#i need to fold myself into the washing machine and go for a few tumble cycles

[anaalnathrakhs]

positive-thinking'd a little too much and now i'm wired and happy no matter how badly today went and i'm never going to go to sleeeeeeeeep :DDDDD

[mongooseblues]

Well folks. Here it is. The horniest thing I’ve ever written. CW for some mess, as you might expect for a piece about someone in a shower with a running nose, but I’m not super into mess myself so it’s more implied than described for the most part. I couldn’t get the idea of shower sneeze out of my head so I’ll put it into yours.

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

The first thing he does upon getting home is turn the faucet to the highest setting to start a shower white-hot enough to be appropriately described as scalding. That would help, that would probably help.

He undresses as hissing steam gradually fogs the room, his peaky reflection becoming little more than a blur in the mirror. It’s cloudy and dreamlike, almost some fevered unreality by the time he steps into the spray, the temperature change provoking an instantaneous smattering of goosebumps and a good hard shiver. It takes all of maybe one minute for the steam to depressurize his sinuses and leave him with a remarkably runny nose and a tickle so sudden and overwhelming that he’s sneezing before he realizes he’s going to.

He snaps forward into the gushing water with an urgent, “HihYISSHHue—” hard and sharp in the acoustical bounce-back from tile and porcelain, an echolocation of resounding decibels that’s loud in his own ears. One isn’t enough because it never is and especially not right now so of course he’s going to—

“IIXSHHOO!” Sneeze again, “hih!” and—

“ISSHHyue!!” Again.

One after the other and depleting what feels like all of the air in his lungs, mandating a gasp like he’s coming up for air which technically speaking he is, pulling his head from the discontinuous curtain of water, sputtering post-baptismal. He slides his hair back from his forehead, two separate streams now running down his face, and wipes at his upper lip with a sigh.

He supposes it’s not unhygienic, to use his hands to blow his nose into, considering he’s able to rinse them off immediately. It does feel a little gross, even though it’s basically clear and barely viscous, undergoing quick liquefaction in his hands and erased by rushing water. And the obscuring steam makes this an even more private unraveling. It’s okay here, to be sick.

His only objective is to rid himself of every milliliter of it, forcibly empty his sinuses as much as he can, fingers folded over his nose and pressing closed one nostril at a time. It begins, the hopeful emptying, in effortless production, but eventually after dwindling relief crosses some line where it starts to feel aggressive and there’s a stinging burn that reminds him of breaching the surface of a swimming pool.

His nose and sinuses are warm and swollen and ever tendering with his continual abuses. He really should be more gentle or at least pace himself over the course of this cold because there’s plenty more of it to come, so this is the last time he’s going to blow his nose for now. This final go however buzzes so intensely against oversensitive membranes that he has to wrinkle his face and perform a little head shake that actually just makes him want to sneeze again.

Which he does in short order, a stabilizing hand finding purchase against the tiled wall, drawing a tremulous breath, small droplets of water slipping their way into his parted mouth and very temporarily pooling there.

Wet but richly voiced and made louder by ringing echo, “HihIIDSHHoo! —HIISSHHuu!!”

The briefest possible cycle of inhale-exhale-inhale leads into a higher pitched and very breathy, “Hih’IIHHH-hoo!” that almost makes him stumble and causes a few wetted locks of hair to tumble forward.

The groan afterwards is rather dramatic. He blinks to refocus through wet lashes and lets the pressure of the water gently recline his head backward. Letting go of the wall, finally, to rake his fingers through his hair, other hand occupied with an absent swipe under his nose at the resulting not-so-fluid trickle until it becomes clear this effort requires both hands and the whole production of blowing his nose over and over and okay just once more.

It does again tickle terribly at one point, and for a few unsteady seconds he thinks he might sneeze three goddamn more times but then miraculously doesn’t, just squints vaguely toward the corner of the shower with gaping lips and widened nostrils, a wavering look of white-flagged surrender. It’s almost meditative to close his eyes and concentrate on the distorted rhythm of indecisive breaths waxing and waning, and the patter of water against his skin. But then the feeling dissolves into a huffy exhale and he remembers he does have other things to do in here besides sneeze. Wash his hair and body, for example.

He works soap into a lather and allows himself longer than usual, letting the water pound and pulse against his shoulders and the back of his neck, which feels particularly tight. Self-soothing, his typical brisk and efficient shampoo scrub lengthening, softening into indulgently slow kneading.

He takes a minute to rub at his face, pressing the heel of a hand between his eyebrows to massage an oval into the ache building there and emits an involuntary moan falling somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion. Employing his shriveled fingertips to travel along the lines of his sinuses beneath his eyes and above his cheeks, palpating the places where it hurts. He’s unable to make it through his routine to the point of rinse much less repeat before he’s pulled out of it and into yet another crashing crescendo he grits his teeth against.

“HrrRISSHue!” The sudden velocity of the motion sends suds jettisoning from his hair, combining with misty spray.

“hih!YIISHHoo! IIZSHH-shuue...!” It concludes with a deflated release and leaves him an overall streaking and streaming mess.

Blowing his nose in here is starting to become a very tiresome chore. He’ll reach a point where he feels like he’s done and then the steam and heat inspire a new round of melting congestion he goes on trying to rid himself of, in an almost mechanically continuous loop and okay it’s probably not going to stop on his account.

Finally he rinses himself of all remaining foamy traces of soap and shampoo, enveloping his entire being into the disorienting rush of frenzied water, for a few moments feeling that uncomfortable washing machine nausea. Frankly he can no longer tell whether or not his nose is still running. This is probably as clean as he’s going to get and that’s fine by him because he’s starting to get dizzy and this is no place to be dizzy with its hard slippery surfaces.

He turns off the faucet and leaves the sanctuary of steam, suppressing a shudder as he pushes the shower curtain back into its accordion folds and steps out onto the much colder floor. He’s toweling his hair off when niggling irritation stops him and somehow he can no longer do anything else but just stand there, forestalled, waiting. His chest swells with need and his breath catches on a jagged-edged inhale and oh apparently he’s just going to sneeze into this towel because there wasn’t really enough warning to be thoughtful about towels—

“ErrRIISHHue!” directed into scratchy terrycloth, hands folding the entire thing around his face but he’s never been very good at muffling anyhow “—IIXXSHHuue!” He pulls back for a second to draw a bated breath through curling lips before his still-wet shoulders seize him into the third act of this exhausting display.

“hehh’YISHHHOO!!” ...Wow. His face feels loose and fuzzy in the aftermath. He never thought a shower could leave him so spent. A single quick wet cough crackles and breaks in his throat, bluntly foreshadowing worse yet to come. He sighs heavily, manages a slushy snuffle. Waterlogged and goosefleshed and dripping over the ground. Feeling naked in more ways than one.

He really is about to be quite sick isn’t he.

[heartsofminds]

Soapy Water

Description: A blurb in which she drinks three-fourths of a bottle of champagne and Shawn gets splashed with a bucket of soapy water. 

Based on this drabble challenge

18.  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

26. “The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

29. “How is my wife more badass than me?”

for @imfreefallinall 

-

Shawn always liked to call her the smartest woman in the world, and whenever he did, she delivered a chaste peck to his lips accompanied by a cheeky, “I know.”

But whenever she gets like this, shaky and stressed and so fucking irritated, she doubts how smart she is. She’s been prone to making shitty impulsive decisions and she likes to think she knows better. In fact, she knows that she knows better, but the champagne in the cabinet of her and Shawn’s condo tempts her.

She takes a picture of the bottle and sends it to her fiance who’s halfway across the world (either in Hong Kong or Manila; her days start to run together and she honestly can’t remember). She expects him to be asleep or busy or doing God knows what that’s work-related (because they both know he’s incapable of sitting still and just existing), but to her surprise, three gray dots pop up in their text thread.

“What’s the matter, babe?” he texts. She lets out a weak chuckle before locking her phone.

“If only you knew,” she whispers, popping the bottle and scrambling around the kitchen to find a glass.

She settles for a Spiderman cup that she can’t be damned to remember how it made a home in their cupboard. She shrugs her shoulders as she turns on her speaker and blasts After Laughter, letting the sound of Paramore’s 80s inspired riffs and sad lyrics take over her pity party.

She’s always been bad at letting people in and not allowing her emotions to fester. She liked to bury them in an effort to be less of a nuisance than what she thought she should be. Being a woman in law as a human rights attorney brought forth some pretty harrowing stories, and she doesn’t like to bring her emotions to court with her.

They fester and brew and she continues to swallow them until she explodes and lets out steam. She’ll recollect herself and start over until the pattern becomes full cycle again. She figures that she’s a fidgety person because she’s been drinking glasses of champagne to distract herself.

A fourth of the bottle is left when she decides to set it down and busy herself with the ever-growing list of cleaning she can never seem to tackle. She jolts up off the couch and stumbles a little; the feeling of walking after sitting for so long making her legs feel wobbly. She figures the headache she’s gonna have tomorrow will be a fucking beast, but she doesn’t care.

She starts to fill the sink with water and dish soap to start on the pile of dishes that had been sitting there for two and a half days. Her attention span is shortened due to the alcohol coursing through her veins as she starts on the laundry before attempting to rearrange the entire living room. She starts to wonder if she should clean Shawn’s guitar room as well, but she stops herself before she lets her thoughts get too far.

That’s one thing she definitely knows not to do while she’s tipsy. The last time she stepped foot in the room she was sober, and the baby blue guitar he loved so much took a tumble to the floor. The goddamn thing had to be sent to a special guitar shop in the fucking Netherlands to fix the strings and preserve the ��unique” sound. She figures that drunk or sober, Shawn wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, so she shakes her head to dislodge the thoughts before resuming the eighteen million different tasks at hand she created.

She’s in the middle of scrubbing the tiles in the kitchen clean while belting out “Pool” in such a horrid way, she’s sure Hayley Williams herself would be embarrassed to admit she wrote the song.

The front door bursts open and she swears her heart stops. She scrambles for her phone to turn the music off and shuts the lights off in the kitchen and living room. She staggers to her feet, grabbing the bucket of filled with water and Fabuloso she was previously occupying herself using. She takes light steps; walking quietly (as quietly as her drunk self thinks she could be) while struggling to not trip over the shoes left in the hall and random piles of clothes she was planning on washing.

The intruder could be a burglar or a kidnapper or Brian, but she can’t bring herself to think logically. Her eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the dark, but she can see a tall figure that she can only imagine being a fear-eliciting, hostile stranger.

She sees the ominous blob raise its arm and she screams; flinging the bucket forwards and hearing the intruder scream back.

“What the fuck! What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!”

Its voice sounds familiar and she can’t put her finger on why it does. When it reaches over and flicks the hall light on, that’s when she sees him.

Shawn wipes his face with his soaked arm; not really helping what he was trying to achieve, but desperate to get the soapy water out of his eyes.

“Oh my God, babe. What the fuck are you doing?” he sighs, shaking his hands and walking over to the bathroom to rinse his eyes with water.

“I- I thought you were an intruder. You weren’t supposed to be home for another week. You scared the shit out of me,” she hiccups and Shawn can smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Have you been drinking?” he asks, not looking at her because he’s preoccupied with cleaning his eyes.

“It was a few glasses,” she pauses, “That turned into over half the bottle. Please don’t be mad. M’stressed.”

He turns to a pile of her folded laundry on top of the machine in the hallway. He reaches past her, grabbing the mauve colored shirt he knows she stole. He takes his soaked black one off in exchange for the lighter hued one. Shawn turns the tap off and perches his arms up on the bathroom counter. He looks at his red eyes in the mirror before shifting his gaze towards her.

“In the kindest way possible, you look terrible, love. You know you’re a lightweight and you know you have to work tomorrow morning,” he whispers, moving towards her.

He takes his finger and gently presses it underneath her chin, forcing him to look up at him. He can see the tears in her eyes threatening to fall, knowing that she’s about to fall apart any minute.

“Baby, no,” he coos, wrapping her up in a hug, “You know you’re allowed to take a break, right? And you know that feeling things is a human thing. It doesn’t make you weak or stupid or fragile. You can’t make yourself feel bad for having feelings.”

Her tears fall rapidly, soaking through the mauve t-shirt he has on. “I know. I know and it’s stupid to cry about being frustrated but I didn’t wanna be a bother and be the clingy, emotional girlfriend,” she sobs.

He rocks back in forth with her in his arms, resting his chin on top her head.

“Well, you’re wrong about being my girlfriend. We’re engaged now, baby. You’re my fiance, and regardless of your title or whatever the fuck, I’m gonna be available to you always.”

She releases herself from his chest, wiping the tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

“M’so stupid. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Yeah. And the diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

She looks down at the gold ring decorating her finger. “Really?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

Shawn chuckles. “No. Of course not. I was just saying something untrue. Kinda like how you just did.”

She slaps at his chest playfully. “Knock it off.”

“You’re not stupid and when I said I wanted you, I said all of you and I really mean it. I want you on your bad days and good days,” he sits down on the couch, pulling her onto his lap to straddle him. “I want you in your morning glory when you think you look terrible. I want you at nighttime when we go out and you look all sexy in those dresses. I want you forever and always because that’s what I’m here for.”

She avoids eye contact with him, looking down at her hands making little circles on his clothed chest.

“I just feel all this pressure. You know? To be the best and to help people with these cases I take on and to be here for you and to be everything you need. I haven’t visited you on tour once this year, and- and I couldn’t even remember if you were gonna be in Hong Kong or Manila or if you were actually supposed to come home today. I just feel terrible and I know I should’ve called or texted you back, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.”

Shawn shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her’s.

“You’ll never bother me. We’re in this together. And don’t feel bad about not keeping up with my schedule. You’re out here fighting for people’s rights and doing super smart lawyer stuff and making all these cases and winning them,” he pauses, putting his arm underneath his neck to support himself. “All I do is sing the same twenty songs for a year before putting more out. I’m thankful for my job, but I’m even more thankful for you. You’re super smart and kind and funny and you look super sexy when you wear those pencil skirts. How is my wife more badass than me, huh?”

She lets out a weak chuckle. “A hell of a lot of willpower and a superstar to keep me sane.”

He presses a kiss to her swollen lips. He makes the kiss deeper, pressing his hand to her back. She relaxes into his hold, both of their lips attacking each other with expressions of desire and gratitude.

Shawn suddenly stops, eyebrows raised and neck craned to look around.

“Were you washing dishes?” he asks.

She gives him a puzzled look. “Yeah? I think so?”

Shawn shifts and she moves off of his lap.

“Fuck. Did you turn the faucet off?”

Her eyes widen and she scrambles to the kitchen, greeted by the sound of splattering water.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she yells and Shawn lets out a laugh.

His long legs carry him to the scene of the spill to grab some paper towel while mocking her for being so forgetful.

They both laugh, and it’s this moment when she realizes that she loves this man more than she already does.

[amieyhko]

Escapril 2019

escaprilday 2019 // 1: a fresh start

two Costco bags full of

umma-certified clean clothes,

“unpacking cannot begin with wet clothes”

Taipei humidity is unkind.

coins clink,

white noise revs

drowning out the drizzle

as heart somersaults

to the rhythm of the cycles:

what — tum — am I — ble

doing — tumble — here?

the darks tumble its final spin

as the lights

click —

into a stop.

a whiff into a warm towel

warns me the comforts of home,

promising

of munchies, blankies, and speedy wifi

of cushy floor space where crafting

and writing past midnight can be done in secret

but —

fold — maybe — toss — I changed —

yellow blouse — or gave up too easily —

fold — or could it be —

toss — I’m listening to all the wrong voices? —

red turtleneck — no — flick —

wait, this is so soft now, I guess the washing machine in that guest house in Seoul was indeed really terrible —

fold — yes, this is how it should feel on my skin —

toss – my heart knows, though —

fuzzy sock — maybe home is where I need to be right now —

into basket — there’s nothing wrong with —

grab — starting over again.

escaprilday 2019 // 2: april showers

you said all memorable moments

include an unexpected deluge

I nod and laugh

as the metro ac pierces through

my drenched jacket

I shiver as I feel my clammy socks

cling onto my not-rainproof Docs

("they're not?" you ask in shock)

ears ringing still

from speakers booming

throat scratchy from scream-singing

at the top of our lungs.

still, you smile, shiver, and say,

with half-dazed eyes,

all good memories

end in rain.

escaprilday 2019 // 3: incorporate music

“Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding”

at this in-between

this time of heating up lukewarm lattes

and microwaving soggy french fries,

a surrendering of old and new

kindles a familiar tune:

“not what’s easy, what do you want?”

at this in-between,

the seconds between a squat and a jump

or the hours during an endless free fall,

a whisper sings an awakening:

“even a phoenix dies”

so at this in-between

muster up the strength to

inhale blue

and exhale gold.

escaprilday 2019 // 4: anxiety

lacuna

¡amiga!” he chimes like clockwork

with a sonrisa that has probably charmed plenty of hearts.

my fist bumps his and I walk toward the dark halls

where they tilt their heads forward and say

“안녕하세요” they grin,

some fake, others genuine,

mostly muscle memory.

“哈咯“ she greets as I turn the corner—

a sound of familiarity.

the velcros on my lips finally relax

till we part ways to our stations

“how are you?” their words flow dry

they probably don’t want to find out

my tongue lands on one syllable:

“good”.

escapril 2019 // 5: back to nature

I’ve a secret spot for seeing stars in Taipei City.

after a day downtown,

blasting my headphones at damaging decibels,

fixing makeup with samples at drugstores,

and chasing after buses,

I skip down the announced “platform two for Taipei Zoo”

and gaze down at the light show stage named Zhongxiao Fuxing.

as the red greens, a rush of headlights streams at me—my eyes

lose focus, my heart

leaps back into my chest just as

the home-bound metro approaches.

//

I’ll always remember the yard at Tiszavasvári

where we lay to see a starry night drawn by the Creator

after a day of listening to screaming children,

braiding their hairs,

and chasing after the impossible ones,

we stood in awe, jaws dropped, then soon learned

our necks weren’t strong enough

so we lay down, evening breeze

accompanied by the crickets sang a lullaby—

my eyes played a senseless game

of connect-the-dots, my heart skipped several beats

as I let go of the memories of beds and blankets.

escapril 2019 // 6: nostalgia

missing you is easy.

remembering you creeps

up in little mundanities

like a cup of fruit tea

a bottle of Clorox

or an inappropriately loud laughter--

to my consolation, yours is unmatchable.

although,

the sound of your laughter rings

quieter

till I can whisper:

escapril 2019 // 7: start with a time of day

3 a.m.

why wait

for dawn when

we can set yesterday

up

in flames

over this river?

escapril 2019 // 8: love poem

I cannot recall the exact words uttered

but something in my heart fluttered:

our eyes met for a millisecond

we cracked, till our breaths weakened.

our words, lost in the waves

transformed into safes

I open in my heart of hearts

to feel at home within the laughs of your loves.

escapril 2019 // 9: focus on the color

chorok hadn't found its form in

korean of old. fields of

grass and evergreens,

little plates of herbal banchan,

lush of summers,

and squirming caterpillars

all existed as paran-- that same

color ascribed to vast oceans,

and sunny skies

then one lively spring, chorok

creeped its way into our tongues,

demanding to be seen on

street signs,

the mountain tops, and

cross walk lights

though some still speak "the light

turned paran",

and the incorrigible children's tune

singing of spring

blossoming into paran,

chorok sprouts an entrance

undeniable to out naked eyes.

escapril 2019 // 10: femininity

the bus,

back slides down on the uncomfortable bus seat,

fingers stroke through my freshly buzzed head,

while many eyes fixate above my eyes,

asking:

"is she a boy or a girl?"

"is she a lesbian?"

"what happened to her… hair?"

eyes read their faces,

mouth struts a big yawn with no reflex system telling me to conceal it.

imagination floats to a stadium,

feet stands on the podium,

voice declares:

I'm still so-very-much a lady--

just not fair like Audrey,

nor dainty like a stereotype,

or as brave as Joan,

and definitely not as attractive than most

but maybe more like

the ones writing history

now.

escapril 2019 // 11: not from your perspective

most of the time I sit beside the maroon sofa

where you watch tv and transform into a potato

I wait and wait for that sweet moment

you grab my handle

travel me to a flat desk

wind me up with thread

hook me up to a pedal

switch my light on

smooth out a piece of fabric

pinned up in zig zag

then

zoom, crackle, buzz,

your hands sync to my rhythm

you pray I don’t jam

or break your thread

then you announce with pride

“et voila!”

escapril 2019 // 12: spring cleaning

it takes two countries

few cities

thirteen houses

fifteen boxes

thirty trash bags

and an infinite repetition of

"do we need this?"

for a soul to grasp the spider web line

between a desire and a necessity.

then a decade teaches the

same soul

sometimes,

spectrums soften

escapril 2019 // 13: celestial bodies

if only

seeing you was as easy as

some nightly glow at your half

reflecting off

a big blazing ball of light on my half

escapril 2019 // 14: make it rhyme

a sonnet-full of embellishments, fake

notions of how lovely you are like some

weather in summer or spring, homemade cake

that tastes like cheap flour and rotten eggs, numb

from clichés, the love songs that never shut

up, posed photos of arms around my waist,

a let-me-take-that gentleness, so what

are you doing? leaving sour aftetaste

in our hearts. no, this sonnet is not for

us. we don’t need guidelines to fall in love,

nor the recipes known to prevent war

(it cannot be all fair in war and love),

so stop. steep in this silence as your hand

finds mine in this complicated quicksand.

escapril 2019 // 15: describe a smell

a dash of prickliness:

prickly, like appa’s beard attacking my forehead as he plants a kiss.

then an overwhelming sense of saltiness:

salty, like that time I accidentally used the spoon side of the seasoning bottle

or tasting my own sweat or tears.

something rotting at slow decay.

fruit flies feast.

my nose shoots me back to

halmoni yelling something in dialect, umma replying.

I stand in the middle of the market square, I’m ten.

they promised me jjajangmyeon,

my nostrils can hold out just a minute more.

escapril 2019 // 16: any dreams?

five—

I was to be a Pokemon trainer by day

and Sailor Moon by night

but adults hung my creativity dry

seven—

a singer-songwriter

but music chose me not

ten—

fashion designer,

draw designs, sew coutures, walk the runway myself

but whispers yelled discouragements

fifteen—

couldn’t care: I was a realistic teen

now—

I tip-toe about my heart

trying my best not to pick on scabs,

unable to answer any questions

albeit an I-don’t-know

has never sounded more

comforting and clear.

hear the wounds heal

to the beat of the unicorn hooves.

escapril 2019 // 17: body as friend or foe

I was born in Guatemala,

but my father’s from Georgia

he’s a musician, he produces

K-pop albums and we travel the world

searching for the next big deal,

my mother paints apples, she’s from Zimbabwe

she also writes Chinese poems.

It’s all true—

my body deceives every bit of reality within me.

escapril 2019 // 18: a happy place

hear nose tickle

with the sound of lavender feathers

fluttering by

eyes will open up to inhale

the golden hours spent

under Your glorious dance

escapril 2019 // 19: without your name, who are you?

if an utterance of a name

can form a heart,

her name has been called by many

if each spoken word forms

a vibration into what we are,

she's a someone

whispered into a myriad of paradoxes:

she's an asteroid, crashing fast,

uncontrollable, unexpected.

she's a cup of tea, calm,

idle, ready for nothing.

escapril 2019 // 20: a liminal space

this amorphous ground feels comfortable,

excuses acceptable:

the excruciating humidity,

drowsy rain, busy friends,

false pride, miscalculating time.

they say:

Prufrock measures his life in coffee spoons,

but Zeno says nothing ever reaches its destinations.

the Knight holds his tongue

yet his heart flutters a violent beat.

I’m just another contra, letting my feet skip away

as each step echoes heart beating somewhere

back.

escapril 2019 // 21: it’s the end of the world

no zombie apocalypse,

the sun still functions,

stars are still, hearts

unbroken, no one

escaping to Mars,

no fatal goodbyes.

one silent pink noise

a purple glow,

“welcome back home”

it said.

escapril 2019 // 22: nourishment

last month, I met a little

potted plant.

I took it back to my little

suffocating room

and named it little

foggy star.

I loved it little

by little

I gave it little

droplets of water,

spoke little

words of compliment,

took it to my little

window sill

the sun peeped through

a little.

it grew a little,

I did too.

escapril 2019 // 23: when the party’s over

recollect spilled laughters —

this, for unworthy jokes,

that, for suave comments,

maybe one for someone dreamy —

bottle them up,

keep them fresh

for the next sea of

stragglers,

mutual someone,

you-look-quite-nice,

wow-so-interesting.

escapril 2019 // 24: liar, liar

how to be a compulsive liar

one: disregard empathy, embrace despondency, think selfish,

my life doesn’t have to tell truth tales, no one needs to know.

two: rehearse recollections, think practicality, use names they’d never check,

let myself believe in each detail, each sight, smell the scenario

three: speak the perfectly fabricated phrases into existence,

no need to bat an eye, stutter a detail, overthink a loophole.

for example: “yeah, the party was fun. we walked around the park afterwards.

who? oh no, he wasn’t there. he had an important family dinner.”

four: remember the lie, inform reliable partners in crime if necessary,

never bring it back, stick to your guns.

promise yourself: they can’t hurt, they’ll never know.

remember: truths hurt, they’re inconvenient, it’s none of their business.

dig: until your shovel breaks.

drown out: every kindness the world has to offer.

die: in the said dug hole, climb out just to

repeat: until trust is a pair of cracked glasses, refuse to see a redemption until

die again: learn that these walls must go —

invite: the uncomfortableness that is vulnerability

repeat: until system reboots.

escapril 2019 // 25: pick an animal

my giraffe friend

shades me when the sun’s high

and warms me when the wind’s rough,

meeting her eyes pains me with

an aching neck,

she will always stand tall in a room,

there’s no shelf too high for me,

when she’s close by.

escapril 2019 // 26: girlhood, boyhood, childhood

when I was older, I had a pair of

very pink sneakers

they'd glitter in the sun,

glamoured in gemstones for dignity

velcros loud enough to turn heads

when it was time to take them off

I glanced over my neighbors' shelves:

ugly. blue. brown. ugly. mine trampled over all.

then my eyes stood silent

as I zone in

on her pair of Gundam sneakers

secretly jealous, mostly confused,

extremely frustrated of rule-breaking

girls, defying pink, watching animation

for boys only

now, I wear boring black or white shoes

so do most humans with feet.

escapril 2019 // 27: the state of it all

“you're it!”

a harmless push from their arms

my chest thrusts back

limbs under a spell

all bones removed

“catch me if you can”

why don't you save me

'cause you can?

escapril 2019 // 28: reflection

memories retraces a blur

crooked smile

red dye fading

cigarette between your fingers

standing mostly on your right leg--

you let out a puff as i tell you “i’m imaginary.”

you say you couldn't have

so i tease you more with a kiss

“that wasn't real

that was you imagining it all

new school

a manic pixie

the loneliness got to your brains

that's all”

you flick away the cigarette

eyes reflecting my face

you kiss me back and say

“please don't do this to my brain

you're real

far too real for me i'm not smart like that”

i snicker

the buzzing bus terminal is real

you and i are real

but i'm not

you're no more

escapril 2019 // 29: may flowers

she died a few days ago—

flew off the rooftop

fallen against teeming

reborn lives

the most beautiful of flowers

only last a day or two

you said we are beautiful

because we��re ephemeral

but what happens when

fleeting moments like

a crash kilometers away

pain for someone I never knew?

escapril 2019 // 30: catharsis

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

bugs infested each and every corner

I tried to catch them but they

hid away between the nooks and crannies

whispering schemes to each other

learning the dustiest corners I’ve ignored

waiting for a perfect time to kill

so I dusted out the corners

rearranged the furnitures

repainted the scratches

thinking cover-ups should make anew

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

praying for the bug spray to kill,

I felt seventeen, rearranging photographs,

filling up a space with desired personalities,

she would have been proud

there’s nothing I’d tell her, but to say

yesterday, I cleaned my room, for another hundredth time

they say an odyssey is a cycle

ending with a catharsis

where you come clean

but yesterday, I cleaned my room

again

[drmedicsgamesurgery]

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 Part 2 (Summary)

Happy new year everyone! What better way to start it off then with a new summary?

Thanks to @enoshima-pyon @shockersalvage​ @jinjojess​ @hopeymchope​ for helping out!

WARNING: MAJOR DANGANRONPA KIRIGIRI VOLUME 2 SPOILERS AHEAD.

5.

After a while, they switched the helicopter for a train, and they continued their journey to the Netherlands, where the international tribunal is. Shinobu is separated from Byakuya, the Impostor and Kazuya and put in a prison-like-wagon. There are many UN and WHO soldiers guarding it. There, she eavesdrops a conversation between the Impostor, Ibuki Mioda and Gundham Tanaka by using Borges. 

"Hey--the number here is almost the same as the hall of Yokohama Stadium. Ooh, is this where they’re going to hold the New Year’s concert!?” [1] wonders Ibuki. 

"No matter how well these human beings work together, they can't stop the Supreme Overlord of Ice… mwahahahahahaha!"  which came from Gundham.

“Shut up. Because you two are so useless, we ended up being caught by such a boring group like the United Nations.” reprimanded the Imposter.

Shinobu asks herself how many people are working for the Super High School Level Despair, and since Ibuki, Gundham, Sonia and Souda are already working for them, she thinks that maybe her whole class/year has fallen into despair. She then asks herself why the Despair High didn’t ask her to join.

Although this idea is crazy, this reality is so crazy, I think that it is possible the reason is: because I belong to Byakuya-sama. I felt sad for a few seconds, before I thought about it. It didn’t matter. I have my God. Although, I don’t know who their God is, but they can’t be compared to Byakuya Togami.

A soldier brings Shinobu to a luxurious cell room, then leaves.

Fixed bed, fixed sofa, folding table, painting on the wall, good air conditioning... I have no interest in rail travel, it seems to me that this is just a luxurious single cell. After I sat down at one end of the bed, the door was locked. The soldier just gave me a drink, orange juice. I don't know who he regarded me as. I took a sip of orange juice with dissatisfaction. The long-lost water made my stomach irritated, and I found myself hungry. Speaking of which, I haven’t had a decent bite to eat since I was attacked in the Church of Bones. Although I may be irritated by Mishima Yukio, I began to want to drink hot miso soup and eat plum dry rice balls. [2]

Kazuya enters the room, holding a prosthetic arm.

"I’m finally able to be alone with you, my sister, after four years of being alone," he put the right hand on the table and sat down on the sofa. "The train is about to leave, just like our future."

"..."

"From the Czech Republic to the Netherlands will be a long journey. I originally wanted to fly, but we have to go through Germany on the way and they are not willing to give us a flight permit."

"..."

"Please, sister, don't tease me. Just because I wanted to see my sister, I wanted to hear my sister's voice, I worked hard to live up to today."

"...So, you think you have won."

"I’m not that conceited. I’m not the winner yet, but I will win soon."

"Let me see Byakuya-sama."

"That’s a scary thought, how could I allow that? I have to let my sister sit in the special seat to watch my victory... Hehe."

"What's so funny."

"Oh, of course it's funny, having to speak such villainous lines when I am clearly the hero."

"We don't have time to waste like this right now."

Kazuya responds by saying that she shouldn’t worry, now that everyone involved with the World Domination Proclamation have been captured, that she should just sit back and relax.

"You think you have won?" I repeated. "So far, all you’ve done is somehow come back from the dead, and reversed everything.."

"Oh no, I’m not dead. I have hands and feet and heart, but I have no hope."

“Where is Byakuya-sama?” I asked.

“Byakuya Togami, the Despair High School, Class 78, they are all locked up.”

Shinobu thinks that it regrettable that Sakura Oogami was captured, but at the same time if she can move freely there should be a way to get out of this situation.

The train started. The steel dragon started to move slowly, and then the speed gradually increased, as if to show that he was carrying our will, driving forward with violent momentum. The shock from under my butt was unexpectedly comfortable, perhaps because I was too tired and sleep came to me. 

However sleep could not come to her because Kazuya brings her a new prosthetic arm to replace the broken one. Shinobu knows that it’s for the best, so she takes off her shirt and extends her left arm from the elbow to him. 

"Sister... I’m sorry, I have not protected you."

Although the wound has healed, the skin there is very thin. I almost cried out to prevent it Kazuya from seeing it, and quickly said, “It’s not me that you need to apologize to.”

“Who else should I apologize to then, sister?” asks Kazuya. 

“Go and apologize to those you have murdered.”

“Those that I have murdered?”

His tone sounded completely confused. If this were an old-time novel, this sentence may be written with a very unsavory katakana.

Shinobu reminds him of the siblings that he murdered and the villagers that he killed. Kazuya believes that in the world of the Togami Family it’s “kill or be killed” to justify himself. Plus, it was his “big sister” that brought him into that world anyway.

This causes Shinobu to think back about the events of Kuchinashi Village. However, she can’t seem to recall the events clearly, most likely due to her young age. I suddenly had a question: At that time, which hand did I reach out to Kazuya, the left hand or the right hand? As such, she has to ask Kazuya details about it.

Shinobu asks "Do you remember when I saved you in the village?"

"Yes, for me it is a precious memory." he says

"Which hand did I extend to you at that time?"

"Of course, it was the left hand." he said confidently. With that said, Shinobu couldn’t say anything else and let her be at his mercy. After the installation of the prosthetic hand, I moved it a little. Compared with the latest prosthetic hand made by the Togami Conglomerate, it felt more like my own arm.

Kazuya explains to Shinobu his plan to conquer the world. He will spread the Despair Novel even more and make the world fall into chaos. Then he will accuse Byakuya of everything and arrest him. This way he will be acclaimed as the hero who saved the world from the Despair Disease.

Shinobu refused to accept this and declares that as long as her work remains unfinished, she isn’t finished and, by extension, Byakuya Togami will not be finished.

Even if Byakuya loses and disappears from the world, as long as I am writing “Journey Under The Midnight Sun”, Byakuya Togami won’t be finished. I won’t let him be finished.

Kazuya claims she’s just being arrogant and no one would want to read the biography of a “loser”. He asserts that as the main protagonist of this story, he’ll take back everything that was stolen from him and steal everything from everyone else. That way he gets to enjoy the world, while also being the center of it.

“You’re just an ordinary person,” Shinobu says quickly. “You are just a general staff member of the United Nations. They cannot allow you to have the ambition to conquer the world."

“It’s because I am a general staff member of the United Nations that I will arrest Byakua Togami and kill that Imposter who pretended to be Byakuya Togami. Once I eradicate Despair Disease, I will be hailed a hero by the world! Then, once I get the Kudan, I will become Byakuya Togami!”

Shinobu notes that if Kazuya was able to pull this off then it wouldn’t just be empty words. He would have really conquered the world and without the use of the traditional style like territories or nuclear weapons.

But would Kazuya really be able to do this?

Then suddenly, Shinobu feels like she’s being lifted up, as her glass of orange juice flies up in the sky and shatters on the ceiling. 

The next moment, everything around me seemed to be tumbling like a washing machine.

 6.

When I woke up, the whole world was reversed. The bed and sofa in the room were above, and I fell on the ceiling, now the floor.

Shinobu asks Borges what the situation is like and it answers that she was in a coma for three minutes and eleven seconds and she reported a few light injuries. The window of her room is broken and the iron bars covering have been bent from the impact so she is able to get out of the train.

There she sees countless dead soldiers and a group of “Tentacles Soldiers”. They are checking if all the soldiers are dead, and if they find someone who is alive they proceed to kill them. Shinobu looks around and sees the Uragan (#41908870) (which is most likely the cause of the train crash) and Taeko Kanai from the Hasegawa Research Institute.

“It’s no use trying! Resistance is futile! Hand over Byakuya Togami or we’ll keep up our bloodbath!” declares Taeko while playing her guitar atop the Uragan. The Hasegawa Institute seemed to be back...no the Kasamori [3] Drug Manufacturers were back again.

Borges = Search Results #21291600 

Item: Company

Title: "Kasamori Drug Manufacturers"

Was created by Kasamori, founded in the 32nd year of Meiji (1899). Mainly selling professional medical supplies, it merged with Germany's NEO GEHIRN in 1902, becoming the de facto number one in the pharmaceutical industry. After the defeat of the German-Japanese alliance in World War II, the company lost all of its foreign assets and equipment, and later achieved a V-shaped recovery through the manufacture and sale of the red-haired fern tablets 220, which were hailed as “epoch-making anticancer agents”. However, the drug caused many patients to die due to its side effects. The company lost the group lawsuit filed by the patient's family (Red-haired Fern lawsuit, 1998), not only to pay huge compensation, but also to damage the reputation. There are rumors. It is said that the current operating conditions of the company have deteriorated drastically.

Naturally, the WHO/UN soldiers refuse, causing both groups to fight. Kazuya suddenly comes out of the train and reaches to Shinobu. Both come to realize that their attackers are also after the Kudan. She asks him where Byakuya is and he reluctantly tells her that he is in the first wagon, but that the security measures of the train will protect him no matter what.

“A pharmacy actually dares to make life difficult for the WHO, the world is really hopeless. They were probably brought up by dogs, with the way they are acting.” Kazuya says.

“When did you discover Kasamori was posing as the Hasegawa Research Institute?

"What? Sister, what are you talking about?"

"Kasamori is posing at the Hasegawa Research Institute."

Was I the only one to hear about this organization? What is this unspeakable emotion? I remembered that when the classmates in the previous class discussed "Sinking of Japan," [4] I thought they were talking about a very old movie, but soon I found out that they were talking about the remastered version of the movie. Although the plot is the same, it is different from the original version that I am familiar with. Having these almost similar plotlines described to me made me feel like I was transported to some Unreal parallel world. It wasn’t an easy topic for me to handle. For example, it is like an elementary school talent show. When I was performing a children's play at the show, I was about to come on stage. I suddenly found that only the script I had in my hand was different. At that time, I shuddered. 

"Well one thing is clear. It is Kasamori that blocked the road in Germany. Although their name is Kasamori Drug Manufacturers, most of the stockholders are German.”

Shinobu turned around, as to not show her anxiety.

"But aren’t their overseas assets all gone?"

"Just turned underground, and many of the high-ranking officials of Kasamori are now German political figures."

Kazuya explains that Germany likely didn’t give them passage by air, just so that they could stage this train attack on the UN and the WHO to get Byakuya and the Kudan. They will do everything they can in order to obtain the immense power of the Kudan.

"Where is Byakuya-sama?" Shinobu pipes up with.

“You might as well worry about yourself first. Byakuya was handed over to my army, with no problems."

"Where is Byakuya-sama ?"

"Just give it to me..."

"Where is Byakuya-sama?"

"Quit being annoying," Kazuya muttered under his breath. "Byakuya Togami is in the first car."

"I want to save him."

"No need for that, although things have developed to this point, but the physical security measures of the train are impeccable, the windows of the first car are all secured with iron bars, the door is locked from the outside with a padlock, and the outside world can't interfere with the inside."

"I want to save him."

"Are your ears blocked? I said that the safety measures are impeccable, but it’d still be dangerous for you to enter, sister.”

“But I still have to save him. This is the reason why I am alive. I want to look at him, write down his deeds, guarantee his safety. If not, then I will lose the meaning of my existence”

"What a silly fantasy. "

“If you are jealous then you can be quiet.”

“...If my sister must save him, then you mustn't care much for me then.”

“Stop worrying about me.”

Shinobu runs towards the first wagon, but Taeko sees her and several “Tentacles Soldiers” start approaching her.

“Found you, Blue Ink!”

The Uragan comes closer, creating a hole in the ground from the force, and Taeko asks Shinobu to choose between her life and revealing Byakuya’s position. Shinobu asks her about the Hasegawa Research Institute but Taeko has no clue what she’s talking about.

From the attitude of Taeko, she does not seem to be lying about herself. That is to say: she doesn't understand what I am talking about. What I said is very abnormal. I couldn’t believe it…

"Since you aren’t telling us what we need, then you are useless. We don’t have time for playing around anymore, so I will personally send you to hell!!" 

The jet engines began spinning. I was pulling Kazuya’s hand and was going to run behind the carriage to avoid it, but the carriage was blown away like paper.

"You have nowhere to run!"

Taeko’s words are quite right. I can’t find a place to hide. Because of the fierce battles around me, the bullets have now covered the whole area. 

Kazuya then calls all the surviving soldiers and now the two factions are facing each other while the Uragan is coming closer.

Can this be called fighting, isn't it just a matter of ending life without meaning? This is a mutual killing, until one side is the last man standing. A good image of Hell itself.

Then moving so lightly and skillfully, in the sky above such a hellish scene-

“Sorry to keeptcha waiting!!!!~”

Was my brother.

 7.

Suddenly a sightseeing bus jumps from the forest and over the hellish scene. It’s Suzuhiko Ootsuki, first off by singing a small nursery rhyme [5] and then ‘Ai wo Torimodose!!’.[6]

The former SHSL Hitman crashes the bus into the Tentacles Soldiers and the UN Soldiers, killing them and entwining the corpses within it’s wheels. 

"I have to get off at the next stop~! But this all night tour ain’t stopping since the breaks are broken!"

The bus then flew into one of the trains causing a large explosion. It seemed to be filled with gunpowder. Shinobu and Kazuya were blasted into the air by the giant explosion, like puppets whose strings had been cut. But after the crash, Suzuhiko wasn’t in the driver's seat anymore and there was a big hole cut in the bus door.

Then the sound of intermittent screamings stopped the soldiers from fighting and after a few seconds all the soldiers from both parties were on their knees, spilling blood from their necks of their chests. None of them were a match for the former SHSL Hitman.

Suzuhiko seemed to be tired of hide-and-seek, jumped out of the pasture, and rushed over to the Uragan in one breath. He stood in front of Taeko in the blink of an eye. Then everything is over.

"H-hey… "

Taeko spat out her last pitiful sentence, perhaps only because her neck was already cut to her vocal cords. Suzuhiko violently ripped away his knives and the body of Taeko was torn apart. Her hands, feet, internal organs and underwear fell like a ripe fruit from the Uragan. [7]

"Oh... Dahahahaha! I have to say that the gap between talent here is too big."

No one interrupted him because the "Tentacles Soldiers" and the United Nations Soldiers had been completely wiped out.

"Heeey, you can come out now. You are both still alive, right? Let's talk business." Suzuhiko said, with his knife gleaming.

Suzuhiko looks down on Shinobu and Kazuya from the top of the Uragan, then he gets off it and starts walking towards Kazuya and Shinobu. As Suzuhiko puts it they have a “family reunion”, which mostly consists of angry shouting and a recap exposition dump. Kazuya blames Suzuhiko for hindering his job, to which he responds he saved Kazuya's life so it's no good to talk to his big brother that way. He has saved it before and now he has saved it again. 

“I just said that what you did hindered me. I am the captain of the World Health Organization’s Infectious Disease Prevention and Control Committee. I am not who I was four years ago.”

"Are you going to rub your own ass? Oh, Dahahahaha! I’ll wait for you to wear a diaper so you can say that again!"

“I am no longer a child.”

They continue to argue, Suzuhiko bringing up the point that they are not blood related so he didn’t have to save him. 

"Why did you even come to the Czech Republic? Don’t tell me you are after the Kudan, too."

"Nah, I'm not interested in the prophecy your little cow girl, I just accepted the commission to the assassination of Byakuya Togami." 

“Who commissioned you?”

"Do you think I’m really gonna tell you."

"Are you lying, them?" Kazuya said. "You spontaneously came to the Czech Republic and spontaneously blended into this incident."

"Well~ why do you think so?"

"Intuition."

"Intuition alone can't refute someone, Kazuya. It's because of this reason that you were destroyed by that detective in that incident."

"Do you know what happened to that detective? I heard that he is dead, like a dog."

"I'm not interested."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not either. Once I heard Nanamura was dead, my heart didn’t even waver once. It’s really strange to say but, I hate him so much that I can’t ever forgive him." [8]

"It means you haven't let go from the beginning."

“I didn't expect that I actually understood my feelings after so long... Can you understand your own mood?”

"Then now, there is only one purpose for me here. That is to reconcile with you." Suzuhiko said as he jumped off of the Uragan, onto Taeko’s mangled corpse and came over to stand in front of us.

Suzuhiko recites an old japanese saying and continues with, “This is how it is. Our brothers and sisters are all dead, only us are alive. The Togami name can no longer bind us, and the Togami name cannot be the motive for us to fight. So, we should naturally reconcile.”

"Are you serious?"

"Of course."

"Then you are crazy, you just ruin everything."

"Do you really think so, Kazuya? Then you are the crazy one, you destroyed everything."

Shinobu believes that this fight will be the end of the relationship between them all. It will be ruined as both Suzuhiko and Kazuya have ruined her, and she them.

Obviously, if the three of us are together, the destruction will come again, but my brother’s can't understand this. It has always been this way.

Shinobu lashes out at the both of them, saying she will not go back to either of them, as they are no longer Togami’s. Suzuhiko Ootsuki, Orvin Elevator: Both of them are now outsiders to the family.

"What you said is really sad, my dear little sister," Suzuhiko was unmoved. "Our name is not important at all. The relationship between me and you is enough to surpass the name Togami."

"The Togami name is very important. I am a Togami, I am the 'Super High School Level Secretary', belonging to Byakuya-sama only. So I can't really say it’s good to see you again."

"Oh, haha, don't mention the small stuff, let’s forgive and forget, and become as close as we were before all this, sound good?"

"Don't you dare."

It’s Kazuya. Taking a step forward, he let the lightsaber appear on his right hand and stopped in front of our big brother.

"Come on, Kazuya, how could a younger brother be able to beat his older brother? Put away that dangerous thing, and play some easier games. What do you reckon. chess or poker? Or I guess we could play UNO but, with me, well..."

"I want to save my sister, let her get rid of your curse, and use my own strength to do it."

And with that, Kazuya’s lightsaber, shining like a fluorescent lamp, grazed his older brothers throat. However, Suzuhiko continued to smile happily, like some hippie. He screamed, "Oho, guess it’s a change of heart~" He raised his bloodstained knife.

At that moment I heard a sound. A large flame was burning around us, and the fire ignited by the incendiary bomb surrounded us. The heat was almost enough to burn my throat, the crimson-colored [9] fire wall appears around, and the surrounding is covered by a brand new hellish scene. Moreover, this does not seem to be having a positive effect on Kazuya. He looked at the sky with an incredulous look, and screamed "This can’t be-," and Kazuya-

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah ah ah ah ah ah ah"

He was shaking.

Borges = Search Results

#90908892

Classification: Symptom

Title: "Flashback"

Post traumatic stress disorder, a mental disorder caused by intense psychological stress due to disasters, accidents, emergencies, etc., causing psychological fake events or the situation which caused the trauma reappearing in the brain and, when the symptoms are severe, it may even cause confusion.

After two fires in Kuchinashi Village and at Touajou Castle, Kazuya was indeed insane. I didn’t know when his sword disappeared, and a shameful liquid flowed out of his eyes and mouth, making him lose the strength to support his body, and he fell on his knees. Kazuya is suffering, but I intend to use this gap to escape. I fully understood my indifference and ran away at the same time. Although it is not clear what happened in the end, there is only one thing I have to do, and that is to go to the first train car where Byakuya-sama is, and that's it.

Shinobu runs to the first wagon of the train, ignoring Suzuhiko who is calling for her. More incediary bombs fell, as she walked to the first car, but it was already burnt to a crsip. She tries to open the door of the wagon, but it’s locked by a padlock. Suzuhiko then steps forward and cuts a hole through the wagon door and Shinobu gets inside.

“Byakuya-sama!”

The train car had been burnt and the heat has reached dangerous levels. I walked quickly, but I couldn't see him anywhere. I thought he might have escaped from another door, but I tried to pull the door, it was locked by another padlock, but Byakuya-sama was gone. Byakuya-sama, Byakuya-sama, Byakuya-sama, Byakuya-sama... I called his name, but never found him. How could this be, he couldn't get out...

At that moment, I heard the roar of an engine. I suddenly had a strong sense of foresight and quickly jumped out of the first train car. I know, I know this, I know what will happen next, and after that too. Then, the Mercedes stopped at the side that I expected, and the window of the driver's seat did not open as I expected.

"Heyyy, rich kid! Need a lift?" [10]

The man in the driver's seat did not know why I looked so happy. "Hey, so where we goin’?"

There was no other choice.

I pulled the rear door and jumped into the Mercedes.

"Coming in!"

"Thank you, my pleasure, Miss."

The Mercedes darted forward as the throttle was pressed. I saw Suzuhiko run over at a frightening speed, but the man in the driver's seat said "BOOM-OFFFFF!"[10], pressed the skull button, and there was a jet engine behind the car increasing our speed. The landscape, the sky, the flames, and my brothers all disappeared in the violent acceleration, and I could not see anything with my dynamic vision or Borges.

While bumping about in the car, my memories felt like they were starting to see the Unreality of this situation.

<CHAPTER 11·End>

Translation Notes:

[1] Yokohama Station s a major interchange railway station in Nishi-ku, Yokohama, Japan. It is the busiest station in Kanagawa Prefecture and the fifth-busiest in the world as of 2013, serving 760 million passengers a year. 

[2] Kimitake Hiraoka known also under the pen name Yukio Mishima, was a Japanese author, poet, playwright, actor, model, film director, nationalist, and founder of the Tatenokai. Mishima is considered one of the most important Japanese authors of the 20th century. He was considered for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1968, but the award went to his countryman Yasunari Kawabata. His works in question here is Apollo’s Cup: a collection of many travel stories by Mishima in Europe, and lots about the food eaten there. Mishima's work is characterized by its luxurious vocabulary and decadent metaphors, its fusion of traditional Japanese and modern Western literary styles, and its obsessive assertions of the unity of beauty, eroticism and death Mishima's personal life was controversial, which makes him still a contested figure today. Ideologically a right wing nationalist, Mishima formed the Tatenokai, an unarmed civilian militia, for the avowed purpose of restoring power to the Japanese Emperor. On November 25, 1970, Mishima and four members of his militia entered a military base in central Tokyo, took the commandant hostage, and attempted to inspire the Japan Self-Defense Forces to overturn Japan's 1947 Constitution. When this was unsuccessful, Mishima committed seppuku.

[3] Wasn't sure if its Kasamori or Kasanori so we just went with Kasamori

[4] Sinking of Japan is a 2006 tokusatsu film directed by Shinji Higuchi. It is an adaptation of the novel Japan Sinks and a remake of the film Tidal Wave, both made in the year 1973.

[5] The title is something like “sitting on the bus” but I can't translate the names of the composer or lyricist, and can't find anything about it online either but it’s probably real.

[6] ‘Ai wo Torimodose!!’ is one of the openings to Fist of the North Star.

[7] RIP Taeko, you will be missed you glorious bastard.

[8] So Kazuya hates Suisei. All the more reason to hate Kazuya lol. Also RIP Suisei, you will be missed you glorious bastard.

[9] It translated as peridot not crimson but I doubt there was enough copper for that to happen.

[10] AAAAAAAA HIROYUKI IS BACK. The exact lines I changed a tiny bit to resemble two of his notable lines from the first book just for clarity. “Do you need a lift young master” and “I pressed it” honestly don’t do his character justice, so they were replaced.

To Be Continued.

https://drmedicsgamesurgery.tumblr.com/GameSurgeryDRTranslations

[puckleisdreaming]

The bar was empty apart from one old man over by the slot machine in the corner. He’d been there all night as far as I could tell and hadn’t so much as gotten up to relieve himself in at least the two hours I’d been here. Every now and again he’d post another coin in and pull the big red lever on the side of the machine and it would light up and play a little tune as the wheels spun and then ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’. Sometimes this was followed by a metallic trickle of change as the machine begrudgingly vomited forth some coins only for them to find their way back inside as the man continued to play his games. I couldn’t understand it. They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, I can’t remember where I’d heard that. But if that’s the case this guy had to be absolutely fricking nuts, like out of his mind crazy considering how many times he’d pulled that fucking lever. Again and again he’d yank it and the machine would make that noise like an old washing machine with a brick in it. I’d come to brood and here was this old nutcase throwing money away over and over and for what? What was he hoping would happen?

I was getting wound up over nothing, I turned back to my beer. It was a miserable night and the damp that the patrons of the evening had tramped in and out of the place had suffused the air with a nasty humidity that fugged up the back of my throat. I kept sipping this beer to try and clear it but it didn’t work.

“You must really hate yourself.” Anette took the stool next to me and looked right at me. The way she was staring it was like she could burn holes in my temple, I just kept staring straight down at the beer. Ca-chunk went the lever as the psycho in the corner pulled it again and tumble tumble tumble went the wheels.

“What do you want, I’m busy.” I took another sip and glanced at her through the corner of my eye. She must have been on a job dressed up the way she was. Her freckled face was framed by crinkly blue black hair. She’d died it a few months back and now it reminded me of the ribbon inside cassette tapes all scrunched up the way it caught the light sometimes. New glasses and boots too, someone was paying her good money. I wasn’t used to seeing her in a dress and the sleek black number stuck out painfully here, if it wasn’t so empty, the attention she was drawing would have made me feel sick. My palms started itching.

“I can see that, just like you’ve been busy every night for weeks.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“I’ve got better things to do than watch you every night but you know we’ve got eye’s and ears, you weren’t going to be able to just stop calling us and hope to slip away”

“I don’t see why not, it’s not like you need my help.”

I dropped a handful of coppers on the bar for a tip and headed out leaving the beer half drunk, Anette cannoned it down before following me out the door. I pulled my collar up against the rain hoping the foul weather would dissuade her, she had a U-field up. No such luck. I stopped and turned to face her watching the rain as it got caught in the static field being projected by the small device attached to her wrist. The droplets got within a foot of her head before slowing to an eery stop about two inches from her hair. They vibrated slightly caught between their momentum carrying them forward and the static field pushing them away before they spat off the field like water splashed on a hot pan. She stood there fizzing and spitting water out in every direction forming strange rainbows caught in the neon light of the nearby bars and casinos.

“Wasn’t it you who told me only assholes use U-fields? Spraying every passerby without one in the face as you walk by.”

“That was before rain water became the leading cause of skin cancer. Got sick of stabbing myself with a syringe full of Oncoligon every time I got caught in a shower.”

“Rather that than give some poor sod ocular just for passing me in the street.”

“Are we going to do this all night? You’ve been in that bar every evening for three weeks. If you were drinking yourself to death I’d be less concerned but you’re not and you’re not returning our calls so tell me what’s going on with you.”

She was more pissed off than I thought she was, crackling there like a live wire out in the rain. I’d known Anette long enough to know not to get her too wound up, she had a tendency to lose it and like all Neomancers when she lost it people tended to end up needing retinal surgeries. It had been a while since I’d seen her at work but I was watching for the tell tale signs, flickering electrics nearby, a slight glow to her skin.

“We’re friends, I think I’ve been very generous with the time I’ve bought you, but people are starting to wonder when you’re coming back into the fold. I’ve told them all you’re good for it, that you’re just getting your head together but when you took off you made a few people look very stupid and you know what happens when certain people are made to look stupid.

“I told you Anette. I don’t have it. I don’t know what happened in that vault but I don’t have it. If I’d made it out of there with a mancy like that don’t you think I would have made use of it by now? A sorry sap like me I could have sold it for a fortune, paid everyone off, and still had money left over to make a break for it. If I’d collected what we were looking for that night and wanted to make a getaway I would be gone.”

She moved like lightening. The world exploded in agony as ice picks were smashed through my eyeballs and my brain burst with white. Lights out.

I came to on a cold concrete floor, as my eyes began to focus I was aware my clothes were still damp, couldn’t have been long since our little chat. The headache I had was splitting and my vision was fuzzy, my periphery dropping away to a hazy blackness like I had weird tunnel vision. From what I could make out I was in a small room with a steel door, the only light was a fluorescent tube up in the ceiling and there were no windows. Guess I was staying put. I crawled over to the wall and placed my forehead against the cool concrete hoping to curb the oncoming migraine. I hadn’t been hit by Anette before but I’d seen her wipe out others, I found a sudden deep well of sympathy for her victims. She’d been training with someone as well. She’d always been tougher than a carrier like me but I was quick at least and made a living off of being able to get out of trouble. Sure I was a few weeks out of practice but she had definitely gotten faster.

Without moving I considered my situation. Concrete walls, no windows, probably a basement. As it was Anette who picked me up it was most likely one of Desto’s spots but without more information I couldn’t guess where. There were hundreds of Desto’s places all over Avon and I could have been bundled to any one of them whilst I was out cold. Up until fairly recently Desto had been my employer and ever since Anette had joined two years ago she’d been Desto’s number two. Most of Desto’s income came from snatch jobs and implantation surgeries so she had plenty of carriers in her employ. Her mancer’s were always there for when she needed a little more muscle but she preferred to keep a low profile for most of her work. I found a small crack in the concrete wall next to my cheek and traced it with a finger, feeling the rough texture and waiting for the beating that would inevitably be coming. It was the best gig around if you could get into a boss’s good graces but pissing them off was verging on suicidal.

Thinking about that stupid man and his stupid slot machine, how many times had he been there in the weeks I’d been frequenting that place? Every time I’d gone I knew it was stupid to keep returning to the same spot but I’m a creature of habit. I don’t like change. What happened in the vault had shaken me and suddenly the dashing high life of working for a boss didn’t seem quite so desirable. I wanted out and I had let myself dream that word would get back to Desto that the job had gone to shit but all she’d lost was a carrier. She had hundreds of me in her employ, no skin off her nose if one got caught by the enemy and beaten to a bloody pulp. Maybe, just maybe, she’d decide to cut her losses and forget about it, forget about me.

It had been a risky job, we always knew that, but word had gotten out that Jacob had some crazy mancy stored down in his vault whilst he tried to find someone who could make an implant that could carry the thing. Mancies came in all shapes and sizes and the more powerful the mancy the more complex the implant you needed to integrate it. Any sucker can carry the thing around but to properly integrate a complex bit of Arch tech with the human nervous system took serious technology. Most bosses have vaults to keep mancies they find whilst their techs fabricate integrations for them. Even when the tech was done you had to pretty much just hope you were compatible with it. Different mancies integrated with different people. Anette was a neomancer, her little bit of Arch tech that sat in a chip at the base of her skull allowed her to project and control, to some extent, visible light. How? I don’t know, ask the techs, but it’s all because of that micro chip at the top of her spine.

I’m no mancer, I’m a carrier. Outfitted with an all purpose petabyte microdrive in my forearm I can carry pretty much any non integrated mancy as long as I can get close enough to download it. No one fully understands Arch tech but the one thing we do know is the file sizes are enormous. Stupid big. Even the flashest of new computers couldn’t come close to needing the kind of square footage these things needed in dataspace. So they load up people with massive drives, hook the drives up to our metabolics for fuel and send us around to carry them from place to place. Wireless would take years and a simple portable drive won’t do it. You need something with some serious horse power and you know what’s easier than lugging around a hard drive hooked up to a car battery? Knitting a microdrive into the cardiovascular system of a human being.

[elevenhoursinfront-blog]

26th July 2017

How is it Wednesday already? This is great. I can't wait to leave now. I woke up and got ready on the third toilet cubicle as I always do. I like the third one - it has a new toilet roll holder and a hook on the back of the door. I've been speaking to a girl in the last week or so in the bathroom as I get ready. She is the one that now works where I work but in a different team. She was hired through a different agency and her contract is for 4 weeks only. She is leaving Australia at the end of September as her visa is up. She is going home via Thailand and Vietnam. Everyone I have met so far has said 'go to Thailand, it's the best place!'. I've been and it wasn't the 'wow' factor I imagined having - maybe we went to the wrong places. Far too many people have said how amazing it is so I probably would go again now, to try and change my opinion. The Chinese definitely ruined the experience for me there though. 

I got to work, sat down and listened to everyone running around like headless chickens. The company are still getting used to Salesforce. The cellotape made chart on the wall has expanded like crazy, we're onto the third wall. I say 'we' like I'm apart of all this - I'm not, I haven't a clue whats going on. Kayly and I are sort of ignored now, we're pretty unnecessary. I sat there for about 2 hours bored. We had literally nothing to do other than twiddle our thumbs. I got on with my blog which was good. I use the internet here to post them. 

By 1130, we were still sitting there doing absolutely nothing. We kept asking for stuff to do but there literally was nothing. We knew we was going to get sent home. They're paying us for nothing. I hadn't even logged in. Nick came over and told me that I could go home. I asked whether I was back tomorrow and he said yes. Nick isn't the type to say 'no' to your face, he's very shy and quiet (when he's sober).  I thought he batted for his own team when I first met him, it was only when Kayly told me he was newly married I realised he didn't. Nick asked for my mobile number which I thought was weird. Why would you ask for my mobile number to contact me when I only have two days left of my contract? I immediately thought I was out of a job. He would text me tonight to say "Sorry Charlie, don't worry about coming in as there isn't any work". I got home and luckily Steve was off work. At least I wouldn't be lonely. He was laying on his bed about to do the washing (please add emphasis to the word 'about'). I sorted all of my washing out as Steve went to go and get the laundry card. We went and put our stuff into the washing machine at the same time as our new roommate. Steve has spoken to her a fair bit - I haven't as I've been out every time she's been in. I'm not sure what her name is, all I know is that she's from Germany but speaks great English. Oh, and she's been very quiet when coming into the room at night. Love that. 

Washing in - time to sort what I'm throwing out. I sat on the floor and went through all my clothes. Steve did the same. We got our big backpacks out of the locker and sorted through our summer stuff, too. We ended up packing the majority of the stuff into our new packing cubes. They're amazing. I'm going to keep them for my future holidays. You can keep all your clothes folded nicely - tops in one cube, shorts in another, dresses in another. What a great invention. Steve went to put the washing into the dryer but took about 5 hours to do so. I went down to him sorting it all out, looking through the clothes labels to see whether they're tumble dry-able.  He's so thorough (slow). Bless him. Whilst the washing was in the dryer for an hour, we went down to make lunch. We had Turkish rolls left which was great. Steve had beans and cheese with salad on the rolls, and I had a cheese roll. We had a cup of tea and then went back upstairs to get the washing out. Steve looked at the mail and saw another package for him from his Mum and Nan. He is so spoilt by them at the moment - they must've spent so much money on him. It's nice to see his smile when he gets the post though. They had sent new trunks which will look great in Cairns. We have a swimming pool in our hostel at the farm too so they'll come in handy. He also got a few more tops which are always useful for him. 

I carried on sorted through my chucking away pile. I ended up with about 20/30 items including about 4 pairs of shoes. Great! I'm going to take the good stuff to Lena at work as she's the same size as me, the rest will go in the free clothes bin unless it really needs to go into the bin. 

Mel came up to the room when she finished work. She saw all the stuff I was chucking and said she was impressed - as a hoarder, I was too. Mel is going to pack on Friday so she can throw away all her work stuff. I got carried away and ended up packing literally everything I could. All I need to do now is put the cubes into my backpack and sort through my toiletries. Steve had done the clothes that he could, knowing he wouldn't wear them. Probably the smarter idea but I'm going to just get stuff out of the cubes as I go. That's what they're for - to keep stuff neat and tidy. Steve has more stuff than I do, but his work stuff takes up so much room and they're pretty heavy items, too. I managed to fold down my holdall so I can use my pink IT-Luggage backpack as hand luggage. Steve will probably need to use his holdall. 

Tommy came into the room, beaming. He had got 5 job offers this morning. He's going to take the one in Darwin as he'll be working in a National Park as housekeeper and cook. Tommy is a chef back home but he swore never to cook again (professionally). He would get $30 an hour if he did cook so he wasn't going to miss out on that kind of money. He will most likely fly out on Monday. 

By 1900, we were all ready to go to the market. I say all, Steve, Mel and I. We are meeting Sharon and her cousin at the market and Tommy is there with his friends too. We walked the 5 blocks to the market and the music was great. There is always a live band playing but this week they were great - playing good songs too. We walked around looking at what we wanted for dinner. Mel and I went with pizza from '400Gradi', which is meant to be the best pizza ever. The restaurant is always booked out - we can never get a table there. The pizza was nice, not the best I ever had. We carried on walking around and Steve went with a philly cheese steak sandwich. He said he had better at TGI. Mel then went for an apple crumble which looked nice but I don't like cooked apple. 

Steve went for an apple cider and I went for a mulled wine. We walked around looking at all the stalls. There were performers - jugglers, dancers, a girl dressed up in luminous clothing with light up hula-hoops. There were girls on stilts and fire dancers. Mel and I really wanted to join in on the silent disco but we didn't have any more money left. It looked so much fun. We started to walk back around 2100. We got back to the hostel and Sharon text to say she was just arriving at the market which was typical. We didn't see Tommy either. I got myself ready for bed and chilled out for a bit. I was half asleep when Tommy came in and said that he was leaving tonight. He had to check out in the morning but his friend said he could sleep on the sofa. That's going to save him just under $200. He'll be flying out to Darwin Monday morning. We said goodbye and I fell asleep straight after.

[yesterdaysdreams]

How to Sew Your Own Sleeping Bag

It’s not always easy to find cute sleeping bags for the occasional glamping trip or a weekend sleepover. Lucky for you, it’s easier than it looks to make your own for yourself or someone in your family! I made two sleeping bags for my two older kids as they may soon be spending a little more time at Grandma and Big Papi’s house, but I may also made myself one to match because I’m pretty jealous that they get to sleep in these.

Making your own sleeping bag is very similar to making a duvet cover only you are sewing all the way around the perimeter, folding it in half, and attaching a special zipper. You can easily adjust the length depending on whether you’re making this for an adult or a child, and the fabric options are only really limited by your imagination.

Adult Sleeping Bag Supplies: -4 yards outer fabric -4 yards inner fabric –queen size high loft batting (prepackaged) or 4 yards of cut batting –48″ dual separating zipper

Child Sleeping Bag Supplies: -3 yards outer fabric -3 yards inner fabric -3 yards of cut batting (high loft) -48″ dual separating zipper

Optional Supplies: -If you want to hand-tie your sleeping bag, you’ll also need 1-2 skeins of embroidery thread and a tapestry needle -fabric safe paint -paintbrush -cardboard or similar surface to protect your paint from bleeding through

Step One: Before cutting my canvas, I randomly hand-painted neon polka dots all over with fabric safe paint. I didn’t want it to feel too precise, so I just eyeballed it. I then allowed it to dry all afternoon before moving on to the next step.

Step Two: I made two child-sized sleeping bags so I had three yards of my outer fabric. I cut that precisely in half to get two equal lengths. Then I faced them with right sides together, lined them up along one of the long seams and pinned my straight pins every 6″ or so. I followed this by stitching down the length of that pinned side and then removing the pins. This created a squarish shape when unfolded.

Step Three: I basically repeated steps one and two with the inner fabric. I cut my three yards into two equal lengths measuring 1.5 yards each. I then faced the right sides together and pinned along one of the long edges. Finally, I stitched along that long edge and removed my pins.

Step Four: Next, place your outer fabric on the ground with the right side facing up. If you have non-carpeted floors, you can tape this piece down for a less wrinkled process. Then lay your unfolded inner fabric on top of the outer fabric so the right sides are facing each other. Be sure to line up your edges as best you can. Finally, lay your batting on top of the inner fabric and line up your edges. Smooth out your batting and pin all three layers together every 8″ or so along the perimeter where all three layers meet. If you have extra batting that hangs off two sides, trim it off.

Take this beast to your sewing machine and stitch along the perimeter of your fabric sandwich. Don’t start at the corner as you’ll want to leave about 8″ unstitched so you can turn it right side out. Trim your corners and remove any remaining pins when you’re done stitching.

Step Five: Turn your fabric sandwich right side out and be sure to poke out those corners.

Step Six: Iron your open edge so that it folds into itself nicely and pin it closed as shown. You can hand-stitch this shut when you’re making a quilt or something similar, but we’re sewing a zipper over this part so you can stitch it shut with your machine. Just be sure to sew it a bit closer to the edge than normal. Remove your pins.

Step Seven: Place your sleeping bag on the floor so the middle seam runs vertically. I rolled mine so you could see it better in the photo, but it’s not necessary. If you’re going to hand-tie your bag, you can skip this step. Otherwise, use yardsticks to split your panel into three or more equal sections. Use straight pins to mark where your stitched lines will be. You’ll want to do this all the way across your sleeping bag to make it even. This will help your batting to stay in place when it’s washed and adds some texture as well. If you have a light colored chalk on hand, it may help to draw your chalk line before pinning.

Step Eight: This is the necessary rolling part. With your sleeping bag completely flat, roll the bottom edge up to your first row of pins. This will help you fit your bag under your machine.

Step Nine: Stitch carefully along the line your pins created and remove them when you’re done. Remove your sleeping bag from under your machine each time you finish a row and then roll it up to the next row until you’re finished.

Step Ten: Place your zipper near the top of the right edge of your sleeping bag so that the right side of the zipper is facing the right side of your fabric. This will look upside down but it’ll create a more finished look once we’re done. Line up the edges and pin every 4″. It won’t be as long as the length of your sleeping bag but that’s okay.

Step Eleven: Unzip your zipper about 4″ to get started. If you’re using a zipper foot, this won’t be necessary, but if you’re using your standard presser foot, this is how we work around the fact that the zipper head is in the way. I wanted to show you this alternative method in case you are ever in that situation where you just can NOT find your zipper foot, or if you don’t have one. But, if you do have one, it makes life a little easier, so feel free to use it here.

Start with a back stitch and then stitch down to the zipper head, making sure to stitch about 1/4″ from the edge.

Lift your presser foot and pull your sleeping bag away from the machine about an inch to get yourself some wiggle room with the thread. Slide that zipper head back in place at the top, and then place your sleeping bag back under your presser foot where you left off. Continue stitching to the bottom.

Step Twelve: Do the same thing with the bottom zipper head by stitching until you get to it, lifting your presser foot, getting the zipper head out of the way, and resuming your stitching.

Step Thirteen: Back stitch a few times near the end.

Step Fourteen: Fold your sleeping bag in half like a taco with the right sides facing together and pin the other edge of your zipper to the other edge of the bag. The right sides should be facing each other and the long edges lined up. Pin every 4″ again. This is the bottom of the zipper.

Step Fifteen: This is the top corner of the zipper. Be sure your top edges are even before you start pinning and sewing!

Step Sixteen: Once you’ve sewn your zipper in, you’re going to want to enclose the bottom of your bag. Starting near the bottom of your zipper, pin along the bag so that the edges are lined up.

Step Seventeen: Place your bag under your presser foot so that you start sewing about 1/2″ over the long ends of your zipper. Back stitch and sew about 1/2″ in diagonally as shown. Then pivot and sew down to the corner of your bag.

Step Eighteen: Pivot your bag and continue stitching along that last length of your sleeping bag. Back stitch about 1″ from the fold in the middle of your bag as it may be too much fabric to try and stitch through it. Remove your pins.

Step Nineteen: Turn your bag right side out and make sure to poke out the bottom two corners.

Hooray! You’ve successfully made your own sleeping bag and Anthropologie is officially jealous! Your sleeping bags will be about 40″ wide and between 4.5′ and 6′ long depending on who you are making it for and how much fabric you’ve purchased. Once you’ve done one, you’ll speed through your second and/or third in no time. These can be washed in cold water and tumble dried on low, but I might also suggest line drying them to keep them lasting longer. They surely aren’t the kind of sleeping bags you want to take with you if you’re sleeping on the ground out in the woods, but they’d cozy up a tent or camper in the best way. – Rachel

Credits // Author and Photography: Rachel Denbow.

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[reekierevelator]

Old Friends - a short story in seven parts, by Brian Bourner - Part 3, trusting Mike the Jakey

In my new home I made Findlay take a bath while I stuffed all his clothes into the washing machine with plenty of soap powder and a sweet-smelling softener that guaranteed laundry would smell powerfully of wild spring flowers.

While he was still in the bath I examined the painting carefully. I’d been looking at paintings for decades; usually cheap copies, prints, and amateur stuff.  Once in a while something worthwhile found its way into the shop – sorry, art gallery. I was nearly certain the picture I now held was a genuine Renoir original.  It might be small but if I was right it would be worth thousands – minimum thirty thousand pounds; maximum? Millions.  Findlay had obviously been down on his luck. It would be ironic if his flat had all the while been hosting a goldmine.

        I needed to get the picture properly valued.  That kind of thing had occasionally been my responsibility, my reason for the odd trip back to Britain.  I needed to visit the auctioneers and galleries in the centre of town. On the other hand I didn’t want Findlay – or myself for that matter - to be spotted by Findlay’s rather unusual associates.  Someone else could easily do the job for us.  But who?

           When Findlay emerged from the bath I gave him some of my own clothes to wear temporarily and showed him the spare room where he could lodge for a day or two. Then I headed to the kitchen to run up a quick pasta meal. Findlay was lounging on my new leather sofa in the living room when I called “Have you heard from Mike or Valerie lately?”

           There was no reply. Thinking he hadn’t heard me I was about to shout the question again when he replied.

           “Val, Valerie, no, I haven’t seen her in years – not since you left for France.  Must look her up sometime.  But I’ve bumped into Mike a couple of times since then.”

           “Have you got a number for Mike? Or an address?”

           “Lives in Portobello now.  Saw him in the Spanish Galleon and the Deoch-an-Doris the times I’ve been down there this last year or two.”

           “Going for a stroll along the Prom together?”

           “What, eh, no. Just some bits of business.”

           “The thing is Findlay, I’d like to get someone to have a proper look at that picture I brought from your flat.  But just now I don’t think we want to be seen by anyone living near your flat or even be seen in the town centre.  I was thinking we maybe get somebody else, somebody trustworthy, maybe an ex teacher, to take it in. How about Mike?”

           Findlay perked up a little.  

“You think it might be worth something?”

           “Maybe.”

           Being cagey with clients had become second nature to me.  Whether buying or selling it didn’t do to jump to conclusions or reveal your hand too quickly. Stuff I’d dealt with had more often than not turned out to be worthless.

           “I’m pretty sure Mike must live close to the Deoch-an-Doris. He seems to spend a lot of time there.”

           Findlay seemed to know more about Mike than he wanted to share, but there was no point pressing him.

           “Ok, I said, I’ll take the by-pass down to Portobello tomorrow and see if I can track him down.  Maybe best if you stop here. Stay indoors, at least until tomorrow.”

             Next morning brought a brisk cool day, the city bathed in pale sunshine  I picked up the picture, shoved it in a canvas bag, and drove the long way round to Portobello, avoiding the city centre just in case.

           The Deoch-an-Doris was opening for its morning customers just as I arrived.  In the side alley that ran alongside the pub three old homeless guys were drinking their breakfast of Special Brew. It didn’t seem a particularly salubrious neck of the woods.

Carrying the canvas bag, I followed a couple of sad looking old men who had been hanging about outside as they stumbled into the bar, one of them in a flat cap and the other with a straggly grey beard.

The pub smelled of bleach, so at least the toilets had been cleaned. Smoking had been banned in pubs since I’d last lived here and, until evening, bleach had apparently taken over from Golden Virginia as the characteristic pub odour.

A heavy-set barman, sour faced, about thirty, the sleeves of his white shirt already rolled up to his elbows, finished wiping the last of the tables and made his way behind the horseshoe bar. He poured two half pints and two nips of whisky without waiting for anyone to order.  The first of the old men rummaged in his pockets and eventually presented a crumpled five pound note.  The barman silently handed him a little change before turning expectantly to me.

           “Gin and tonic, please.”

           The barman’s tiny borehole eyes blinked, his double chin wobbling as he screwed up his face. Then he turned to pick up the gin bottle, with optic attached, from the central shelving unit behind him.

           As I paid I asked with some trepidation, “By the way, I was wondering if you knew a Michael McGivern? I’m an old friend. I’ve been told he pops in here quite often, but I haven’t been able to find an address.”

For a moment I thought wistfully of the old days when everyone’s name and number was in the Phone Book or at least traceable via the Electoral Roll.

           The barman performed a thoughtful face and eventually said.  “I know someone who’d know. If that’s worth anything to you?”

           “Yes,” I said, “that would be helpful.”

           He leaned two fat hands on the bar and stared at me expectantly. Eventually the penny dropped and I reached for my wallet. Reluctantly, I picked out a fiver and held it loosely in my hand.

           “I do appreciate your assistance,” I said.

           He quickly grasped the money from my hand and leaned towards me.

           “Talk to the old men over there,” he said, nodding towards the two men I’d come in with. “They know everyone as uses this pub.”

           I took my drink over to the table where the two men who’d come in with me sat morosely sipping their beers and chasers.

           “You don’t mind if I join you for a minute,” I asked as I pulled up a chair beside them. “I’m looking for an old friend and I’m told you might know his whereabouts.”

           “What’s the name of this old friend?” the bearded man asked gruffly.

           “Michael, Mike McGivern.”

           “That’ll be Mickey”, said the flat cap.

           “Mickey McGivern,” agreed the beard. “He’ll be in shortly. If you’re in a rush it’s 49 Ramsay Place.  I think the name on the door is Leveson.  Rented flat.  Probably four or five of them sharing.”

I thanked them, finished the cheap gin and left the pub.

           I rang the entryphone buzzer labelled ‘Leveson’ and a voice over the intercom asked “Who’s there?”  

           “An old friend of Mickey’s” I shouted into the intercom.

           There was a buzz and I pushed open the stair door. My nose twitched at the vague smell of stale urine, but after the abominable stink of Findlay’s flat it was harmless enough.

           I clambered to the second floor and found the door labelled Leveson already ajar.  As I was about to enter it swung open and a tall thin man tumbled out, still trying to get his left arm into the sleeve of an imitation black leather jacket with multiple zip pockets. Chestnut hair survived only around the sides of his head, folds of skin hung from his cheeks and throat, and his nose was a bulbous blue.  But still I recognised him.

           “Mike,” I said, “Good to see you again.”

           He peered at me curiously as if he’d been expecting someone else.

           “Who are you?” he asked.

           “It’s Paul, Michael.  Paul Gulliver.  Remember me now?”

           “Christ, where have you sprung from?  Never mind, tell me in the rub-a dub-dub.”

           Back in the Deoch-an-Doris that I’d left only a few minutes before I bought Mike the double whisky he requested and another gin and tonic for myself.  We sat down at the opposite side of the room to flat cap and beardy.

           “How’s it going then, Mike?” I ventured.

“It’s not. How did you find me?”

“Findlay…”

“Aye, that would be right.  Down to see me a few times lately. Looking to borrow money. Wearing a tin flute out the Ark.  And he was absolutely Abraham Lincoln.  

“Yes, I know. I’m trying to help with that. Funny thing.  He sent me a card last Christmas saying everything was fine, life was going well.”

“It was just a Christmas card, not a personal financial review.”

“But it was architecture wasn’t it?  With a career like that?  I mean, all the years I’ve been abroad – over thirty years – I thought he’d surely be financially secure by now?”

“He was never an architect, Paul.  He worked briefly as a temporary architectural assistant.  That would have been just before your time.  Always thought he was going to be an architect.”

“But surely he studied architecture, didn’t he?”

“Aye, twice.  Sweated over entry qualifications.  Got into uni to do architecture twice.  Two different places.  You would have known him in Edinburgh.  His Aberdeen stint was later.  Twice he failed to get into second year.  He was university challenged, eh? So they told him to try using the modelling skills they’d taught him.  He just about had the hang of that.  He thought he’d make a living out of it until he somehow became an architect.  Ended up with a career making architectural models.”

“Ah, yes. In fact I do vaguely remember a note on a card one year saying he was concentrating on drawing up plans for small-scale versions of new buildings.”

“Models of buildings. Plans for models.  It was always an erratic way to make a living; touting for work round architects offices and building firms.  I suppose it worked for him, more or less.  For a while anyway. Lasted nigh on ten years.  It worked in the sense that he earned enough to pay the rent and eat regularly.”

“Well, a living’s a living I suppose. As you know, I spent most of my years working in a shop, well, a small private art gallery really, in the south of France.  I can’t say I was absolutely overjoyed with it, but it paid ok and the weather provided some recompense…  Why did he give it up after ten years?

“He moaned to me about the 3D computer modelling, Paul.  After that came in there were still some who wanted a physical model, you know, put it in a pyrex display case near the building site, but then there was the internet. Turned out there were skilled architectural modellers, in China or India, the Philippines, or almost anywhere apparently. Those guys could run you up a full-scale model in no time at all, mail it to you and charge almost nothing.  Local demand for Findlay’s physical models disappeared like snow off a dyke. Technology and cheap foreign labour left him behind.”

“I see. But then did he not mention something about work as a carer. I thought he was doing some additional voluntary work.”

“Not really.  What it was, his mother fortunately developed dementia – well, not fortunate for her, of course – round about the same time as he had to pack in making models.  Fortunate for him though.  Someone needed to live with her full time, looking after her, and he desperately needed somewhere to live.  He discovered he’d be paid state benefits as a carer.  As a regular income, it wasn’t ideal, barely enough to manage, but that’s how he survived. Some money in his sky rocket, at least until his mum was potted heid.”

“Yes, he said his mum died.”

“Aye, about ten or eleven years ago. He would have been fifty-four, fifty-five. At that age, with no other skills, he was virtually unemployable. I suppose as the years rolled by it was increasingly a case of no work, no benefits.  It gets worse every year. You don’t have to tell me about it. That’s the way it was – scrabbling, scavenging.”

“But a year or so ago he wrote that he was fine, he was involved with the government. Did he not take a job in the public sector or something?”

And immediately having said that it dawned on me that because I hadn’t really been that interested in them for years, decades, I’d been making unwarranted assumptions about people I used to know.  The Findlay I thought I’d known didn’t really exist at all.  Even the man now sitting opposite me was very much another unknown quantity.

“Findlay has always been a bit of a fantasist,” Mike was saying.  Probably still expects to be an architect someday. Involvement with the government probably meant him finally reaching state pension age.  Though I doubt he gets much of a pension. He boasted about never paying insurance stamps during his erratic self-employment period.  But stamps would have been paid for him when he was claiming benefits as a carer.”

And so I came to understand Findlay as some kind of a Walter Mitty character. For years the bits I’d heard from him had clearly vastly embellished his activities and his self-importance.  The state of his flat and his personal hygiene told the real story.

“He seems to be caught up in financial problems involving some pretty rough characters.”

“Yes, when he looked me up recently trying to tap me for cash I knew he was getting desperate.  Big sob story.  Couldn’t even afford to go to the pub for a pint.  Didn’t have money for the gas meter.  I suggested downsizing, selling the flat.  But there was some story about a legal problem there.  He started trecking through the posh bits of town, raking in skips, probably turned into a bit of a tea leaf. He picked up all sorts of junk, trying to find stuff to sell or to hock.  I don’t think he had much success as a rag and bone man.  Then he resorted to gambling to try and solve his problems.  Betting what little he had, hoping against hope that the money would multiply. Said he started with the lottery, scratch cards, and then the horses.  Finally hanging about the cream cookie playing roulette on the one-arm bandits. Ended up borrowing money to bet with. Some of it from me.  Owes a lot, so I heard. Sounds like he’s in real soapy bubble, royally Donald Duck’d.  I’m not really surprised.  I got trapped just as easily.

“Trapped?”

“I was a teacher, admittedly a crap teacher, but hanging on for a reasonable pension. I married late Paul, into my forties. You never met Donny, did you? Two daughters, nineteen and twenty-one now. I suppose I was drinking a lot. It all went belly-up.  The trouble and strife divorced me.  I got the pension.  As Johnny Clarke aptly puts it, we shared the house equally; I got the outside. Quite a nice house too.  In Joppa. I was Donaldina Duck’d.

“Sorry Mike, I didn’t know. But at least you still had a decent salary, and a teacher’s pension to look forward to.”

“Samantha and Gloria were - are - both away at uni.  Costly business.  Divorce settlement said it was up to me to pay their expenses, rents, course costs etc etc.  I was on my Todd and it was a big hit on a teacher’s salary. It was all stressful. I was drinking more and more. That was when I thought about the change in the law.”

“The change in the law?”  

“You remember a couple of years ago the law changed. Instead of waiting till you retired you could take all or part of your pension pot as cash?”

“I was in France but yes, I heard something about it.”

“Well, that seemed to be the answer to tide me over.  And then came the endless cold calls.  Smooth-talking bastards telling me I’m so near retirement I might as well cash in all of my little pension pot and they’d show you how to invest it to make myself a millionaire.”

“You didn’t cash in your pension?”

“I was a mug. I wasn’t thinking straight. I haven’t got a Scooby about financial stuff. Only a year before I was due to retire too.  Of course, the guy was a total Bengal Lancer.  Lost the lot.  But you only find out when it’s too late, don’t you?

“My God, I’m so sorry Mike.”

“Fuck it.  So I’m living in a shit-hole. Waiting for the state pension. The pub is my life.  But look Paul, I don’t think you tracked me down just to see what a two and eight I’m in, hear how bad life has treated me, or how boracic Findlay is.  And I don’t suppose you’re interested in hearing about thirty years of trying to knock some English grammar into the bottom stream of a comprehensive. I was burned out long before I retired. What is it you’re really after Paul?”

“Well, to be honest Mike, the thing is, Findlay has got something. I think it’s worth having it valued by experts.  But I’d rather someone else did instead of him or me.  I don’t know too many people in Edinburgh and I thought of you.”

I took the picture from the canvas bag, being careful with the cracked glass.  

“It’s just a case of taking this in to Bonham’s, Ramsay Cornish, or Lyon and Turnbull – maybe even the National Gallery. Say you’re thinking of selling and ask what price they think it might go for.”

Mike screwed up his eyes, squinting at the picture, the odd couple dancing. He pulled a smeared pair of glasses from his pocket.

“Getting old, nearly Tolbooth Wynd,” he muttered as he put them on before delivering his considered assessment: “Looks like shite.”

A horrible thought ran through my mind that maybe I’d picked the wrong man. Was this poor sighted, ex-teacher raddled with drink really the man I was going to entrust with a possibly very valuable picture?  But who else was there? And he was an old friend, after all.

“Maybe it is and maybe it’s not. Will you do it anyway?”

He hesitated and I added “For old times’ sake?”

“Aye, ok then Paul,” his response somewhat less than enthusiastic.

I thanked him and wrote my phone number on a piece of paper. I gave it to him and said “Call me as soon as you can.  Before the end of the week at the latest.”

“What about expenses?”

“I’ll see you ok afterwards.”

I rose from my chair.

“So,” he said. “That’s your job done is it?. Or maybe Findlay’s job done. And now it’s time for you to shoot the crow is it?”

As I left the pub Mike was already picking up the canvas bag and moving over to join the two old men. Doubts crowded in on me but it was done now.  I could only hope I’d made the right decision and that Mike would shortly phone me with a figure for the picture’s value.

Another red-faced man was just entering as I left, saying “Ho, Mickey, climbed all the apples and pears up your place and you were gone already. You must have needed an early start today, eh?”

I cut across Leith Walk at Pilrig and drove back to Corstorphine via the Ferry Road, giving myself too much time to anxiously cogitate about whether I was doing the right thing with the picture.

[continued in Part 4]