and help his mom put away the dishes, but she told her to stay there, and that Chris would help her. He could only hope his father wouldn't say anything embarrassing to her while he was in the kitchen.

It took less than a second for his mom to say something though.

“You know you don't have to stare at her so hard, Chris? The poor girl won't vanish in thin air,” she giggled, endeared at the thought of her son being so bent on keeping someone by his side.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, immediately diving his hands in the hot water and beginning to wash the plates.

“Don't you lie to me young man! I see right through it anyway, must I remind you that I made you?”

It was always funny when parents used that phrase on their children once they were taller than them.

“She's a much better liar than you by the way!” His mom chirped, happily drying the dishes next to him. “I almost believed that story about you defending her in the street!”

“So you're telling me you knew it wasn't the truth but you let me get away with it?” He asked, puzzled.

“I wasn't going to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend, and besides, I thought it was cute that she agreed to lie for your sake.”

“She's not my girlfr-”

“Oh c'mon, Chris,” his mom said in that scolding yet affectionate voice that meant 'stop shitting me'. “Who are you trying to convince?”

*

The relativity of time never felt more tangible than that night. An eternity could have passed, the dinner had stretched to no end, despite the friendliness of Chris' family, sitting at that table and talking about music and school was not at all what either of them wanted to do. Chris was slouched on his chair like a spineless sloth and he looked like he was counting the seconds, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the wooden table. Elin tried to be polite but not to participate too actively in the conversations. It was only when Chris' mom said Anja had to go to bed that Chris jumped on the occasion to exit the dining room.

“We'll head back to my room now,” he declared, in such a way that no one had anything to say about it. It wasn't a question, for heaven's sake!

Elin nearly jumped off her chair and quickly thanked everyone for dinner and everything was delicious, good night. Chris couldn't help putting his hand in the small of her back as they walked away. She knew the way but he couldn't keep his hands off of her anymore.

“Fuck!” He groaned, almost slamming the door shut behind them before turning around and literally attacking the girl's lips. “I thought they'd never stop talking!”

All too pleased with what was happening, Elin wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back with more enthusiasm than he would have ever dreamed of. Her hand immediately traveled upward and she took a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back abruptly. Chris gasped as their lips parted, but his protested died in his throat as soon as Elin's mouth connected with it, trailing kisses from his Adam apple down to his collarbone and then she sucked gently at the spot where his neck and shoulder met. Whoever said boys weren't sensitive to neck kisses clearly didn't know what they were talking about.

Her skin was on fire where his hands touched her body, and if she didn't get rid of her clothes regardless how soft and fluffy, Elin knew she would spontaneously combust. It wasn't part of the plan to sleep with Chris initially, and the risk of someone walking in on them was significantly higher than she would like, but honestly, who cared?

She didn't realize they were moving until the back of her knees hit the bed and suddenly she fell backward, her back soon hit the mattress, with Chris lying on her making her sink further in the comforter. The sheer thought of him set every last nerve in her system ablaze, she was certain he could read it in her eyes. Elin spread her legs to help Chris ease himself on top of her and to welcome the weight of him.

When Elin released him from her tight grip, Chris dived forward and started sucking his way toward the swell of her breasts, savoring the warm, tender flesh, feeling the loud hammering of her heart against her ribcage. He was in control. He was the reason for her pulse speeding up, for her breath shortening, for her cheeks reddening. Chris growled against her skin when he couldn't move further down and his hands stopped massaging Elin's breasts in favor of slowly sneaking under her sweater and moving it up. At some point they had to stop kissing to yank it over Elin's head – a separation that lasted all too long already.

“Did you lock the door?” She eventually asked, out of pure formality. She was beyond caring.

“No,” Chris told her, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Elin liked that he didn't ask her if he should, she liked that he was into this as much as she was – it would be a fucking shame to be the only sucker in the room. This time they weren't in a rush anymore, they could take their sweet fucking time and get a feel of each other. If Chris felt confident enough to leave his door unlocked while having sex, it meant that his parents wouldn't burst in. They were both eighteen after all. They were legal and both knew what they were about. They exactly what they were about.

“Is it just me or is it exciting to know we could be found in this position any moment?” She still giggled, her hands fumbling for the bottom of Chris' pullover.

No way she wasn't getting a sight of him again. The sneak peek she got earlier wasn't nearly enough to satisfy Elin's thirst.

“Definitely not just you,” he chuckled, rising up and getting rid of his pullover, which joined Elin's cashmere sweater on the floor of his room. “You and your dirty mind!”

“I have a dirty mind!” She exclaimed in a hushed voice – no need to tempt the devil. “Right back at ya, Christoffer!”

To assert her point, Elin swept Chris' leg aside to back him lose his balance and made them roll over to be on top of him, straddling his lap in a similar way than she had before dinner.

“Ride me,” Chris demanded, not beating around the bush.

When was the last time a girl like Elin was sitting on his lap in all her topless glory, smiling down at him like she was the ruler of him? Chris couldn't even remember ever meeting a girl like Elin, period. He would be crazy to pass up this opportunity, and he rarely met girls confident and experienced enough to take matters in her own hands so he usually ended up being the one in charge of whatever happened in bed.

“Say please,” she replied, winking and biting her lip in that irresistible way that made him want to moan at the sight of it.

Her pointer finger traced random patterns on his chest with the tip of her nail, making him shiver in a way he had never experienced in his life. Her hair was wild and she had to pull it back all the time, her chest heaved and her hips rolled gently in a steady and purposely slow pace. It made things easier for her that he was wearing sweat pants and no jeans or a buckle, and before he had a chance to beg her, she stood up and rid him of them.

He was on his feet in a split second, and worked on helping Elin out of her pants as well, leaving them both in underwear. It could have been awkward for them to stand there, exposed, in the bright light of Chris' ceiling lamp, but that required a minimum acknowledgment of their surroundings. Elin and Chris were so utterly and entirely wrapped up in each other that they didn't see anything else.

“Please,” he said, stepping forward to bring down the distance between them to exactly zero.

With his hand once again resting in the small of her back and teasingly moving up and down her spine, Chris brushed his cheek against hers, whispering the word right to her ear. He felt her tremble beneath his touch, and he had to step back a little bit when she went to unclasp her bra, distractingly throwing it to the side, and-

“Fuck!” He swore, covering his mouth with his hands to muffle the curse. “You can't be serious!”

“You bet I am,” Elin purred as she stepped out of the last piece of clothing covering her.

There she stood, stark naked and still, he was the one having trouble aligning two coherent thoughts – let alone words! He raised a tentative hand, hesitating a couple centimeters above her full breasts, and Elin had to fill the gap. Chris closed his eyes at the feeling of the cold metal of the nipple piercing, swearing under his breath.

“Are you going to do something or must I do all the work?” Elin asked, knowing full well it would hurt his male pride.

Chris didn't need any more encouragements, actually, he rarely felt so turned on, if never, and there was little to no chance he would let her walk away unsatisfied. And that worked for both of them.

“Shit, Elin, it's like you're straight outta my imagination,” Chris said, abruptly pulling her in his arms, causing their chests to meet and nothing has ever felt as good as her naked body flush against him. Elin smirked at the feel of him poking against her, and her hands left his shoulders in favor of the waistline of his boxers.

“You must have really good taste then,” she chuckled, stripping him out of his underwear.

Chris lifted her up in his arms, only to unceremoniously dump her on the bed, making them both laugh and then kiss, and with their limbs tangled and their mouths trying to reach ever last square centimeter of each other's skin, they finally joined together.

Elin's mouth formed a perfect 'o' shape and a soft, lingering moan tumbled down her lips when she felt him enter her. It translated the sense of utter pleasure and satisfaction he brought her with each thrust. Long, thin red marks already barred Chris' back as Elin left her mark on him, her hands eventually settling on his neck and backside as he quickened his pace, giving her little to no time to catch her breath. Extremely aware of the fact that they had to keep things quiet, Elin buried her face in the crook of Chris' neck, her mouth open and biting, nibbling, sucking anything but releasing the scream in the back of her throat.

With every movement of his hips, her met him halfway, setting a mutually pleasurable rhythm and easily falling into harmony. But Elin hadn't forgotten about Chris' demand. After several more thrusts, Elin tipped over the edge, her orgasm triggered a series of raspy moans she couldn't possible stifle so she bit Chris' shoulder, making his grunt in both ache and pleasure.

“You make the most obscene noises!” Chris teased her, chuckled as she tried to regain her breath, her eyes still unfocused and her hair sticking to the sweat of her forehead.

Chris pushed it out of her face and captured her lips for a short kiss, because her breathing was still uneven. As soon as she regained some sense of self, Elin traded places with Chris, without ever breaking their intimate link. As he laid there, pressed into his mattress with a stunning girl sitting on him, he thought that there were worst ways to spend a Sunday night. He had a spectacular view of her tattoo, and his hands found her tender, full breasts to tease her nipples by twisting her piercings, ever so gently not to hurt her.

“Like them?” She panted, glancing down at Chris who was mesmerized by her.

She rocked her hips back and forth, their bodies meeting in such a way that he filled up every centimeter of her, and the sound of flesh slapping and heavy breaths filling the room.

“I never thought I was into this until now, but fuck, “ he grunted. “You just ruined me for any other girl!”

“Not gonna apologize,” she replied, her tongue slightly poking out of her mouth as her body rolled against him like a wave.

“Oh I know,” he laughed, throwing his head back against the pillow.

They share a few more steaming glances and caresses, and soon they were both hot messes, panting and dizzy from their high. Elin let herself crash next to Chris, her head resting on his arm. Not a sound was heard except for their breath and the ruffling of the sheets. They hadn't even unmade the bed, they simply had sex on top of the covers, with the lights on, the door unlocked. It lasted longer than either of them thought, and not a noise disturbed the quiet atmosphere in the house. For how long they stayed in this position, it was hard to tell. They were warm and content like never before. They thrived on this new bound they created through sex, and Chris more than Elin was scared to say anything that could break the spell. He had closed his eyes a few minutes ago and simply enjoyed feeling Elin's labored breath and her skin against his.

“Chris?” Elin asked after a while, when her breathing was calmer.

“Mmh?” He hummed, rolling to the side and resting his chin atop her head. She could hear his sleepiness, his eyes were closed, she knew it.

“How do you feel about round two in the shower? I don't like going to sleep all sweaty,” she said, and she could swear she felt his sudden regain of energy.

A/N: If I get reviews you get next part ;)

[alka-di-kijarr]

Disclaimer. The following part of the hunters journey was connected to my #CallOfThePharah on deviantArt in april2021. English is still not my native language, but I wish you a lot of fun reading the next adventure of Nero, Vaas and all the other hunters.

Vazemi species is a closed species. If you want to get your own, please contact me.

The winner of this design - and so the new owner is - TwistedLunatic

Hunters Journey - 019

It was the sound of a violent crack, which caught Vaas’ attention, while he was screening the surrounding area carefully. His view focused on Nero, who was riding on an ostrich-like creature.

"By the gods, ya shoulder sounds terrible."

Nero, actually trying to do some stretching exercises, just gave him a dull smile.

"Is this still from the accident with Pisces?"

"I guess so. Since the invasion I can't sleep for long or deep any more and often wake up with sore joints and muscles. But it gets better during the day, most of the time at least."

Vaas lowered his eyebrows, in grim recollection of the day when they encountered the Pisces in the iced sea of the north. And every event that followed until the very day. Being the old hunter he was, Vaas straightened his back and lifted his chin. This was not the time to fall back into this deep hole he climbed out so laborious over the past weeks. But he had to admit that he could only hope for calm winds during their expedition to the borderlands of Padunay.

The group which was following him and Nero was formed by "anyone they could spare" and unlike other expeditions, those were not the glorious heroes, the old hunters or the veteran seekers. It was a small group of 15 people, most of them were young blooded and without any experience in combating creatures. Vaas rubbed his temporal muscle.

Concerns sprouted deep inside him. It was the first time in all those years he was part of the BlackBestia-HuntingGuild, that he was unsure about which place would be safer. Inside the HQ, or on an expedition. Whatever they would find out here, it better be useful for the problems they had to fix. And Seth should get his hands on a solution to prepare for another invasion. The retired knight was sure there would follow another attack. It was just a question of time.

Behind Vaas a chattering talk became louder and louder, so the old man tilted his head in interest.

"No way! Are you telling me there were books in our own library about this dimensional thing?!"

"E-eh, yes?" Lauriel raised her arms in disbelief and the poor young man next to her lifted his hands in defence.

"How can it be we never talked about that in the tutorials? Or during the preparation meetings?"

"Nobody of you guys ever came to the lib and asked for one of those books...I guess."

The young huntress was filled with so much anger, it really surprised Vaas seeing her in this condition.

"Seth excluded those things...sometimes."

"Sometimes? How about we never had this topic on the table?!"

Vaas sighed and a few of the other new hunters joined the talk. Clara, a huntress from a small village, checked on her dual blades, while a hunter with a double-bladed axe made a grim impression.

"Maybe they did not want to make it more complicated?"

"Or they are scared." Clara raised her right eyebrow and Vaas felt as if everyone's eyes were resting on him, waiting for an answer.

The old man let his view roam the landscape they were passing through. Sand. Sand everywhere. Rock formations, huge and spiky violet-blue crystals and the burning sun above them. His ostrich companion walked relaxed, saving energy for the upcoming part of their journey.

"I don't know what ya guys want to hear from me, really..."

"The reason." For sure, the reason. He knew that. But speaking about this made it hard to even breathe.

"Please Master Vaas, tell us what happened, so we can understand and maybe help in making things better." The axe hunter caught up to Vaas and Nero, while most of the group was coming closer, so everyone could hear the retired knight.

"You must promise to me, that you won't storm Seth's office and pinpoint him after what I will tell you now." Agreeing mumbling was heard.

"It happened many, many years ago. Seth, Tahorn and I were ordered to work together. I was still a kings guard at this time, but a gigantic beast was causing a lot of trouble in the kingsland and many people lost their lives due to it. The crown of Camulada ordered us to work with the hunters, and also Tahorn, part of the crown of Peara, joined in.

It was a huge squad with over fifty hunters, swordsmen, knights and every person you could imagine that was dumb enough to confront this beast. We searched for weeks, following one track after another, but we were always behind.

It took us two months to catch the monster in the act.” Monster? No word Nero was used to hear from Vaas very often.

It was a preposterous creature, sitting on the roof of a house, which belonged to some farmers, munching on a cow between its skull-like jaws.

It was a chilling sound, you could already hear from afar. We moved closer and I spotted that another cow right-wingwas caught between his right wing claws, and one under his left foot. It was still in the middle of its lunch, not noticing us getting closer and closer, through a forest part. Seth and Tahorn were in disagreement about the further steps, but I told them, that we needed to act now, before it would finish its meal and fly off again.”

Nero could see how Vaas mimik was freezing. His mind was there, back at this place all the years ago. When another hunter wanted to raise his voice and tell Vaas to continue, Nero threw a hell of an angry view to the guy. He silenced immediately.

"What...happened then, Vaas?"

“Since our two leading stubborn kids couldn’t figure out a better plan in time, we went with a simple surrounding tactic. We spread in a circle, ready to attack from all sides at once. The basilisks (hunters with huge crossbows and shrouds) tried to fixate the monster, pinning it down and dragging it off the roof. It worked for the first part, and we could land some painful strikes. I cut both hamstrings of the creature deeply, believing it would make it hard for it to stand and fight in this condition, but…

The very moment when everyone gathered around the beast and Tahorn was ready to land a fatal blow on the head,...well, I should have listened to my guts. It hadn’t fought back at all. And I asked myself why.”

"Was it waiting for help?" Clara asked carefully from the side.

"Pff, no. This monster would not need help, even if we would be more than those fifty lost souls we were at that time. We were just so blind. But this was the moment Seth broke with everything that contains weavers and magic potential. The creature lifted its head, and you could see how its body was breaking the light, as if the dimensions were scattering right in front of us. There were other heads, screaming in anger and pain, yet the ‘real head’ remained in silence.

The heads appeared and disappeared as if it was made from aetheric fog. The legs, the back, the wings, everything transformed back and forth, back and forth, and green gas was flowing out of its jaws and its entire body, crawling over the grass. I tried to walk away, but it felt as if someone was grabbing my heart, holding me close to the scenery. One of the hunters right next to me said one word. One atrocious word….yperite.

I felt as if a lightning struck my spine. I swiftly ran towards Seth and Tahorn, grabbing the back of their coats and dragging them away as far as possible, but it was too late. I saw this….I saw this ugly grin on the face of this monster, before I heard whispering words rushing through my mind.”

Vaas fell into silence, and Nero straightened his back just realizing how silent and tense the group was right now.

“What...what did it say?”

"Burn."

"...It opened its jaws and released a giant fireball hitting the ground right in front of Tahorn and Seth, luckily its force thrust us away. Seth and Tahorn both lost their eyesight on one eye, caused by the gas they landed in with their faces. I grabbed them yet again and dragged them deeper into the woods. I..I couldn’t watch back. I couldn’t take care of those poor souls I left behind. I did as my order had been. I protected the brothers. The next thing I remembered was the moment I heard the scream of the creature while it was flying away, high above us. Trying to ease the burns I threw both of the brothers into a small creek. Ripping off my own leg pieces I kneeled beside them. We had more luck than anything else this day.

Just the sheer pressure of the fireblast was the reason why we were not burned by all the gas around us. The first explosion rapidly threw us far away, so that the exploding gas on the ground only touched us shortly. I still don’t know how we managed to survive and find a way home. I…..I should have done more. I should have gone back to the others. I heard their screams every night, for years. Melting and burning in their of armours, unable to rip them off fast enough.”

Neros heart was sinking, heavy like a shipwreck. He placed his hand on Vaas shoulder, seeing this good friend of him as old and weak as never before.

"Vass, we are with you. You are not alone. And you have done everything that was in your power at this moment." Lauriel caught up and placed her hand on Vaas hands.

"Without you, they would have been dead. And none of us would be on this trip." Vaas remained silent, his view empty, laying on the sand in front of them.

"We never caught this monster. But it got a name." he snorted. The group listened up.

"Rangakai, the Artefact." The young archivist behind them gasped, but Nero shook his head and signalled them to back off and remain silent for now. Vaas was drained and deep in his thoughts. Nero wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time he ever had talked about this.

~

The group followed the lead and by the end of the day they reached a stone formation and Nero decided to stay here for the night. Vaas was still in his thoughts, but at least he tried to organize everything and everyone. Work seemed to bring him down into reality again, yet Nero could see how the shadow of grief, despair and anger was hovering above him.

A while later the group had fed the ostrich, built up sleeping places and over a fire several small animals were cooked.

Lauriel left the ostriches after checking for any wounds or problems they might have after this long trip, but there was no way she could go to sleep or eat now. Questions were racing in her mind and there was only one person she believed could have an answer. The young man, son of a tea merchant and now the keeper of the archives, had made his place on top of the stone formation, the view fixated on the stars above them.

"May I take a seat?" the young man nearly jumped off the stone plate, before he nodded fast.

"You...the moment Vaas called us the name of the beast. Ranga…."

"Rangakai."

"Yes. You seemed as if you would know more about this creature. Can you share your knowledge with me?"

The young man seemed to hesitate, but she used her best smile on him.

"I just want to understand what made this creature so special."

"Creatures."

"Pardon?"

"Rangakai is not only one creature." He sighed and closed his notebook, causing Lauriel to feel a bit bad about asking for his time, now that he was right into crafting a new star map.

"The old,...the forbidden books,...tell that were weavers back in the old days, the days of the mad fireking, who were so eager to rise from their unpopular social standing, that they started to experiment. In this time golemantic magicians were the top tier of arcane masters, but weavers were frown upon. Y-you see, the work of a golemantic can be seen by everyone.

Some of our best weapons are a masterpiece between blacksmiths, rune smiths and golemantics. But the work of a weaver can only be seen by people who can see into the Kahoré or have a weaver potential themselves.  Both nothing you would want to tell someone back in that time. The results are intensive and often blew up the horizon of many people, leaving them in fear and despair for the works of the weaver."

The young man started to nibble on a part of his scarf. Lauriel remained silent.

"Rangakai is the product of many,...dozens of failed experiments before. They robbed children who had a beast potential and ripped them apart, just in hope to try and combine their ‘beast souls’ with the ‘soul of a human’."

"A chimaera, you mean?"

"Y-yes, basically. Or more like an abomination, conjoined with parts of other living beings who needed to die for these cruel experiments.”

"What made them fail in the first place?"

"According to a book with a title I cannot tell you - or else I might lose my own head - they failed because the emotional parts of all creatures AND the one living, which they tried to weave them onto, collapsed. Causing outbursts of anger, uncontrollable behaviour and sudden deaths."

"Unstable…"

"Exactly. Like a glass of wine, with the thinnest layer of glass you can imagine. And Gemini standing on it."

"So there was no chance this could work, and still they...made it work?"

"Sadly, yes. Many centuries later the crown of Camulada found a hidden village in the middle of the mountains, during their patrols. The village was filled with children, but not a single one was able to speak, nor did they express any feelings. The notes I found describe them as puppets. Hollow inside. To the shame of the crown, one of their own great weavers had become schismatic, joined the cult and planned to attack Camulada with this army of...beasts."

"They all were already...manipulated?" Lauriel felt a stone in her chest, her throat was dry and her hands shaky. Those things were humans? Her mind couldn’t process this.

"What did they do with the children?" The young man kept silent for a while.

"There were...rehabilitation programs, in different kinds and manners. Some tried to unweave the beasts, some tried to teach them normal human behaviour. But nothing worked. Sometimes, all out of a sudden, the kids turned into their beast-forms and went on a rampage. At the end the crown ordered to execute all of them.”

Lauriel had tears in her eyes. How could someone be so cruel? The weavers in first place. Both hunters fell into silence, before Lauriel decided to leave and see for Vaas.

"Before I go. Tell me, how did they first find out about the chimaera aspects. The dimension cracking also could be a hallucination.”

"The yperite gas. This attribute belongs to only one known creature. A Methabran-Dragon, who can only be found at the very last spot of the world. No other creature can use it, and we would know if a creature would use it anywhere on Saigon, because of its disastrous impact on the environment and people." Lauriel nodded, before she left in silence.

The young hunter stayed at his place for a little longer, watching and studying the stars.

// Holrun, the Pharaoh of the black sand. What a wonderful star formation… What a tragic story. // Now that he came to think about the pharaoh, who was killed by his own right hand, at a very young age, a very bad feeling invaded his heart. He remembered....

//… And so I - Kladan the magician - imprison you, Holrun, son of the pharaoh Nuftep -thief of the throne - into this statue.

As that no god of the underworld will ever be able to welcome your soul to the afterlife, as long as you are captured inside the beast, which I have mummified, as your grave….

A soul, weaved into the body of a creature you shall be.

Mummified for eternity.

Garnished with gold, and in the colours of the kingdom, so every mortal soul can prey to you, but nobody will ever know your real fate.

The cruel fate I have chosen for you. Chosen for the son of a throne thief.

May your suffer last eternally. //

The young man gulped, closed his notebook and laid down on the stone.

The stars remained silent.

[the-nostalgic-sentimentalist]

Seventy-two hours of favourite moments

The trip was planned in October when March felt lifetimes away. But March came and with it the holiday I was so desperately in need of.

I have never been to Spain and my Spanish is so non-existent that I was confused when the first person greeted me with “Hola”.

Upon my arrival at Barcelona-Prat I marvel at how little thought I had given to getting from the airport into the city and where the train station was from which my train would leave three hours later. Apparently I can be spontaneous and carefree once in a while, who would have thought.

I step into Spanish air and instantly like how it feels warm on my skin. I get on a bus that serves as some type of Transport into the city, I have no idea about the stops it makes on the way and which one is the most convenient for me. I have hours to kill before I need to be someplace, so why not be a bit adventurous? I befriend a mother and son who are there to explore the city. When we part ways we wish each other well.

My first encounter is with Elia who appears to be homeless living in a tent on plaza de Catalunya. He asks me for a cigarette, so I kneel down in front of his tent and roll him one. He gives me some advice on how not to get mugged. Marvellous what can be possible through non verbal communication. I ask him if I can take a picture and by that I mean I raise my camera and point at it with a quizzical look on my face. He agrees.

I can sense getting stressed. Plaza de Catalunya is packed with people and the little space that isn’t, is covered by pigeons. 

I consult a map and flee into a little winding side alley and instantly feel better. I know the rough direction of the train station and get going. It’s hotter than any day I have had so far this year.

Barcelona feels ordered in its immensity and loudness. The city is laid out in a grid - except of course it’s historic core. It makes it easier to avoid getting lost. I still do. Not badly but enough that a 3km Walk takes nearly two hours (in my defence, I was carrying a back pack with almost 2kg of chocolate). Seeing the, admittedly unsightly, station of Barcelona Sants, is like seeing a well in the desert. By that point the novelty and intrigue of the city has been replaced by sheer exhaustion and discomfort. A kingdom for a cold coke.

And then the waiting begins. After procuring sustenance and getting an idea of the station I grant myself the first cigarette in Spanish soil. It’s underwhelming but much appreciated.

All the while I am eagerly soaking up the visuals surrounding me. Slowly, my brain discovers the remote chamber where my 9th grade Spanish lessons are stored and I can cobble together “no hablo espaniol” and “muchas gracias”, with unsurpringly atrocious pronunciation. Oh well.

And then I find myself on a train across the north of Spain to reach Pamplona and when the Mediterranean comes into view through dirt dry hills my breath hikes a little. Trains have always been my favourite mode of transport and I feel instantly at home (the available plug socket helps).

It’s a long journey though and I get bored easily of reading. Eventually we reach Pamplona and my friends await. It’s seamless. There is not a shred of awkwardness, instead there is an instant burst of joy that doesn’t go away until Monday night when I bid her farewell and the unpleasant part of the trip begins. 

Fittingly, Spain plays Germany in a football friendly that night and we watch with an air of friendly competition. It ends in a draw and the trip is off to an amicable start.

There is not a minute of small talk or trivialities. We launch into nuanced discussions of our feelings about the political situation rocking Spain at the moment. I get to ask all the questions I never knew I had because I find myself in an environment that continually inspires new enquiries.

I am flabbergasted to learn about the sheer extent of the nonsensical way Spain torments it’s young people, roughly 25% of which are unemployed. The only real chance is to be the offspring of a rich family or to get one of the cushy jobs that allow for a decent life. But the process to get them is so corrupted and insane that an entire generation wastes years of their lives studying for exams they will never pass.

I struggle to comprehend this because it is so blatantly inefficient that I insist someone must see how that is not a way to run a country. I receive exasperated shrugs if agreement in response. And so day in and day out their lives are dominated by preparing themselves for tests that prove nothing and determine everything and I feel an unease Settling into my stomach that doesn’t go away - cautiously I ask about their plan B, not because I don’t think they are perfectly capable but because this system feels cruel, a psychological hunger games where to the victor go all the spoils and the rest are left wanting.

Pamplona fulfils essentially all my expectations. Narrow streets in its historic center, gorgeous buildings, a slow pace and people who look content in their corner of the universe.

We visit a local cafe and my friend explains the connections with Bask resistance/terrorism. And we have decent coffee and I ask about my friends’ girlfriends. As we continue our walk my friend asks if i am aware that Pamplona is the location of the tradition of bulls chasing men through the streets. No, I was not aware. That still happens? Yes, yes it does. Of course we visit the street famous for this spectacle and I am astonished.

The conversation never stops. There is a pleasant rhythm to it and I feel at home in the company. My request to try something distinctly Spanish is fulfilled when we have something whose name I have no hope of pronouncing. One of them is a black crispy bun that has been coloured with squid ink. It’s strange in a refreshing way. Due to its colours, one expects it to taste charred and inedible. But it is undeniably pleasant.

Later that night we run late to meet another friend who turns out has lived in Bristol at the same time as I have. I am glad the topic doesn’t come up much since Bristol still has the ability to make me burst into tears. Instead I find myself quickly engulfed in a conversation about independence with two extreme views argued passionately but politely across the table. I walk outside for a cigarette break and to allow them to discuss this in Spanish and speed up the process.

There is a frankness that surprises me. When the discussion after dinner shifts to medical problems and allergies I am taken aback by the openness. Alcohol adds a new dimension and we find ourselves later playing “Never have I ever” in a gay bar and reveal that apparently lesbians don’t mind anal sex.

It is there that I spot my future wife - a brunette Spanish girl dancing exuberantly with her hopefully gay male friend. I am mesmerised. The confidence and joy are so palpable I want to talk to her. But I don’t get the chance and go home crestfallen. 

We conduct comfortable slumber party talk when we get home and sleep in the next day. I make us lunch and feel instantly better because I was useful for the first time in days. Receiving so much care and kindness is almost unsettling and I am 100% neither used to it nor mad about it.

I stare out the window during the Majority of the train ride back to Barcelona and take some of my favourite photographs while Andrea Gibson’s voice is blessing me with spoken word poetry that makes my heart heavy.

Finally, I meet my friend’s lady, her person, and I don’t have any doubt that one day, I’ll get on a plane to attend their wedding. We eat at a Japanese restaurant and I get the chance to try Wagyu beef. It’s delicious but not crazy over the top. My fried noodles with vegetables and seafood can easily compete. We get lost in a discussion on what constitutes a good person and the opinions diverge wildly. It’s invigorating. I don’t remember the last time I was that present, that engaged, that stimulated by a conversation. It may have helped that my phone was dead at that point. Not that I would have been seriously tempted to use it. The minutes are too precious. Plus, I told everyone I was going to drop off the scene for a bit. And for most that is indeed what I did. Except the woman whose bed I will find myself in tonight and whose souvenirs received the most thought.

We move to a different location to grab another drink and take a table in a medium sized square in one of Barcelona’s key independence neighbourhoods. It is late but the helicopters are still circling above us. After the arrest of Charles Puigdemont in Germany (not far from where I live) protests have shaken the city. On the way to our sleeping quarters for the night my friend and I steal one of the yellow pieces of plastic that are tied around trees everywhere to signal support for the independence movement.

Were this North Korea, I’d be arrested and sentenced to labour camp like Otto Warmbier. I am struck by my own privilege because nothing like that will happen. And I am right. It is safely stored in my backpack and I have yet to decide what to do with it. 

Monday begins semi early with breakfast at one of my friend’s favourite places. The waitress Ari speaks wonderful English and when my friend goes to the loo I get revenge for her having paid essentially for every meal. I tell the waitress that I need to win this round and she delights in the chance to help me. I tip her enough, I think. Throughout breakfast I am giddy at the thought of my friends face when she realises that I have bested her on this occasion. And I am not disappointed. When we approach the till she says “are we going to fight about it” and I just grin as Ari informs my friend that “eres tardes”. Victory is mine.

We take the bus up to a beautiful park and I sit next to an American ginger girl who rejects me hard. Despite her mum’s insistence that her daughter is usually talkative with strangers my attempts at making conversation are shut down resolutely. Despite wearing an Alex Morgan jersey the six year old pretends she isn’t sure who her favourite player is. Right. Okay. We learn that they are from Los Angeles and will be staying in Spain for ten days. Well, fair enough, enjoy, I think, still sulking a bit about my apparent lack of game with elementary schoolers. Oh well. The weather and company make it hard to dwell on that long. She wasn’t exactly my type - two decades too young and wrong hair colour.

The view is completely breathtaking but the abundance of other tourists annoys me. We talk about politics and climate change and education. 

I vibrate with joy that I have a friend like that. That this is my life. We get lost on our way to the cathedral and find a t shirt store. At the beginning of the trip I had expressed a desire to purchase something I could still use in my every day life, like a t shirt. But it wasn’t allowed to be overtly tourist-y. If I had been asked to dream up the perfect tut shirt place to accomplish this task, I would have fallen short of the one we stumbled upon.

A bus ride later we grab lunch, change into our new garments and I discover with fury that entrance to the cathedral requires a 7€ fee. I think not.

To the beach, I say, fuming.

And there my feet finally touch the Mediterranean sea and it might as well have been heaven. If it weren’t for the the people constantly walking around trying to sell cocktails, beer, water, blankets, or even massages. No gracias becomes a mantra on loop and after a while I have soured on the place because it’s getting too much.

We take the metro to reach El-Prat where my friend’s friend lives who will put me up for the night because she lives incredibly close to the airport. And has a spare room.

There is a little trophy on the shelf in the dimly lit living room honouring her as the most regular player on the team. It dates back to 2003/2004. The edges of my heart vibrate as if preparing to shatter.

They cook rice with chicken while I repack. We pour tomato sauce over it for flavour and I am perfectly content. I am a nervous traveller and if I were Spanish inclined I would describe the gastro-intestinal problems that ensue when the nervousness takes over, but I am not so I won’t.

The room I am being put up in is cozy but feels out of place in a house of a 32 year old without her own children. There’s stuffed animals and tons of video games. The bed covers are tucked in neatly and tightly and I sleep decently, snuggled in place.

Barcelona at 6:30 am from the air looks like someone spilled the box with Christmas lights on the floor and they all lit up at the same time. Peaceful.

I reminisce on the realisation that I am adult. That I have arrived in this chapter of my life where I can talk about sex, life, philosophy, politics and feelings without sounding pretentious (I think). But the greatest gift is the realisation that I have chosen wisely. That one of the people I believed would be worth the investment of my effort has proven to be so. Privilege and gratitude flood my blood stream like drugs that leave me elated and high on life.

It’s been a good weekend and this will be a good life.

[jakbodner-blog]

Epic Bus!

October 17

I usually wait to write about a place until after I've been through the area. This bus ride must be written about or the next post would be way to long!

As Davis and I were ushered to the back of the bus to sleep in four large beds that were already occupied by three French men. Five large men in four beds was the most uncomfortable bus I have been on... or so I thought. As the bus twisted and turned raised and fell we all toppled into one another all night. Another sleepless night until some people left giving us free room for three hrs before changing buses.

We arrived at a bus station to be shuttled to another bus. As was explained to us. This small "shuttle" bus was our bus for 16 hours and through the Loa border. The morning started with loading the bus full of beer, newly plucked eggs, car parts, and glass window panes to ensure we had no leg room. Elbow to elbow with locals we debarked to the border.

As we reach the border we stopped a few times to unload a few small things. Looking in my wallet I realized I may not get through the border due to lack of funds. It wasn't an asspect of being unprepared as much of the scams we could get ride of. $3 American fee for first time Loas travelers was the unexpected unavoidable scam. Davis was first to cross and was pulled aside once a man called saying I'm taking your temperature I tried yelling to warn him it was a scam. Unfortunately I was not loud enough.

As he was pulled in to a small room I walked past. One very short very agitated man came running out yelling at me for my passport. I complied by showing it to him. He then said I need a temperature test I disagreed. He then came running out, after the border security had looked over my visa, and tried taking my passport. He insisted I could not go to Loas with out the temperature check. I laughed as I said "You don't need to take my temperature, and your not getting my passport!" The man be a,e aggressive reaching for my passport insisting in broken English and glaring and me that I must give it to him. After a few quick sidestep spins I dodge him and said he won't get my passport. The man angry grabbed my arm and threw me across the border threshold. Well attempted I was a little to heavy so he pushed my arm really. Davis had to pay the equivalent of fifty cents which isn't much but the principle!!

In my lost post of Sapa I forgot to mention Davis warning me of a village tax. Another scam I was drawn into because my taxi driver wouldn't move and the scammer stood in front of the car. In retro spect I could have just gotten out of the cab and walked and ignored the "village" guard but I was alone and a little nervous so I paid. As a traveler you get scammed and you avoid them. Keep your wits and know the popular scams.

As we continued this crazy windy bus ride we picked up locals. Three differ t people threw up most of the ride. The stench of new eggs not even washed or cooled and then the smell of vomit was almost over powerringnhead spinning from the road as well as the smells was just atrocious! As we ventured further and further we realized our bus ride was going to be much longer!

At 630, 24 hours after our departure time we weren't even close to our destination and most of the material still on the bus. Another Canadian couple from Toronto were in the same situation as us. This bus ride would be bad!!

A few other travelers were dropped off at the bus station to wait for an hour to get the bus to their destination but weren't happy to comply. Being left in the middle of the mountains and bad communications skills when both parties speak very little English it's a bad recipe. I hope it all went well for them. They stood in front of our bus to try and ensure that they wouldn't be left at night in an unknown place. It. A,es sense but our bus drivers were pissed after that and drive like a maniac. We ended up stopping to unload and had some beer with two local men. On their bill to our astonishment! Not eating enough and fearing the windy roads we had a beer to not be rude as well as aiding our last few hours of sleep before we arrived at 12 to the bus station in Luong Prabang. 24 hour bus turned to 30.5 hrs long.

Exhausted we ventured to find a hotel and succeeded. Not actual dinner, tired and thirsty we passed out after a long overdue shower.

It doesn't matter how bad a situation there is always something that will make you smile! For me it's the generosity of the locals and their ability to keep smiling. Let's see what Luong Prabang holds for us!

[dream-love210]

In 1933, Prince Charles was eighteen and Disa, Duchess of Payn, five. The allusion is to Nice (see also line 240) where the Shades spent the first part of the year; but here again, as in regard to so many fascinating facets of my friend’s past life, I am not in the possession of particulars (who is to blame, dear S.S?) and not in the position to say whether or not, in the course of possible excursions along the coast, they ever reached Cap Turc and glimpsed from an oleander-lined lane, usually open to tourists, the Italianate villa built by Queen Disa’s grandfather in 1908, and called then Villa Paradiso, or in Zemblan Villa Paradisa, later to forego the first half of its name in honor of his favorite granddaughter. There she spent the first fifteen summers of her life; thither did she return in 1953, “for reasons of health” (as impressed on the nation) but really, a banished queen; and there she still dwells.

When the Zemblan Revolution broke out (May 1, 1958), she wrote the King a wild letter in governess English, urging him to come and stay with her until the situation cleared up. The letter was intercepted by the Onhava police…

Eventually he managed to inform her that he was confined to the palace. Valiant Disa hurriedly left the Riviera and made a romantic but fortunately ineffectual attempt to return to Zembla…She flew back to her perch in a mood of frustration and fury (mainly, I think, because the message had been conveyed to her by a cousin of hers, good old Curdy Buff, whom she loathed). Several weeks passed and she was soon in a state of worse agitation owing to rumors that her husband might be condemned to death. She left Cap Turc again. She had traveled to Brussels and chartered a plane to fly north, when another message, this time from Odon, came, saying that the King and he were out of Zembla, and that she should quietly regain Villa Disa and await her further news. In the autumn of the same year she was informed by Lavender that a man representing her husband would be coming to discuss with her certain business matters concerning property she and her husband jointly owned abroad. She was in the act of writing a letter...She looked up--and of course no dark spectacles and make-up could for a moment fool her.

Since her final departure from Zembla he had visited her twice, the last time two years before, and during that lapse of time her pale-skin, dark-hair beauty had acquired a new, mature and melancholy glow. In Zembla, where most females are freckled blondes, we have the saying: belwif ivurkumpf wid snew ebanumf, “A beautiful woman should be like a compass rose of ivory with four parts of ebony.” And this was the trim scheme nature had followed in Disa’s case. There was something else, something I was to realize only when I read Pale Fire, or rather reread it after bitter hot mist of disappointment had cleared before my eyes. I am thinking of lines 261-267 in which Shade describes his wife. At the moment of his painting that poetical portrait, the sitter was twice the age of Queen Disa. I do not wish to be vulgar in dealing with these delicate matters but the fact remains that sixty-year-old Shade is lending her a well-conserved coeval the ethereal and eternal aspect she retains, or should retain, in his kind noble heart. Now the curious thing about it is that Disa at thirty, when last seen in September 1958, bore a singular resemblance not, of course, to Mrs. Shade as she was when I met her, but to the idealized and stylized picture painted by the poet in those lines of Pale Fire… I trust the reader appreciates the strangeness of this, because if he does not, there is no sense in writing poems, or notes to poems, or anything at all.

She seemed also calmer than before; her self-control had improved. During the previous meetings, and throughout their marital life in Zembla, there had been, on her part, dreadful outbursts of temper. When in the first years of marriage he had wished to cope with those blazes and blasts, trying to make her take a rational view of her misfortune, he had found them very annoying; but gradually he learned to take advantage of them and welcomed them as giving him opportunity of getting rid of her presence for lengthening periods of time by not calling her back after a sequence of doors had slammed ever more distantly, or by leaving the palace himself for some rural hideout.

In the beginning of their calamitous marriage he had strenuously tried to possess her but to no avail. He informed her he had never made love before (which was perfectly true insofar as the implied object would only mean one thing to her), upon which he was forced to endure the ridicule of having her dutiful purity involuntarily enact the ways of a courtesan with a client too young or too old; he said something to that effect (mainly to relieve the ordeal), and she made an atrocious scene. He farced himself with aphrodisiacs, but the anterior characters of her unfortunate sex kept fatally putting him off. One night when he tried tiger tea, and hopes rose high, he made the mistake of begging her to comply with an expedient which she made the mistake of denouncing as unnatural and disgusting. Finally he told her than an old riding accident was incapacitating him but that a cruise with his pals and a lot of sea bathing would be sure to restore his strength.

She had recently lost both parents and had no real friend to turn to for explanation and advice when the inevitable rumors reached her; these she was too proud to discuss with her ladies in waiting but she read books, found out all about our manly Zemblan customs, and concealed her naive distress under a great show of sarcastic sophistication. He congratulated her on her attitude, solemnly swearing that he had given up, or at least would give up, the practices of his youth; but everywhere along the road powerful temptations stood at attention. He succombed to them from time to time, then every other day, then several times daily--especially during the robust regime of Harfar Baron of Shalksbore...Curdy Buff--as Harfar was nicknamed by his admirers--had a huge escort of acrobats and bareback riders, and the whole affair rather got out of hand so that Disa, upon unexpectedly returning from a trip to Sweden, found the Palace transformed into a circus. He again promised, again fell, and despite the utmost discretion was again caught…

What had the sentiments he entertained in regard to Disa ever amounted to? Friendly indifference and bleak respect. Not even in the first bloom of their marriage had he felt any tenderness or excitement. Of pity, of heartache, there could be no question. He was, had always been, casual and heartless. But the heart of this dreaming self, both before and after the rupture, made extraordinary amends.

He dreamed of her more often, and with incomparably more poignancy, than his surface-life feelings for her warranted; these dreams occurred when he least thought of her, and worries in no way connected with her assumed her image in the subliminal world as a battle or a reform becomes a bird of wonder in a tale for children. These heart-rendering dreams transformed the drab prose of his feelings for her into a strong and strange poetry, subsiding undulations of which would flash and disturb him throughout the day, bringing back the pang and the richness--and then only the pang, and then only its glancing reflection--but not affecting at all his attitude towards the real Disa.

Her image, as she entered and re-entered his sleep, rising apprehensively from a distant sofa or going in search of the messenger who, they said, had just passed through the draperies, took into account changes of fashion; the Disa wearing the dress he had seen on her the summer of the Glass Works explosion, or last Sunday, or in any other antechamber of time, forever remained exactly as she looked on the day he had first sold her he did not love her. That happened during a hopeless trip to Italy, in a lakeside hotel garden--rose, black araucarius, rusty, greenish hydrangeas--one cloudless evening with the mountains of the far shore swimming in a sunset haze and the lake all peach syrup regularly rippled with pale blue, and the captions of a newspaper spread flat on the foul bottom near the stone bank perfectly readable through the shallow diaphanous filth, and because, upon hearing him out, she sank down on the lawn in an impossible posture, examining a grass culm and frowning, he had taken his words back at once; but the shock had fatally starred the mirror, and thenceforth in his dreams her image was infected with the memory of that confession as with some disease or the secret aftereffects of a surgical operation too intimate to be mentioned.

The gist, rather than the actual plot of the dream, was a constant refutation of his not loving her. His dream-love for her exceeded in emotional tone, in spiritual passion and depth, anything he had experienced in his surface existence. This love was like an endless wringing of hands, like a blundering of the soul through an infinite maze of hopelessness and remorse. They were, in a sense, amorous dreams, for they were permeated with tenderness, with a longing to sink his head onto her lap and sob away the monstrous past. They brimmed with the awful awareness of her being so young and so helpless. They were purer than his life. What carnal aura there was in theme came not from her but from those with whom he betrayed her--prickly-chinned Phrynia, pretty Timandra with that boom under her apron--and even so the sexual scum remained somewhere far above the sunken treasure and was quite unimportant. He would see her being accosted by a misty relative so distant as to be practically featureless. She would quickly hide what she held and extend her arched hand to be kissed. He knew she had just come across a telltale object--a riding boot in his bed--establishing beyond any doubt his unfaithfulness. Sweat beaded her pale, naked forehead--but she had to listen to the prattle of a chance visitor or direct the movements of a workman with a ladder who was nodding his head and looking up as he carried it in his arms to the broken window. One might bear--a strong merciless dreamer might bear--the knowledge of her grief and pride but none could bear the sight of her automatic smile as she turned from the agony of the disclosure to the polite trivialities required of her. She would be canceling an illumination, or discussing hospital cots with the head nurse, or merely ordering breakfast for two in the sea cave--and through the everyday plainness of the talk, through the play of the charming gestures with which she always accompanied certain readymade phrases, he, the groaning dreamer, perceived the disarray of her soul and was aware that an odious, undeserved, humiliating disaster had befallen her, and that only obligations of etiquette and her staunch kindness to a guiltless third party gave her the force to smile. As one watched the light on her face, one foresaw it would fade in a moment, to be replaced--as soon as the visitor left--by that impossible little frown the dreamer could never forget. He would help her again to her feet on the same lakeside lawn, with parts of the lake fitting themselves into the spaces between the rising balusters, and presently he and she would be walking side by side along an anonymous alley, and he would feel she was looking at him out of the corner of a faint smile but when he forced himself to confront that questioning glimmer, she was no longer there. Everything had changed, everybody was happy. And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an American businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.

No such qualms disturbed him as he sat now on the terrace of her villa and recounted his lucky escape from the Palace. She enjoyed his description of the underground link with the theater and tried to visualize the jolly scramble across the mountains… But when he began to discuss the political situation (two Soviet generals had just been attached to the Extremist government as Foreign Advisers), a familiar vacant expression appeared in her eyes. Now that he was safely out of the country, the entire blue bulk of Zembla, from Embla Point to the Emblem Bay, could sink in the sea for all she cared.) That he had lost weight was of more concern to her than that he had lost a kingdom. Perfunctorily she inquired about the crown jewels; he revealed to her their unusual hiding place, and she melted in girlish mirth as she had not done for years and years. “I do have some business matters to discuss,” he said. “And there are papers you have to sign.” Up in the trellis a telephone climbed with the rose. One of her former ladies in waiting, the languid and elegant Fleur de Fyler (now fortyish and faded), still wearing pearls in her raven hair and the traditional white manilla, brought certain documents from Disa’s boudoir. Upon hearing the King’s mellow voice behind the laurels, Fleur recognized it before she could be misled by this excellent disguise. Two footmen, handsome young strangers of a marked Latin type, appeared with the tea and caught Fleur in mid-curtsey. A sudden breeze groped among the glycenes. Defiler of flowers. He asked Fleur as she turned to go with the Disa orchids if she still played the viola. She shook her head several times not wishing to speak without addressing him and not daring to do so while the servants might be within earshot.

They were alone again. Disa quickly found the papers he needed. Having finished with that, they talked for a while about nice trivial things, such as the motion picture, based on a Zemblan legend, that Odon hoped to make in Paris or Rome. How would he represent, they wondered, the narstran, a hellish hall where the souls of murderers were tortured under a constant drizzle of drake venom coming down from the foggy vault? By and large the interview was proceeding in a most satisfactory manner-though her fingers trembled a little when her hand touched the elbow rest of his chair. Careful now.

“What are you plans?” she inquired. “Why can’t you stay here as long as you want? Please do. I’ll be going to Rome soon, you’ll have the whole house to yourself. Imagine, you can bed here as many as forty guests, forty Arabian thieves.” (Influence of the huge terracotta vases in the garden.)

He answered he would be going to America some time next month and had business in Paris tomorrow.

Why America? What would he do there?

Teach. Examine literary masterpieces with brilliant and charming young people. A hobby he could now freely indulge.

“And, of course, I don’t know,” she mumbled looking away, “I don’t know perhaps if you’d have nothing against it, I might visit New York--I mean, just for a week or two, and not this year but the next.”

He complimented her on her silver-spangled jacket. She persevered: “Well?” “And your hairdo is most becoming.” “Oh what does it matter,” she wailed, “what on earth does it matter!” “I must be on my way,” he whispered with a smile and got up. “Kiss me,” she said, and was like a limp, shivering ragdoll in this arms for a moment.

He walked to the gate. At the turn of the path he glanced back and saw in the distance her white figure with the listless grace of ineffable grief bending over the garden table, and suddenly a fragile bridge was suspended between waking indifference and dream-love. But she moved, and he saw it was not she at all but only poor Fleur de Flyer collecting the documents left among the tea things. (See note 80).

When in the course of an evening stroll in May or June, 1959, I offered Shade all this marvelous material, he looked at me quizzically and said: “That’s all very well, Charles. But there are just two questions. How can you know that all this intimate stuff about your rather appalling king is true? And if true, how can one hope to print such personal things about who, presumably, are still alive?”

“My dear John,” I replied gently and urgently, “do not worry about trifles. Once transmuted by you into poetry, the stuff will be true, and the people will come alive. A poet’s purified truth can cause no pain, no offense. True art is above false honor.”

“Sure, sure,” said Shade. “One can harness words like performing fleas and make them drive other fleas. Oh, sure.”

“And moreover,” I continued as we walked down the road into a vast sunset, “as soon as your poem is ready, as soon as the glory of Zembla merges with the glory of your verse, I intend to divulge to you an ultimate truth, an extraordinary secret, that will put your mind completely at rest.”