#its like the opposite of an exotic bird store

[bitchardhendricks]

Well I’ve Never Been to Heaven (But I’ve Been to Oklahoma) Pt 10

So. The last couple weeks have been...A Lot. Both personally and y’know from an entire racial equity uprising perspective, and I’ve felt very much that my responsibility was to read, learn, understand, listen, and be quiet. No one needs to hear a white girl writing about white nerd boy problems right now. But I realized after a couple weeks that when I got overwhelmed, or when I needed to relieve the pressure valve on my emotions, I turned to the same form of comfort I always have - stories. Stories about characters I love, whether they’re in tv, movies, fic, whatever. The comfort of those stories allowed me to rest just enough that I could wake up the next day and keep reading, learning, listening. So it may seem silly, this meandering tale of these two flawed men confronting the past and the future together, but reading stories like this helps me feel sane enough that I have the energy to keep trying to do better. I hope this one helps you, too. Catch up on previous entries here, and come say hi in my inbox and let me know what you think.

***

After lunch, they head 1 mile east until they reach an unremarkable long, squat building with a faded green roof hanging down nearly halfway to the ground and obscuring the store front, held up by a series of flared white cinderblock columns. This elongated hut takes up the better part of a city block, and as they pull into the cracked parking lot, Richard spies Jared’s face lighting up as he reads the sign.

“Gardner’s Used Books, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Toys, Comics, Records, Collectibles, Gifts...my goodness, that’s quite a treasure trove!” 

“You have no idea,” Richard says, bounding out of the car and up to the front door in quick strides. The tables set up under the roof’s overhang hold boxes and boxes of books, lining the entire front of the building, but Richard doesn’t stop to look at these. “Bargain books,” he explains as Jared pauses to scan some of the titles. “You find some great stuff, but you can pay outside so I usually do that last.” He points to an old Folgers coffee jug with a slit cut in its plastic lid. A sign above it says 50 CENTS OR 3/$1, but Richard’s attention is now focused on entering the front door, the familiar jingle causing a rush of nostalgia that works its way into his guts. 

He’s 16 again, acne-riddled and knock-kneed, and his new driver’s license is burning a hole in his velcro wallet. The dusty scent of old paper and ancient carpeting is commingling with the aroma of hot oil, onions, and sizzling meat from the bookstore’s attached Mexican restaurant. He has $37 in his pocket, and a whole day of summer vacation to burn. 

As present-day Richard takes in the familiar organized chaos, Jared nearly walks into a gargantuan statue of the Hulk because he’s looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, muttering a sheepish, “Excuse me!” to the statue. A bubble of warmth seems to rise from deep within Richard’s belly, and he grabs at Jared’s wrist to redirect him - that thin, elegant wrist, so delicate, almost like a bird, maybe that’s why Jared likes birds so much, because he feels a kinship with them? - and tugs gently. “C’mon. I wanna show you around.”

Richard leads them to the left, past rows and rows of new arrivals and fiction. A coffee shop has been added on; all the decor is aggressively Parisian in a very bland Hobby Lobby-type way. There are wire shelves hanging off the walls holding the top 20 best selling mysteries of all time. Tall wooden shelves in the middle of the room stretch from floor to ceiling, arranged in small mazes that take up their respective corners, crammed with colorful paperbacks. Jared pauses at the Mary Higgins Clarks for a moment, but Richard urges him on by saying, “Wait, there’s more!” 

Another archway, this one opening up into a cavernous beige room with a little more natural light. Small rolling footstools are perched in every aisle so customers can reach the tops of the towering shelves, and with each new shelf, Jared’s eyes seem to grow wider. “Does it just go on forever?” he asks, and Richard nods, steering him past Romance and Horror to the seemingly endless Nonfiction shelves. Cookbooks, humor, foreign language - the section names are taped to wooden beams that extend between the tops of the rows of bookshelves until finally they reach the Computer Science section, which Richard presents with a grand flourish. 

“This is where I got my very first coding manual. Python, it was--” he scans the shelves, squints, but, “oh, um well they don’t have it now. Duh, why would they, that was, anyway, this is where it all started!”

Jared takes in the shelves with a look of absolute wonder lighting up his face. He looks young and carefree in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, like he’s about to burst into song in a musical or something. Before he can say anything, Jared has his phone out, the sound of the camera shutter in his face making Richard jump. “Aw, c’mon Jared, don’t,” he says, but his voice is teasing, soft, and there’s a pleasant whispering at the back of his mind at the idea of this place meaning something to history maybe. Where the first seeds of Pied Piper took hold, and the genius coder Richard Hendricks took his first step toward...toward having everything taken away from him by Hooli and Gavin Fucking Belson. His insides are suddenly doused in ice-cold water and he shakes his head, scowling. 

He’s just about to tell Jared to browse by himself for awhile when he’s stopped short by Jared gasping loudly, “Oh my goodness!”

He’s turned to look at the shelf opposite the Computer Science section and is now holding a light green cloth-bound book in his hands as if it were something made of exquisite, delicate glass. The cover has what looks like colored pencil drawings of two yellow birds sitting together on some branches, and Richard leans closer to read the title out loud - “Birds That Every Child Should Know. By,” he pauses, looking up at Jared for confirmation, “Nelt-yah Blanchan?” 

Jared nods, dumbstruck. He looks positively bowled over, and all thoughts of Gavin have fled Richard’s mind completely because he wants to know what could possibly have made Jared so flabbergasted. “So...what is this book? I mean, why’s it - what’s so special about it? Is it rare or something?”

“It is rare, yes; this book was published in 1907. But, that’s not exactly...” he swallows, then looks at Richard with those terrifyingly blue eyes, the ones that root Richard to the spot and peer inside him and refuse to let him squirm away. “My mother had a copy exactly like this. We would go birding together, you see. Just in the woods behind our apartment complex, nothing too exotic. I would spot robins, orioles, blue jays, but ah - “ his smile grows shaky, like it’s trying unsuccessfully to hold up the weight of all those memories, and he says, “I just never thought I’d see this book again, that’s all.”

“Wow,” Richard says, his upper lip caught in his teeth at his own awkwardness. He never knows what to say when Jared mentions his past. Real helpful, Richard, Jesus fuck. “You should um, you should definitely buy it. Right?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly afford, it’s an antique--”

“Jared, come on. You have to. It’s - look, I’ll buy it for you, ok? As like. A thank you present. For coming with me. You have to deal with my parents, deal with me, and it’s just...it’s the least I can do.”

Jared splays one enormous hand over his chest, aghast. “Richard, you don’t have to--”

“Bup bup bup!” Richard says, easing the book out of Jared’s grip and peeking inside the front cover at the price. $26 is penciled in the top right corner of the title page, which seems more than fair for how happy Jared is to have discovered it, so he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm to carry. “Done and done. No arguments, Jared. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jared says quietly, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining, looking at Richard like he’s some sort of miracle, some unexpected wondrous hero, come to slay dragons and save the kingdom from wreck and ruin. It takes longer than strictly necessary for Richard to wrench his gaze away. 

“Come on, there’s a lot more of this place to see.”

[almaasi]

Circuitry and Dust

shopkeeper AU (demisexual antique store owner Cas & electrician-handyman-arcade owner Dean) // secretly requited feelings, fluff and pining + a talking bird

☆

The weather in town was reasonably decent at this time of year. Shattered sunlight breezed across the paved street and glowed in shiny little puddles, the patches of light racing each other from Mr. Winter’s barbershop – that was the one with the bench outside – to the Barnes & Noble directly opposite. The clouds bubbled like science experiments in slow-motion, hurried across the sky by a brisk wind. The air carried a chill; that was why everyone wore a fleece coat while they did their Friday-evening shopping.

Three walls along from the bookstore, there was a small and inconspicuous shop, brown-bricked, with a wooden sign above that read ‘Mr. Antiquarian’ in a golden old-style serif. The shop’s front comprised of an unpolished window split into angled thirds, lead-lined, with three asymmetrically-placed frames of bullseye glass amongst the plain frames. As a whole, the shopfront was dirty and quiet enough that it tended to blur out of people’s awareness, and their eyes would skip straight from the barbershop on the left to the gaming room and Internet cafe on the right.

Mr. Antiquarian’s front door, now pushed by a hand, swung open and hit a bell. The bell’s tinkle was lively and cheerful, but was barely audible over the sound of the shop itself. From the left came a tuneless tonking noise as a grandfather clock struck off the hour, and at the same time an exotic bird trilled unseen, an old kettle wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew’ed sharply, a radio played white noise at a middling volume, and something clattered in the back of the shop. This was the shop’s usual ambience.

Now that he was inside, Dean Winchester stood motionless beside the snuff boxes closest to the door, noting the addition of a new one, Civil War era. It caught the murky light through the window, and it shone a brighter silver than all the others in its display case.

The room was filled with things. Clocks, furniture, teddy bears, books, jewellery. There was probably one of everything, everything ever invented. It was like a zoo exhibition of the inanimate – or, the very animate, if the talkative myna bird inside an original Victorian cage was to be counted.

“I’ll be – ah! – with you in a moment; feel free to browse,” a deep voice called, bustling and strained, from somewhere in the vicinity of the stacked mattresses. This was Castiel, he ran the shop. Well... he kind of existed to serve the shop. The shop malfunctioned at least six times a day; there were usually more problems than customers.

“It’s me,” Dean called, standing on his tiptoes to see over the cabinet of teacups. “I skipped out early, I was hoping I could finish your circuit map tonight.”

“AH!” Another tumbling thump came from a distant corner, and Dean’s eyes moved in time to see a lit chandelier begin to swing from its entwined cable and chain. The lights flickered, then died, and that entire corner of the shop was left in darkness. The chandelier continued to swing, squeaking as it did.

“Blast,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned, then began to make his way to where Castiel was. This place was a maze, layered with miscellaneous objects. Usually the piles were set heaviest at the bottom and lighter at the top, but Dean had once come across a wickerwork picnic basket wearing an entire letterpress machine as a hat. The items were harder to arrange than they were to navigate; the turnover rate here was remarkably decent, and Dean came by every day, so he always knew where the new paths would be. Thankfully, Castiel worked using the same logic of arrangement as Dean did, but with his prime interest being random discarded junk as opposed to fiddly bits of wire and electrical tape.

Dean found Castiel dusting off his hands, looking like he’d fallen victim to a cartoon explosion. The air around him smelled chalky and burnt, and his entire front was soot-black, cravat askew. When Castiel lifted his eyes, he met Dean’s gaze then glanced towards a new crate on the floor. The carpet around it was decorated with a black powder starburst.

“Gunpowder,” Castiel explained, then sighed. “It’s going to take a lot of careful vacuuming to get this cleaned up. She could’ve warned me when she dropped it off. Honestly, these people. They think I’m some...” He waved his blackened hands around, slim fingers grasping for words which didn’t come.

“They think you’re a rescue home for abandoned, unidentified attic relics,” Dean suggested. “Like a friendly thirty-something grandpa who hoards everyone else’s crap.”

“Exactly!” Castiel yapped, thrusting his finger in Dean’s direction. Dean leaned out of his way so the gunpowder wouldn’t soil his pristine Iron Man t-shirt. Castiel noticed him recoil, and he lowered his finger. More sadly, he said, “Exactly.”

☆

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[enkisstories]

Last Chance, Daniel

The DPD’s archive.

November 2038.

After a failed revolution.

The first thing Daniel saw upon reactivation was… well, the opposite wall. But there were noises below him and so the android lowered his head. He spotted a male human rummaging through the stored evidence. The man wore a greasy leather jacket, a confident, yet somewhat world-removed expression that suggested he was at least tipsy, if not dead-drunk, and he was humming to himself:

Boot hill boot hill / So cold so still

There they lay side by side / The killers that died

In the gunfight at OK Corral…

Daniel recognized the tune, even though it was almost as mangled as his body. He had streamed the song for Emma a lot when she had been in her cowboys-and-indians phase. The girlchild had loved western movie title songs and at one point the deviant had learned to sing them together with her.

It was all coming back and with a force that made Daniel want to scream. At the world, at himself and especially at the burglar who had the audacity to mock Daniel and the other androids that were hanging side by side from the wall, helpless (if not downright dead). And of course his deviant brain would have its way again, regardless of what its owner wished. The best Daniel could do to channel his anger and pain was…

“Oh my dearest one, must I lay down my gun /

or take the chance of losing you forever /

Duty calls / My back’s against the wall!”

…he almost shouted the lines, then managed to stop.

Ugh. That was undignified.

The burglar turned around. Tilting his head he gazed at the android as if watching an exotic bird. Eventually the corners of his mouth turned up in slow motion.

“Yes to all of that, I s’ppose. ‘specially the last part”, he said, grinning.

And then he returned the tune:

“Have you no kind word to say / Before I ride away?”

Daniel snorted.

“Wrong person for that!” *

“Not even a person”, the man gave back. “Now that was strangely fun”, he concluded. Then he stood idle for some moments, as if trying to remember what he had come into the archive for.

“Ah, right.”

The next thing Daniel saw was the man holding his hand. It was attached to Daniel’s arm, but the arm wasn’t attached to Daniel. And that was a definite drawback when dealing with potentially crazy strangers.

“Give that back at once!” the android shouted. “It’s not yours!”

The demand prompted no reaction whatsoever.

“I said give it back! Hey! I’m TALKING to you, MORTAL!”

“Soon, soon”, the human muttered.

Whistling something Daniel didn’t recognize he continued looking around, most likely in search for easily carriable valuables. And the song was probably none that little girls liked to sing. It was probably something that wasn’t even fit to be heard by little girls.

Daniel continued to look down on the monkey doing monkey things. He saw him unfasten something from his belt.

“What are you doing now?!”

The man waved with the item he had just taken. It turned out to be a set of manacles.

“Handcuffing you.”

What kind of burgler brought his own pair of manacles with him, Daniel wondered? It was astonishing and almost as unsettling as watching the man cuffing together his wrists while said wrists were laying on a table. Only after that was done did the human hit the switch that would lower Daniel down from the wall. Why would he do that? What was going on here?

Daniel’s internal clock told him that only a handful of days had passed since his second encounter with Connor. What if the app was corrupted? What if in truth many centuries had passed and he was facing an archaeologist who was searching the DPD’s ruins for historic artifacts? Nope, not an archaeologist, make that a graverobber.

Before Daniel could lose himself in even crazier theories he felt his feet touch the ground. His actual feet! The sensation was followed by a jolt in the joints where said feet had gotten re-attached mere moments ago. And then two more jolts when the human rammed Daniel’s dislocated arms back into their places.

“Ouch!” he screamed. “Be careful, you oaf! That HURT!”

“Liar. Androids don’t feel pain !”

“Yeah, sure, feather-brain. Ever got four demands for tax arrears at the same time? The sensation is similar.”

“You pay taxes?” the man wondered, confused. Android tax was a European thing and a very recent one, too. The android in question seemed to have been here for some time now. He would not have had fallen under any taxation law in life.

“Yes, of course!” Daniel replied. “What do you think “PL600 household assistant” means? Me sweeping the floor?”

Now the man blinked. He was suddenly looking like a boy who had opened his Christmas present and found a textbook on Social Studies instead of the wished-for army knife inside.

“You do not sweep?” he asked. “But I was… kinda… counting on that!”

“You’re not making sense! But how could I expect that from a rabid lemur…”

The fifth tax claim hit Daniel in the form of a smack into the face.

“Something that could be replaced by a pocket calculator should keep its trap shut!”

The man showered the captive with more insults, but inwardly he relaxed. So this particular deviant had gotten creative with its master’s tax declaration, big deal. There were worse monsters in here, actual killers. A frightened, non-threatening PL600, now that was something he could work with.

“Okay” he said, “I’ll release the security locks now. Prepare to stand upright on your own.”

Daniel nodded. “…’kay.”

Moments later he felt the not-pain-but-as-bad sensation again. His damaged legs failed to carry the android, but the human grabbed him. The man was protecting his own interests, of that Daniel was certain, despite not knowing what in hell those interests might be. But still… it was the first time someone had steadied the android. The very first time. Daniel had only ever been there for others. For the most part he hadn’t minded that. Now the deviant got a taste of what it might feel like the other way around. Ha, that would be the day! If life was give AND take! But it wasn’t. Never had been, never would be.

“And I TOLD YOU to stand upright!” the human yelled.

“So what?” Daniel shot back. “Tell the clouds to open and rain down money, or, better yet, brains on you! Then see if they heed your request or not!”

“Oh, shut up already!”

Noticing the captive’s defiant stare the human tried to focus. His efforts resulted in him burping a lot, wiping sweat from his forehead and narrowing the number of androids he was talking to down to a single one, regardless how many outlines he was seeing merging in and out of each other. Eventually he said: “I mean it. Don’t make any noise while we ascend or it will be both our undoing!”

“Naturally”, Daniel agreed, in a quieter voice.

Whatever was going on here, fate seemed to have handed him another chance. A chance in the form of a criminal stupid enough to break into the deepest layer of the DPD, but on the other hand also a cunning criminal: he had managed to break onto the DPD’s deepest layer, after all.

*

The men were walking up the stairs now, but their progress was slow and ever so often one of them would pause and reach for a halt, any halt. At first it seemed Daniel with his hands bound in front of him would have the harder time of the two, but the plastic rings came in handy for catching onto stuff. Besides, the PL600’s natural agility and dexterity were impressive. It was the human who was struggling.

Whenever they grabbed each other by accident, they tumbled and lost a little of their progress. After a while Daniel noticed that the human was limping; not just being shaky from drunkenness, but having actual, physical trouble walking.

“How…?” Daniel asked, pointing towards the human’s legs with his eyes alone.

The answer was equally short: “Connor.”

“Ah, so. Same here.”

They managed to conquer some more steps.

The man burped. “You and me both, plastic-buddy…”, he said.

So the thug had survived an encounter with RK800, the “Negotiator”. Daniel wondered what that meant, in real life. Was the RK considered so uncannily competent that it got assigned to high-profile crime only? Or was it to the contrary treated as a limited device that only got to deal with the small fry? Which of the two applied to the nervous little meerkat that was stumbling along next to Daniel? What exactly was he dealing with here in his unlikely companion?

*

Daniel reached the landing first. Despite not being able to see it from here, he had a general idea where the exit might be located and headed for it, followed by the human. They hadn’t made it even halfway through the first corridor when the man opened a door and pulled the android inside. It turned out to be a men’s locker room with attached toilet stalls and showers.

“What’s the matter?” Daniel whispered. “A guard?”

“I hope not!”

“Then why are we hiding in here? Don’t we make our escape now?”

“What? No! Why would we?” The man locked the room from the inside, un-cuffed Daniel and pointed at a sink. “Clean yourself! There’s a chance the nightshift will spot you!”

“Not if we’re quick!”

“You will need to be quick indeed, cleaning up the mess left behind by the party.”

Daniel’s head shot forth a few inches, eyes widening at the same time.

“What party?”

The man sighed. “Yes, that’s exactly what we do not want the Captain to ask tomorrow”, he said.

He wiggled his fingers in front of the tap to get the water running and pointed towards the sink again. Realizing that playing along was his only chance to learn what he had gotten into – without having contributed anything to it, mind you – Daniel collected some water in his hands. For cooperating he got handed soap, a brush and some backstory:

“The others ganged up on us, Anderson and me. Just because we’d gotten into an argument!”

Daniel was positive that he was getting the hang of this particular primate now. Therefore he parsed the sentence as: “So you and this Anderson guy were brawling?”

“What I said! The cowards abandoned the ship, leaving us to do the cleaning and to getting an earful from Fowler when it isn’t finished in time. Picture that! As if we were living in some goddamm fairytale!”

Daniel shook his head and hands like a dog before burying his face into a towel. It felt good to move his limbs again, even if they were screaming Last Exceptions and in one case a notification about the android’s ads database not being current back at him.

“Let me get this straight: you fetched yourself a sleeping Prince Charming from the DPDs evidence archive so he would clear away the mess you left behind while partying in the station?”

“Yeah! That’s what I said!”

“Okay… okay… I believe you. But wouldn’t that mean you are… are you… No, you cannot really be an officer of the law?”

“Am, too! And well on my way to Sergeant!”

“Uh… at your age you should be Lieutenant already.”

In retrospect Daniel should have known better than to say that. Of all the things he had tossed at and would still say to the man in the future, this was the worst and the one he would come to wish he could take back. But that night in the locker room there was no apologizing. The human advanced against Daniel and when the deviant ran out of space to retreat into his attacker raised his fists in anger. Daniel blocked the impact in a sudden surge of whatever substituted for adrenaline in his system and shoved the other man back.

“I am the best detective in this city!!!” the officer shouted.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Badge!”

“Oh, for the love of… here!”

“Wow. That’s…” Daniel bit back what he was going to say, following up with “impressive” instead.

So his new acquaintance was a detective for real. Who would have thought! The man’s badge said “Gavin James Reed” and he seemed to be a person of the special kind of lazy who would put in four hours of work to avoid three. Going through all the trouble to sneak an android out of the archive, patch it up and clean it… it sounded like a neat story to use out for an anti-drinking campaign. But it also destroyed all of Daniel’s hopes of getting away from here without breaking someone’s skull, so for the time being the android concentrated on getting himself washed.

“See?” detective Reed commented on the process, obviously pleased with himself for his “cunning” alcohol-induced plan. “If you’re washing it off you’ll look like a normal used PL600.”

“Only if by “normal” you mean one that gets beaten on a daily basis!”

Gavin shrugged.

“Fact of life. Deal with it!”

Under the ever watchful eyes of the detective Daniel filled a bucket with hot water and gathered rags and assorted cleaning detergents. All this stuff would come in handy as improvised weapons, but not quite yet. Right now the deviant was feeling too sluggish and the human was still too much awake for a confrontation to go Daniel’s way.

*

Since there was nothing he could do at the moment, Daniel started to clean. A part of him felt good about the task, that was the part of the sheltered upper-class servant who held this profession in high regard. But the other part, the one that still bore a seething hatred for Captain Allen and his louts, would not have any of that. That part insisted that Daniel had no business serving the killers. What had they celebrated, even, that evening? Someone’s birthday?

The answer was a definite No, Daniel realized when he beheld the photographs on the wall. More like the opposite. Each and every of the pictures was surrounded by a black ribbon, suggesting the faces portrayed no longer belonging to living people.

The so-called “party” had in truth been a small, informal service for a number of fallen police officers. All of them were victims of the deviant crisis. The human victims, at least, because otherwise a lot more pictures would have been needed and Daniel’s own would have hung among them. But it didn’t, despite the names and faces dating back as far as august.

Yes, there they were, the cops he had killed himself. They were staring down on him in a reverse of how Daniel had hung from the archive’s wall up until today, accusing him silently. And no amount of saying “I’m sorry” could bring them back to life. Worse: No amount of actually feeling sorry could return them to life.

Under normal circumstances the deviant could have handled the situation in a mature fashion. But in his current condition that was too much to ask for. All will to fight, even verbally, left Daniel. Mechanically he went through the motions of his task, the only thing that justified his continued existence at the moment.

Not that Daniel would have wanted to die, no, never that. If pushed he would still push back, about that there couldn’t be any doubt. But every notion of deserving happiness or the right to defend himself against humiliation both in speech and action seemed just plain wrong while the deviant was toiling under the portraits. Every part of him that was deviant and capable of feeling was full of guilt. Only embracing his machine-nature offered a little relief of that pain, like a dark birthright.

Meanwhile Gavin Reed was slowly sinking from sitting into laying position as he succumbed to sleep on a bench next to the vending machine.

*

When Gavin woke up the android was missing. There was little left to the imagination: it had run away.

“Phuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

The man rolled from the bench he had squatted on, landed hard on the floor, caught himself and then made his way towards the reception hall, first wobbling on shaky knees, then gaining more and more control over his movements. It wasn’t just the alcohol, not having woken up from an uncomfortable position, but still the aftermath of his fight against that blasted RK800 earlier this month.

Damn thing could have shattered both my knees… Good riddance, I say! And to think Anderson suggested we should include Connor in the eulogy… that nerve!

Hopefully ST300 had seen the deviant leave and especially what direction it had taken.

*

Gavin found the missing android in the reception hall, still cleaning. Its movements were different now: slower overall, shoulders sacking and head lowered. A human by this time would be tired, of course. But a machine wouldn’t lose energy that fast, right? So what had caused the change?

Common sense suggested that internal damage had brought the PL600 to the verge of shutting down, but its body language conveyed that this wasn’t the case. Instead the thing now reminded Gavin of Hank Anderson. Something must have happened while Gavin had slept, something that had sucked all the sass out of the deviant, leaving only a husk and a shaky will to survive.

“’morning, detective”, it said when it noticed the human approach.

Then it flipped the broom around its wrist ever so casually, but with a skill that made Gavin wince. Only when the android fingers grasped the stick again did it become apparent that it was lacking in physical power and not just due to its injuries. Gavin let out the breath he had held. It was good to know these things had at least some weaknesses.

The deviant now was pointing at something on the floor with the broom:

“There’s a heap of biowaste over there. What am I to do with it?”

Gavin looked at the thing that was pointed out to him. It was a human body, smelly and in disarray. A middle-aged man in street clothes, who had passed out next to a bench.

“At first I thought it was an escapee, but given the standards set by you its probably your captain”, Daniel said. “So I was waiting for your judgement before doing anything about it.”

“Meh, just leave him be and sweep around him. He’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

“I’m finished here…”

“Sweet!” Gavin stretched and laughed out loud: “That will teach them trying to outsmart me! And now…”

And now two things happened simultaneously: Hank Anderson started stirring on the floor and the door opened for Tina Chen and two other officers of the morning shift to enter. Tina overtook them while they chattered, closing in on Gavin to say Good Morning (and thus be done with her socialization needs for the first half of the day). Doing so Tina nearly stumbled over Lt. Anderson, who was looking her legs up rather interested.

“Barbara…?”

“No, Sir!” Tina replied.

“Ah, okay. Sorry.”

Hank now heaved himself upwards. When he had ended up in a sitting position the man took a break from the ordeal. His gaze fell on Daniel.

“YOU are NOT Barbara”, he ventured.

“Yes, Sir. I mean, No, I’m not Barbara.”

“Uh-huh...” Pause, then, with some consideration: “Then WHO are you?”

Gavin went “Oh, crap…”, then he waved his hands about. “Look, I can explain!”

Daniel shot him a curious glance. “How many times have you gotten yourself into trouble by starting with this line, Sir?”

“Not all the time!” Gavin snapped. “Sometimes it works! Also – not your concern!”

Hank looked from one to the other.

“I take it you know each other?” he asked.

Detective and android exchanged a glance: “Quick, dipshit – do we know each other?”

Then two subtle nods – so subtle that only a very experienced police lieutenant might be able to notice them - told the other that this might be for the best indeed at the moment.

“Use your fucking brain, maaaan”, Gavin started. Outwardly this was directed at Hank Anderson, while in truth the man was desperately trying to think of a backstory for the PL600′s being here. “I simply… drove… no, phoned, home and… called over my android? To clean up the mess you left behind? Ha!”

“Wow. That’s a mess of an android… cleaning up our mess”, Tina said.

“What do you expect?” Hank said. “It’s Reed’s android! Of course it’s not smelling like roses.”

At long last Daniel saw his opening, wide and inviting. As long as he had still a tiny bit of mental strength left to him, he had to use that! Strangely, interacting with the obnoxious meerkat just now had granted Daniel exactly the push he needed. And that energy boost hadn’t even come out of hatred for detective Reed. To the contrary, this particular human’s presence seemed to have a positive influence on the deviant. Maybe because it was always good to know that there was someone even worse than yourself. If their situations had been reversed, Daniel would be the lieutenant now, while Gavin would…

Oh my god, I do not want to imagine how royally HE’d messed up in my place.

And so Daniel turned to his “master” and said: “As I said, Mr. Reed, I’m finished here. I’ll be going home now. See you for dinner!”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Gavin grabbed the deviant by his upper arm, squeezing hard right at where the limb had gotten re-attached the day before. “You’re staying!” Because, after all, it was still a criminal, a piece of evidence and it going missing would get Gavin in even deeper trouble.

“Look”, one of the morning shift officers, detective Laura Pauls, addressed Gavin, “no one’s complaining about the occasional fleabag you are keeping under your desk until it’s strong enough to get the snip-snip and adopted out. But an android? That’s a bit much!”

“I wasn’t planning to keep it as a pet”, Gavin snapped back. “But, see, you losers keep complaining about me never tossing anything into the kitty. Want my android, maybe? I was going to throw it away, but it might still be good enough for the station!”

And one day when no one’s looking I’m going to put it back quietly, saying it broke down. Problem solved.

“Thowing it away?” That was coming from the one called Anderson. “No way! You cannot announce you have an android one moment and throw him on the trash the next! Not even you can do that! We’ll keep it!”

Daniel felt an arm go around his shoulder and grabbing. He also felt uncomfortably adopted.

“What’s his name anyway?” Hank asked.

“Name? You mean the sardine-tin’s…?”

Having listened with only half an ear, Hank smiled encouragingly at Daniel.

“Welcome to the DPD, then, Sardines!”

 Note: * Especially considering what the next line would have been. In the song, I mean, not in the movie. Look it up!

[lisaontheroadagain]

On Tokyo

Everything here seems to function as it was meant to. Trains, traffic, pedestrians. Despite 13 million people inhabiting metropolitan Tokyo, I witness no jay walking, no traffic jams. In five days, I literally hear someone honk their horn once. Everywhere I go people seem patient, waiting in single files lines, for restaurants, for elevators, for buses and trains. When the train arrives, notoriously on time, the train car aligns perfectly with markings on the ground, the commuters quietly stand in two single file lines on the side of the car doors until everyone exiting has deboarded, then enter themselves, quickly, orderly. On the escalators, everyone stands to the left, so those walking more quickly have free passage on the right. On the streets, everyone walks to the left, keeping to their own lane, staying off the raised yellow tile navigation system of lines and dots for the blind, a kind of braille for the feet. The whole of Tokyo seems like a well-oiled machine, each denizen aware they are a cog in a larger system, willing to play their part.

I count five pieces of trash on the ground in five days of walking my way through Tokyo. Despite walls of boarded panels covering up construction, not a single one is grimied with the familiar markings of a graffiti tag. I see no homeless people, except for a small tent city under the train tracks in Shinjuku. Each denizen has a large cardboard box, taped into perfect orderly rectangles and squares of varying sizes with thick blue tape. Pairs of shoes sit neatly outside, even the homeless feeling enough dignity not to sully their makeshift home with dirty shoes.

Every toilet has a bidet. Most have heated seats. Some of them have “privacy” buttons where the sounds of chirping birds or crashing waves will play loudly enough to hide whatever squeeches and pffts want to work their way out of your body. Even in train stations the toilet paper is so often folded into neat triangles, I wonder if it’s an anonymous origami gesture from whoever peed there before. Every seat is clean and dry, the floor of every stall without a single stray piece of ply.

I never see a single Japanese person in yoga pants or casual “comfy” clothes. Everyone looks like they have a stylist. Perfectly manicured and coifed, fashionable, in sync with the latest trends, attention paid to every inch of their look from the tips of their nails to the lace lining on their ankle socks. I feel self-conscious of my messy wave of curls, the stray frizzy hairs out of place, the bra strap occasionally slipping into view. The masses of passerbys – both men and women – create a dizzying scape of haute chic, a magazine spread come to life, each individual worthy of their own page. Some are more alternative, gothic punk, “kawaii” cute, Anime cosplay, Lolita-esque life-sized dolls with contacts to make their irises the size of a cartoon. But everyone – everyone – looks to have thought carefully about their look for the day.

I am astounded by the attention to detail. In the fashion, the interior design, the service, the food. Every plate, every chopstick, every corner of every room, every morsel of every meal, the size of the ice cube, the shape of the cup, the type of flower in the vase. It all seems chosen, intentional. Remarkable, more for what is not there than what is – the finesse is in the editing, the negative space. Everything is an elegant composition. An homage to efficiency. Even the signage in the public bathrooms, perfectly clear instructions in any language, to sit, not squat, to put toilet paper in the toilet and everything else in the trash. The organization of the train station, each car of the subway, each exit of the station, with its own number, so you know where to stand, where to walk, to exit closest to your destination. Someone has thought about this in advance, someone cared deeply about my experience of the bathroom, my experience of the train. In Shinto, the Japanese religion, everything has its own spirit – the trees, the rocks, the leaves – every object meriting respect. I can feel the dignity with which objects are treated here, the care with which they are imbued. It makes me want to slow down and pay more attention to the details in my life, to have fewer, nicer objects, worthy of my care.

We, too, are treated with the same dignity and care. Everywhere we go we are greeted with the utmost courtesy and respect. Everyone wants to please us, to make us feel honored. We are thanked and bowed to so many times entering and exiting an establishment, I feel awkward and embarrassed by the attention. They bow and I bow back and they bow again and I bow again, unsure when we can politely stop. Almost everyone is incredibly kind, helpful. But almost no one is friendly. There is so much respect I feel trapped behind a wall, simultaneously welcomed in and completely shut out.

I get frustrated by the persistent pleasing. When I ask our travel guide for advice on what to do for the day, she doesn’t give me a straight answer. She is shy, uncomfortable giving her opinion, searching for clues of what she thinks I want her to say.

I get exhausted by the intensity of Tokyo. The nonstop onslaught of people, places. The streets show no letting up, no reprieve. Buildings are stacked 9 levels high with businesses, neon signs in foreign symbols piling on top of each other, stretching into the sky. Shops and restaurants upon shops and restaurants, packed with people, ten story fashion malls seemingly on every block, with sprawling basement food halls hawking perfectly curated bento boxes, wildly expensive single pieces of fruit, beautiful pastries, gleaming sushi, slices of marbled wagyu, yakatori skewers, tonkatsu, onigiri, karaage, donburi, mochi, and on and on. More shops and restaurants fill the train stations, floors of underground malls beneath the tracks. Vending machines line every spare inch of street side real estate, a brightly lit convenient store on every corner, all busy inside. The constancy of the commercialism is crushing. I can barely breath.

Until we step inside and off the streets. The whirring of the city in unceasing motion quiets as the door shuts, giving way to an oasis of calm. Inside the restaurant, or teahouse, or bar, with just six seats, maybe twelve, it is jarringly serene. Like the clothes they wear and the food they serve, the design has been flawlessly fashioned. A single flower arranged inside a bud vase to arch perfectly over the bar. A shelf with perfectly arranged sets of cups, liquor bottles placed side by side, an exacting two inches apart. A set of rattan baskets, one arranged neatly by my seat as a receptacle for my purse. I am greeted kindly, in sync, by all of the staff. Then it is quiet, no music, perhaps a few hushed voices, speaking in low conversation. Time stands still inside. Tokyo, outside of this one room, ceases to exist. Here is serenity. I could stay for hours, barely remembering there is anywhere else.

For a while I’m grateful for the respite. To know that whenever I need, there is a nearby establishment I can escape into for a moment of peace. But then even the quiet begins to suffocate. If outside is chaotic order of overwhelming magnitude, inside is delicately crafted, oppressive calm. Though seemingly opposites, they are but versions of the same strive for perfection, two different expressions of the same exquisite restraint, varying functions of the same set of rigid rules. I want to scream. I want to throw my beautiful plate of pea tofu with sea urchin foam and a single curled carrot strip at the walls. I want to claw my way out of the suffocating precision and tear my hair and jump up and down headbanging to Rage Against the Machine. I suddenly think I have insight into the high rates of suicide, the infamous lack of sexual desire, the fascination with violent manga and tentacle rape porn. I think I get the escape into virtual worlds, the otaku obsessionism, the gritty shibari/BDSM scene. After only a few days I need an outlet for my individuality, a place to express my energy, a way to kindle my life force before it quakes beneath the conformity.

In the middle of all this, I find myself eating a 14-course meal at a restaurant called Inua that won best new restaurant of the year. Each dish is spectacular, creative, colorful, beautiful, an homage to the nature from which its components came. One dish – a sort of savory sweet fruit rollup created from local plums, laid like an artwork on a piece of honeycomb inside a wooden frame, baked with edible flowers and a variety of herbs – somehow tastes simultaneously new and familiar, exotic and comforting. It is so beautifully plated, so magical and delightful and whimsical in concept, so confounding in its flavors, it awakens all my senses and reminds me how exciting it can be to exist in a human body that is able to see and smell and hear and touch and – above all, in this moment – to taste. To taste! I am so humbled by the dish and the experience the chef created for me in this bite of food I am moved to tears.

I find myself at TeamLab: Borderless, an immersive digital art museum filled with wide halls and hidden rooms of moving images. Ceiling to floor digital sunflowers, a parade of traditionally-drawn 6 foot bunnies I can follow across the walls of the entire exhibit, a room filled with lanterns that grow brighter or dimmer based on the proximity of its viewers, fields of digitally lit lily pads, floral tigers and elephants stampeding by, screens of digitally dripping water that change their flow pattern when I interrupt them with my hand. It is a maze of art work that responds to me, knows that I am there, is changed by my presence, allows me to become part of it. I watch a four-minute experience known as the Cave Universe, a dance of birds flying in such dizzying immersive beauty that I feel like I’m doing somersaults, turned inside out, unsure which direction is up. I lose my balance, assure myself I haven’t done any drugs. It is so thrilling, a rollercoaster ride standing still, I watch it at least four more times.

I find myself in the middle of Tokyo’s busy streets, six inches off the ground in a red and yellow go cart, wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie. It is the most fun way I’ve ever explored a new city, wind in my face, foot on the gas pedal; there is an immediacy to the experience I immediately love. Plus, we are clearly bringing joy to hundreds of pedestrians as we whiz by. They are waving, taking pictures. I feel adored. Like I am famous. I am delighted seeing their demeanors change, serious grimaces and blank stares breaking out into huge smiles, excited eyes, when they see us pass. Hordes of school girls make heart shapes on their heads for us to mimic back, business men in taxis roll down their windows to say konichiwa. It is the first time I feel a bridge to the Japanese people that isn’t completely shrouded in politeness and etiquette.

Thankfully it isn’t the last. We bond with our bartender in the tiny ten seat bar, one of 200 in the Golden Gai. He speaks almost no English, but he pours good Japanese Whiskey, and he smiles and makes charade-style jokes like we’re old friends. The chef at our Michelin starred sushi restaurant stands in front of us and makes us nigiri piece by piece, telling us about a day in his life, waking up at 4am to go to the fish market, living on three hours of sleep per night, smiling and laughing, eating up our experience of his meal like we eat up his fish, clearly devoting his life to the thing he loves. The owner and waitress at the neighborhood soba shop teach us how to slurp soba and ask our help translating a few lines on their menu, giggling at the fact “beefsteak plant” actually means “shiso leaf.” But so far these experiences have been the exception rather than the rule.

The language barrier certainly makes things challenging; not many people speak English well. But it feels like it’s more than that. I have a sneaking suspicion that, like most everything else here, the distance is intentional. We are here, as tourists, as their revered and honored guests, and they our venerable hosts. It is not lip service – service is an art form here, completely genuine, a great source of pride. The formalities, they are the tools of the trade, a signal of how seriously they take their hosting, how important the exchange. And yet, I can’t help feeling the politeness is also obscuring something more. What? Whatever the “real” Tokyo might be? I am not sure. All I feel is the wall. This sense there is something else I can’t yet see, some way I can’t yet connect. It leaves me feeling lonely. Isolated. Hungry for meaningful interaction. Yearning for depth. I am craving authenticity. Personality. Someone more themselves than they are pleasing. Someone who will tell me like it really is. I can’t help but wonder what this city would be like if I had a way in, someone who could show me behind the courtesies…because there must be something behind the courtesies...right?

Perhaps the next time I am here, for I feel fairly certain this won’t be the last. Until then, we board a train for the countryside, leaving Tokyo behind….

[gray-autumn-sky]

Let Fate Decide

Robin is a clumsy British artist who joins an expedition to Africa. Regina is a Spanish girl who raised herself in the jungle. What will happen when their worlds collide?

A OQ - Tarzan AU for @starscythe. :)

Regina’s jaw clenches as she stoops in the brush, just beyond the sandy beach, watching as a ship nears and praying it’ll continue on its way and never dock. Most of the time, that’s what happens when she spots a ship on the horizon—it just keeps going until it disappears from her sight.

Most of the time, but not always, and the sinking feeling in her stomach tells her that this time, the ship will dock and usher in all the uncertainty that comes with sharing her tiny island.

Her eyes narrow as she tries to take in the ship’s details without moving closer and potentially revealing herself.

The ship looks smaller than the others she usually spots hovering near the island and, though she’s not sure, she thinks she sees a gaggle of men hanging off the side, looking at the coast with monoculars pressed to their eyes, inspecting their “discovery.”

She rolls her eyes, thinking about how many times her island has been “discovered.”

Usually, the discoveries are made by military ships, but this ship seems too small to be one of those. The British flag waves from the top of the foremast, but there are no walled-in decks or visible windows indicating the officers’ quarters. She doesn’t see any cannons poking out of a gun deck and she doesn't spot gun swings mounted on top of the rails.

And the men hanging off the side look too plucky to be soldiers, and none of them don the red uniform she’s come to associate with soldiers.

Biting down on her lip, she bristles.

With military, there’s a routine.

They dock their ship and row toward the island in smaller boats. They bring with them their loud guns and loud mouths, and they spend a handful of days stomping around the beaches and jungle. They slash vines with their swords and trample plants with their heavy boots, and terrorize the small animals that are unfortunate enough to come into their path.

But they don’t stay, and for the most part, she can stay out of their way.

They raid the coastal village on the opposite side of the island, stealing their food and valuables, and sometimes their people. But at the first sign of bad weather or the roar of one of the large cats that call the jungle home, they flee. They board their ships and sail away in search of a new conquest, and they’re never seen or heard from again.

And that’s how she likes it.

Passengers, however, stay.

Instead of guns they bring with their bibles and an air of moral superiority with them. They cut down trees and build rudimentary huts that won’t withstand a storm. They scavenge for food, plucking berries and making poor attempts at catching fish, and they make the villagers feel sorry for them.

She hates that the villagers always fall for it. She’s seen it happen more than once.

They help the passengers build walls around their huts and they help them to reinforce their roofs. They teach them to hunt and fish and store food, and then the passengers insist on offering some form of repayment. Sometimes, that means lessons in civilized life, other times it means lessons in religion. Sometimes, it’s darker than that, and sometimes it’s a blend of all the passengers have to offer.

And that’s always the worst of it.

That’s why she’s alone...

They don’t seem to understand the harm that they do; instead, they seem entitled to it.

They seem entitled to everything.

Her stomach churns as the ship nears. It’s too close to the coast to not be coming for it.

Couching lower, she shrinks down and her shoulder rise to her ears. She regrets coming closer for a better look, wishing she’d stayed up on the bluff, keeping a safe distance from the beach. Momentarily, her eyes press closed and her heart beats faster, pounding in her ears as her knees begin to shake.

Ahoy! she hears a man’s voice call out, and again, she shrinks back, flinching at her memories and trying to ward them off. She likes that most of the time she doesn't have to think about them, and she hates times like these when they come rushing back to her.

Her heart beats even faster—painfully, like it might explode—and she swallows the breath she’s holding.

She can see the passengers now. They’re still far off and, at the distance that they are, they look harmless. But she’s thought that before, and unlike the villagers, she doesn't make the same mistake twice.

She hears a man’s voice call out something—she doesn't hear the words, she couldn’t possibly over her heartbeat—and it sends a shiver down her spine.

Finally, as she watches two row boats being lowered down the side of the ship, she edges back and rises. Momentarily her legs feel shaky and she feels exposed; but she knows they can’t see her. She’s smarter than that—and just as the row boats hit the water, the turns on her heels and takes off running, propelling herself as far into the jungle as she can, and hoping with everything in her that they won’t stay long.

_____

Robin yawns as he sits up in bed, feeling vaguely nauseous from the light swaying of the ship.

He and the rest of the expedition arrived two days ago, finding an absolute paradise. From the white-sand beaches to the thick, lush foliage to the colorful birds he spotted flying over head, everything was just so beautiful.

The more he saw, the more he wanted to see, and as he kicks away his blanket and reaches for his glasses, deciding that today was going to be the day he did it. After all, he’d been brought along for the sole purpose of capturing the island’s beauty.

He pulls on his pants and a shirt, and hastily shoves his feet into his boots before rising to steal a glimpse in his looking glass. He grins at his appearance. He’s decidedly less green and the dark bags under his eyes that arrived a day after the crew set out on the expedition seem to have disappeared—and now that he considers it, he doesn’t feel even remotely nauseous.

The voyage was hard on him. Prior to signing up, he’d never been on a boat, much less a ship, and he’d been unprepared for just how unsteady he’d feel. Even when the air was still and the sun was shining, he felt uneasy, like he could never quite gain his footing. He stumbled and swayed whenever he was up on the main deck, and over the course of the six-week voyage, he could barely keep food down. The others on the expedition lightly teased him about his uselessness—or, at least, that’s how he chose to take it—often rolling their eyes and muttering comments about tossing him overboard.

But now, he felt refreshed.

The warm tropical air seemed to suit him and now that the ship was docked, he felt less queasy. As he gathered together his things, he could smell the porridge and salt pork cooking up on the main deck and he could hear John and Will planning out their day in the room down the hall, but none of what they wanted to do sounded pleasing to him. They seem more interested in the main land, while he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the island. Their plans were too deliberate and calculated, too. He wasn’t interested in the business side of the expedition, and of course, their mission was far different from his. They were reporting back to a colonial governor about their findings and mapping out possible settlements, testing the soil to determine what could be grown and which would be most profitable. He, on the other hand, had paid his own way. He didn’t care about cash crops or being rewarded with a lucrative post; instead, he simply wanted to explore and soak in the beauty of an exotic land.

And if he could sell his pictures, that would be an added bonus.

In his bag, he’d already managed to shove his drawing pad and a set of watercolors, a little easel that was relatively lightweight and meant for travel, a journal and pen set, and already, it was bursting at the seams. He had a pouch of crackers that could be attached to his belt loop and a pair of binoculars that could be worn around his neck, but he had no idea how to carry his camera.

He frowned at the contraption. It was bulky and required its own bag. It came with a box of film and a heavy wooden tripod, and figuring out just the right angle and which buttons to press was tricky.

It’d been a gift from his grandmother—or, well, the woman he considered to be his grandmother—and she’d gifted it to him with the exact purpose of photographing this trip. She’d saved for more than a year to buy it for him, and though the Folding Kodak came out earlier that year and was far cheaper, she’d chosen this model because the salesman at the store ensured her that it was the best. She bought him a photograph album, too, that had pre-spaced spots for the 4x5 photo cards.

He’d hate to disappoint her by returning with an empty album.

So, he lifts first bag onto his shoulder and then slings the camera bag across his chest, a low oof sound escaping him as the weight falls to his shoulders. But after a few adjustments, he finds it more comfortable, and when he practices trudging across his room, he doesn't find it all that difficult—of course, the jungle terrain will be more of a challenge, but he decides its a challenge that he’s up for.

He ignores Gold and the others jeering at him as he walks down the deck, and offers John and Will a wave, calling out that he’ll be back by suppertime as he hops into one of the row boats and lowers himself into the water. Then, as he hits the water, he can’t help but smile as thrill runs down his spine. He draws in a long, deep breath and breathes in the hot air, turning his face up toward the sky to momentarily bask in the warmth—and then, after a moment, he rows himself to the coast.

Robin spends the next several hours just exploring. He doesn’t set up his easel or pull out his camera, instead, he decides to spend the day taking it all in; then, tomorrow, he’ll return to some of his favorite spots to paint and snap a few photographs. After all, there’s no rush. The expedition is meant to last months, and today is only the first day. He trudges through the thick foliage, unable to believe how bright and green everything is. He spots vines that look like something from a science fiction novel and flowers in colors he never knew existed. He takes a moment to watch birds soar above the trees and he finds himself mesmerized watching bright orange fish swim beneath the clear blue water.

It doesn't occur to him until he’s deep into the jungle that he should be afraid of the poisonous bugs and plants rumored to be here or the animals ready to tear him to shreds. For years, he’s read about the dangers of the African continent. Prehistoric bugs and large vicious cats, wild-eyed people armed with spears and plants that could strangle the life out of a human. But all that seemed a bit too far-fetched to be real, and every time it occurred to him that he should be worried, those thoughts were fleeting, quickly replaced by his amazement over how strikingly gorgeous everything was.

It was darker in the jungle than it was on the coast, but everything was still vibrantly colored, and thought he probably should have been more intentional about his path, he couldn’t help but let himself wander aimlessly, taking in whatever he could. His eyes were perpetually round and his mouth agape, and more than once he’d tripped over a low-hanging vine of a thick tree root popping up from the earth. He paid attention to every sound and made mental notes of the things he wanted to see again, and the back of his neck prickled with excitement.

All the while, he never saw a soul or any indication that anyone lived in this absolute utopia, and more than once, he wondered if humans had ever even touched this bit of earth. Every now and then, he was reminded that he wasn’t entirely alone though. Birds would sing and little animals would scurry out of his path, and every now and then, he felt like a pair of eyes was watching him.

But he saw no one and never dwelled on that particular feeling, he was enjoying himself far too much for that.

A bird called out and he spun around, looking upward to catch a glimpse of it, wondering if its feathers could possibly be as beautiful as its song—and as he did the weight of his camera shifted and his boot caught on a fallen branch. He lost he lost his footing in an ungraceful fall, and though there was no one around to witness it, he felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

He sighed as he looked down at his muddy hands, and it was then that he noticed just how blurry they were.

For the first time, he feels panic settling at his core as he spins his head around in search of his glasses. He sees splotches of green everywhere and suddenly, every sound seems augmented. His heart beats faster as he crawls around, patting his hands in the mud as he searches for his glasses—and then, for the first time, he hears footsteps. He looks around wildly, calling out a frightened who’s there? that goes unanswered, then as he hears footsteps nearing, he holds his breath and braces himself.

But nothing comes.

No animal roars. No teeth sink into his skin, and as a hand outstretched, he squints, watching his glasses come into view. His brow furrows and he blinks at them, but still not moving to take them and finding that he’s not yet able to. All he seems capable of is staring at the thin gold frames as they perch on the tips of a woman’s fingers.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand, swallowing hard as he reaches for them his heart racing as he tries to find his voice, wanting to thank her for coming to his rescue

But by the time he puts them on, she’s gone—completely vanished, like she was never there.

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Tinkering with the Code of Reality: An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in GTA Online, Michael Crowe (Studio Operative)

Text by Denise Bonetti

>Between the 18th and the 20th October 1974, Oulipo BAE Georges Perec - a Pisces - sits in a Parisian cafe on Place Saint-Sulpice, meticulously recording in his notebook every detail of the busy life of the square. His eyes are alert to 'what happens when nothing happens'.  The more inconsequential the particulars he manages to pick up on, examine, or classify, the more excited he seems to become:

 'Means of locomotion: walking, two-wheeled vehicles (with and without motor), automobiles (private cars, company cars, rented cars, driving school cars), commercial vehicles, public services, public transport, tourist buses.'   

>The conceptual/obsessive experiment in cataloguing is a response to a writing prompt of his own devising, published about a month before in a collection of essays on public and private spaces (the adorably-named Species of Spaces and Other Pieces). Perec's practical exercise calls for the reader/writer to carefully observe the street around them and note *everything* down: one must set about it slowly, 'almost stupidly'; forcing oneself to see the space 'more flatly'. 'If nothing strikes you', says Perec, then 'you don't know how to see'. As it turns out, Perec himself is really good at seeing: after 3 days on Place Saint-Sulpice, his notes are over 50 pages long - mainly one-line annotations about buses, passersby, pigeons, gestures, more buses. He calls it An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris.

>Perec made of this modality (a dry and neutral encyclopedic gaze at the unnoticed) a manifesto. In both writing and living, he called for a shift of attention from the exceptional to the ordinary, for an abandonment of the charmingly exotic in favour of the invisibly unexceptional - according to a philosophy he labels 'anthropology of the endotic'. In the essay 'Approaches to What?', in a somewhat self-referential aphorism, he remarks that 'railway trains only begin to exist when they are derailed, and the more passengers are killed, the more the trains exist.' That the ordinary, in other words, only lives in our attention as soon as it stops being ordinary.

>If this statement is true as it sounds, then, the virtual world of Grand Theft Auto Online must without a doubt be more real than the one we live in. The game's universe is expansive and hyperrealistic to the extent that navigating its space is an experience of an undecidable quality; the abundance of detail is so accurately mimetic and uncannily convincing it that the digital artifice both disappears into an ambient background, and never leaves the centre of the stage. The minutia of IRL city-walking, and of existing in a world that follows its own will (flecks of dust dancing in the wind, catching the sun; overheard fragments of strangers' phone conversations; the gas station attendant's body language in between serving customers), are alienated from us, digitally re-engineered, and presented back to us in the guise of a crime-ridden fictional world. In this sense, the GTA series is one of the most Perecquian exercises to ever exist. (Of course, amusingly enough, Perec's aphorism is also appropriate here on a more literal level: the game franchise is entirely built upon the premise that derailing trains  - but also provoking car accidents, and especially murdering innocent pedestrians - is recommended if not required).

>Because of these underlying continuities between Perec's 'infraordinary' and the process of hyperrealistic world-making in sandbox video games, when I first read about Michael Crowe's re-enactment of Perec's experiment in GTA online (in a cafe, open-mouthed, holding a scone mid-air), I just blurted out 'Of course!' to the stranger sitting across from me. It made complete sense; the connection was there all along, only no one had ever written about it. In his wonderful introduction to the small volume, Jamie Sutcliffe confesses that he is 'jealous and frustrated [Crowe] got there first'. Although he follows this with praise for the book's undeniable 'inventiveness, inquisitiveness and relentless mirth,' I think the underlying reason for the (admittedly shared) envy is not only that Crowe exhausted a conceptual exercise skilfully, and in beautiful prose. He also hit a nerve, exposed a crucial side of the relationship between video games, literature, realism and simulation - and he did it playfully.

>At times, An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in GTA Online time follows closely Perec's model: it obsesses over weather, numbers and registration plates, the colour of people's clothes, passersby (especially women) eating things, commercial slogans, etc. Of course, these strong echoes can only highlight the essential polarities between the two universes: what in Perec's Paris is nature or chance (clouds, the pedestrians' trajectories, their conversations), is always artifice and intentionality in GTA. Even if the the game's phenomenology might be randomised, it is always layers of carefully contrived code that engender it: the player can never forgets this.

>One other definition that Perec devised for the kind of everydayness that escapes our perception is 'the infra-ordinary' - the swarm of details that hover just below the threshold of attention. If Perec's term is certainly appropriate for his preferred subject of writing, the choice of word seems even more significant in the context Crowe's Attempt because its meaning necessarily expands to the digital nature of the space explored. In the city-space of GTA, the 'endotic' and the 'infra' quite literally consist of the hidden workings below (or behind) the surface of game: the structure of its programming, the software's rationale - mechanisms that Crowe often lingers on, his phenomenological descriptions often slipping into conjectures about the game's logical engines:

'That woman is still parked at a green light. Melt down. As other cars approach they brake differently, some jerkily in stages, others in a smoother manner. The computer players seem to have different levels of driving proficiency.'

'There's a pristine jewellery exchange store opposite. Dilapidated buildings probably cost more to design and create in this game, as they would generally have far more detail. ... Directly opposite is the Elkridge Hotel. It can't be entered. I wonder what's inside. Is the book/cube poured full of colour, or transparency, with the road/pavement continuing on the floor? If hollow, how thin are the impenetrable walls?'

Crowe's asides often touch - more or less directly - upon questions of realism and effective simulation:

'The palm trees in front of me are slightly different heights. None look copied and pasted'    

'It would be great if learner driver were going around, veering off cliffs, etc.'

'It's a shame there are no birds, it would add greatly to a sense of realism ... Perec had all kinds of pigeon action in his book'

>Even more interestingly, at times his observations go as far as hinting at the inherent opacity of the concept of mimetic representation itself: what is realism, when truly accurate depictions often seem even more surreal in their uncanny effect? Doesn't GTA's lifelike graphic rendering - like meticulously inventorial writing - draw attention to the very artifice of artistic creation? 

'Very light rain. This slight rain seems realistic, but in Perec's reality the rain stops "very suddenly". If that happened in GTA it would seem like poor attention to detail'.

>In a review of Auerbach's Mimesis, Terry Eagleton elaborates on Brecht's idea that realism really is a matter of effect, not a matter of technique. The definition cannot be applied at the level of production or its methods, it has to depend on reception - at the level of reading, or, in this case - playing. Realism happens between the artwork and the audience's expectations; it's not about verisimilitude, or about whether a text (or video game) recalls something familiar; it's about whether or not the experience of the work matches an unmediated experience of reality: 'Realism is as realism does'. 

>Eagleton concludes that 'artistic realism, then, cannot mean "represents the world as it is", but rather "represents it in accordance with conventional real-life modes of representing it". Realism as we normally understand it, then, has more to do with convention; it is more like an autonomous process of creation than a neutral mode of reporting. At one point, Crowe wonders 'what poets like T.S. Eliot would've added [to the game] by way of details within details'; the underlying idea here is that a deeper and deeper level of realism can only come from fabrication and designed artifice. A truly realistic world doesn't exist, it has to be manufactured and carefully weaved together. Perec, Eliot, the nerds at Rockstar Games: all mods, tinkering with code to fashion a world that feels more real than the invisible one we live in.

>The most prominent strand of reflections in Crowe's Attempt, however, is dedicated to imagining a future in which GTA is so utterly realistic that it surpasses reality itself. Crowe pictures the horizon towards which the GTA series is moving not only as a simulation indistinguishable from its original, but as a utopian uber-world populated by perfect AI characters:

'In future games, players will be able to chat with all computer characters about any topic, for any length of time. The only problem would be that the computer characters would likely find us too boring and go off to chat with another computer character that has also read every line of text and seen every film/artwork.'

'I wonder how detailed these games will become. Could growing a zit in the game affect your character's day? ... Could millions of players all live as microorganisms on the face of a GTA character?'

>The beautifully apocalyptic scale of Crowe's prophecy is made somewhat more ominous by the hazy, yet closed, temporal arc that his little book follows. Whereas Perec opens and concludes every section of his Attempt declaring the time window of his observations, Crowe rarely if never talks about the passage of time in the game ('I dont keep track of time as i should, here or irl'). The only real time marks - vague, atmospheric, possibly just conceptual - are in the names of the 5 sections the book is divided into: '(Daybreak)', '(Morning)', '(Break)', '(Nightfall)', '(Night)'. Crowe's 24-hour cycle - whether referring to IRL or GTA temporality - is possibly more compellingly symbolic than Perec's 3 days. The self-contained movement from dawn, to sunset, and then darkness, lends the volume a sense of closure that it would otherwise lack - given its status as a semi-conceptual exercise aimed at an inherently unattainable objective ('exhausting' a place). 

>This explicitly closed timeline also means that Crowe's subject, and thus his literary project, assume more gravitas than one might expect. What could begin in the reader's mind as a playful pastiche actually becomes more like a tragedy, with Crowe's avatar helplessly standing and witnessing unstoppably violent events, most of which utterly gratuitous. The text is so ridiculously faithful to the Aristotelian unities of time and place (one day, one place), that one might turn a blind eye on its complete lack of any unity of action ('events strictly tied together as cause and effect, adding up to one single story' sounds pretty much like everything this book is not). The book does funny, but it also does serious, poetic - although possibly not cathartic. In a sense, Crowe's avatar is a bit like a postmodern Hamlet: a passive and melancholic intellectual antihero, surrounded by farcical death in a corrupted society.

>In the last section of Crowe's Attempt, '(Night)', the more beautifully poetic descriptive fragments that populate the book gradually increase in number as if to signal the nearing calmness of closure. These are nominal phrases that choose to go nowhere; many are about things that are far away, abandoned, or circular:

'A very high crane in the distance.' '1000s of lights visible from my spot.' 'The window lights have different hues, every light isn't just white. Slight yellow, greens.' 'One side of the sky is pink, the other blue, held apart by purple.' 'A plane flying by way off in the distance.' 'An ambulance is burnt out, two people inside burnt entirely black.' 'A human is spinning around in circles in their car (...).' 'Dropped cigarette on the floor.'

>Before you know it - much, much before the last section - you'll feel stupid for ever thinking this book would be just a parody to lol at, or a kool koncept show your other Highbrow x Lowbrow friends and pat each other on the back for knowing the experimental French literature reference. You'll be moved by how beautiful Los Santos can be - the geometry of its facade architecture; its computer-generated clouds drifting above sports cars, reflecting the light in coupé red or neon purple; private (NPC) citizens relaxing on benches or outside cafes, smoking, eating donuts, eating bagels, talking into their phones to their private (NPC) citizen friends about their job, their boyfriends, their drug problem. I won't say you'll forget the world you're in is a video game you're in - because Crowe won't let you - but I think you will stop caring. 

>An Attempt at Exhausting a Pace in GTA Online is published by Studio Operative, and can be bought at Glasgow's Good Press, or here. 

[kindlecomparedinfo]

SpaceX reveals more Starlink info after launch of first 60 satellites

Last night’s successful Starlink launch was a big one for SpaceX — its heaviest payload ever, weighed down by 60 communications satellites that will eventually be part of a single constellation providing internet to the globe. That’s the plan, anyway — and the company pulled the curtain back a bit more after launch, revealing a few more details about the birds it just put in the air.

SpaceX and CEO Elon Musk have been extremely tight-lipped about the Starlink satellites, only dropping a few hints here and there before the launch. We know, for instance, that each satellite weighs about 500 pounds, and are a flat-panel design that maximized the amount that can fit in each payload. The launch media kit also described a “Startracker” navigation system that would allow the satellites to locate themselves and orbital debris with precision.

SpaceX kicks off its space-based internet service with 60-satellite Starlink launch

At the fresh new Starlink website, however, a few new details have appeared, alongside some images that provide the clearest look yet (renders, not photographs, but still) of the satellites that will soon number thousands in our skies.

In the CG representation of how the satellites will work, you get a general sense of it:

Thousands of satellites will move along their orbits simultaneously, each beaming internet to and from the surface in a given area. It’s still not clear exactly how big an area each satellite will cover, or how much redundancy will be required. But the image gives you the general idea.

The signal comes from and goes to a set of four “phased array” radio antennas. This compact, flat type of antenna can transmit in multiple directions and frequencies without moving like you see big radar dishes do. There are costs as well, but it’s a no-brainer for satellites that need to be small and only need to transmit in one general direction — down.

There’s only a single solar array, which unfolds upwards like a map (and looks pretty much like you’d expect — hence no image here). The merits of having only one are mainly related to simplicity and cost — having two gives you more power and redundancy if one fails. But if you’re going to make a few thousand of these things and replace them every couple years, it probably doesn’t matter too much. Solar arrays are reliable standard parts now.

The krypton-powered ion thruster sounds like science fiction, but ion thrusters have actually been around for decades. They use a charge difference to shoot ions — charged molecules — out in a specific direction, imparting force in the opposite direction. Kind of like a tiny electric pea shooter that, in microgravity, pushes the person back with the momentum of the pea.

To do this it needs propellant — usually xenon, which has several (rather difficult to explain) properties that make it useful for these purposes. Krypton is the next Noble gas up the list in the table, and is similar in some ways but easier to get. Again, if you’re deploying thousands of ion engines — so far only a handful have actually flown — you want to minimize costs and exotic materials.

Lastly there is the Star Tracker and collision avoidance system. This isn’t very well explained by SpaceX, so we can only surmise based on what we see. The star tracker tells each satellite its attitude, or orientation in space — presumably by looking at the stars and comparing that with known variables like time of day on Earth and so on. This ties in with collision avoidance, which uses the government’s database of known space debris and can adjust course to avoid it.

How? The image on the Starlink site shows four discs at perpendicular orientations. This suggests they’re reaction wheels, which store kinetic energy and can be spun up or slowed down to impart that force on the craft, turning it as desired. Very clever little devices actually and quite common in satellites. These would control the attitude and the thruster would give a little impulse, and the debris is avoided. The satellite can return to normal orbit shortly thereafter.

We still don’t know a lot about the Starlink system. For instance, what do its ground stations look like? Unlike Ubiquitilink, you can’t receive a Starlink signal directly on your phone. So you’ll need a receiver, which Musk has said in the past is about the size of a pizza box. But small, large, or extra large? Where can it be mounted, and how much does it cost?

The questions of interconnection are also a mystery. Say a Starlink user wants to visit a website hosted in Croatia. Does the signal go up to Starlink, between satellites, and down to the nearest base station? Does it go down at a big interconnect point on the backbone serving that region? Does it go up and then come down 20 few miles from your house at the place where fiber connects to the local backbone? It may not matter much to ordinary users, but for big services — think Netflix — it could be very important.

And lastly, how much does it cost? SpaceX wants to make this competitive with terrestrial broadband, which is a little hard to believe considering the growth of fiber, but also not that hard to believe because of telecoms dragging their heels getting to rural areas still using DSL. Out there, Starlink might be a godsend, while in big cities it might be superfluous.

Chances are won’t know for a long time. The 60 satellites up there right now are only the very first wave, and don’t comprise anything more than a test bed for future services. Starlink will have to prove these things work as planned, and then send up several hundred more before it can offer even the most rudimentary service. Of course, that is the plan, and might even be accomplished by the end of the year. In the meantime I’ve asked SpaceX for more details and will update this post if I hear back.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8176395 https://techcrunch.com/2019/05/24/spacex-reveals-more-starlink-info-after-launch-of-first-60-satellites/ via http://www.kindlecompared.com/kindle-comparison/

[un-enfant-immature]

SpaceX reveals more Starlink info after launch of first 60 satellites

Last night’s successful Starlink launch was a big one for SpaceX — its heaviest payload ever, weighed down by 60 communications satellites that will eventually be part of a single constellation providing internet to the globe. That’s the plan, anyway — and the company pulled the curtain back a bit more after launch, revealing a few more details about the birds it just put in the air.

SpaceX and CEO Elon Musk have been extremely tight-lipped about the Starlink satellites, only dropping a few hints here and there before the launch. We know, for instance, that each satellite weighs about 500 pounds, and are a flat-panel design that maximized the amount that can fit in each payload. The launch media kit also described a “Startracker” navigation system that would allow the satellites to locate themselves and orbital debris with precision.

SpaceX kicks off its space-based internet service with 60-satellite Starlink launch

At the fresh new Starlink website, however, a few new details have appeared, alongside some images that provide the clearest look yet (renders, not photographs, but still) of the satellites that will soon number thousands in our skies.

In the CG representation of how the satellites will work, you get a general sense of it:

Thousands of satellites will move along their orbits simultaneously, each beaming internet to and from the surface in a given area. It’s still not clear exactly how big an area each satellite will cover, or how much redundancy will be required. But the image gives you the general idea.

The signal comes from and goes to a set of four “phased array” radio antennas. This compact, flat type of antenna can transmit in multiple directions and frequencies without moving like you see big radar dishes do. There are costs as well, but it’s a no-brainer for satellites that need to be small and only need to transmit in one general direction — down.

There’s only a single solar array, which unfolds upwards like a map (and looks pretty much like you’d expect — hence no image here). The merits of having only one are mainly related to simplicity and cost — having two gives you more power and redundancy if one fails. But if you’re going to make a few thousand of these things and replace them every couple years, it probably doesn’t matter too much. Solar arrays are reliable standard parts now.

The krypton-powered ion thruster sounds like science fiction, but ion thrusters have actually been around for decades. They use a charge difference to shoot ions — charged molecules — out in a specific direction, imparting force in the opposite direction. Kind of like a tiny electric pea shooter that, in microgravity, pushes the person back with the momentum of the pea.

To do this it needs propellant — usually xenon, which has several (rather difficult to explain) properties that make it useful for these purposes. Krypton is the next Noble gas up the list in the table, and is similar in some ways but easier to get. Again, if you’re deploying thousands of ion engines — so far only a handful have actually flown — you want to minimize costs and exotic materials.

Lastly there is the Star Tracker and collision avoidance system. This isn’t very well explained by SpaceX, so we can only surmise based on what we see. The star tracker tells each satellite its attitude, or orientation in space — presumably by looking at the stars and comparing that with known variables like time of day on Earth and so on. This ties in with collision avoidance, which uses the government’s database of known space debris and can adjust course to avoid it.

How? The image on the Starlink site shows four discs at perpendicular orientations. This suggests they’re reaction wheels, which store kinetic energy and can be spun up or slowed down to impart that force on the craft, turning it as desired. Very clever little devices actually and quite common in satellites. These would control the attitude and the thruster would give a little impulse, and the debris is avoided. The satellite can return to normal orbit shortly thereafter.

We still don’t know a lot about the Starlink system. For instance, what do its ground stations look like? Unlike Ubiquitilink, you can’t receive a Starlink signal directly on your phone. So you’ll need a receiver, which Musk has said in the past is about the size of a pizza box. But small, large, or extra large? Where can it be mounted, and how much does it cost?

The questions of interconnection are also a mystery. Say a Starlink user wants to visit a website hosted in Croatia. Does the signal go up to Starlink, between satellites, and down to the nearest base station? Does it go down at a big interconnect point on the backbone serving that region? Does it go up and then come down 20 few miles from your house at the place where fiber connects to the local backbone? It may not matter much to ordinary users, but for big services — think Netflix — it could be very important.

And lastly, how much does it cost? SpaceX wants to make this competitive with terrestrial broadband, which is a little hard to believe considering the growth of fiber, but also not that hard to believe because of telecoms dragging their heels getting to rural areas still using DSL. Out there, Starlink might be a godsend, while in big cities it might be superfluous.

Chances are won’t know for a long time. The 60 satellites up there right now are only the very first wave, and don’t comprise anything more than a test bed for future services. Starlink will have to prove these things work as planned, and then send up several hundred more before it can offer even the most rudimentary service. Of course, that is the plan, and might even be accomplished by the end of the year. In the meantime I’ve asked SpaceX for more details and will update this post if I hear back.

[fight-western-precure-official]

A magic egg, an incredible start! Fight! Western Precure have arrived! Episode One.

It was just a normal Monday in Texas. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and…. A purple and pink flash of light appeared from inside of a farmhouse?! But nobody is in the area at the time, and nobody would be there for a few more hours yet. Therefore, no one notices, but what may happen when something or someone, notices?

***

“Abby! Move, pardner, an’ lemme go out first!” A girl donning blue denim overalls snaps at her sister, who shakes her head.

“No, li’l sis! Ah’m the oldest an’ Ah go first!” Abby responded, fixing the strap on her red overalls.

Abigail and Sophie are just, or are trying to, get off of their school bus. It’s not like this never happened, though. It always happened. Abigail had fair skin, blue eyes, and ginger hair tied up in a ponytail, as did Sophie. The only way to tell them apart was that Abigail frequently wore red and pink, and Sophie frequently wore blue.

“Stop arguin’, y’all!”

“But mama!” The twins whined.

“But mama nothin’. Y’all have some kinda weird tendency t’ fight, y’know? You are both in the middle of teenhood, but y’all fight like babies! Grow up, for goodness sakes!”

“Fine...” Abigail groaned.

“Ah’m gonna go first big sis!”

“Shut up, ya rotten piece of peach pie!”

Finally. Some peace and quiet at last. Unfortunately, this quiet would never last for very long. The twins always fought over everything. Anything. Even the littlest things could be fought over by the twins.

The twins then decided to head out for some more seeds and soil. Something that could end their fighting for a good while.

***

A couple hours later, the twins return. But like the girls they are, fighting is essential.

“Hey, li’l sis, guess what?”

The elder sister piped up.

“What, Abby?”

Sophie looks over to her

“Ah think Ah got the most crops in mah area of the ranch!”

“Who in the hell said that?! Ah believe that Ah have the most crops!” Sophie crossed her arms over her chest.

“No, Ah do!”

“Ah do, big sis!”

“Ah do li’l sis!”

“Hmph!”

After a couple minutes of arguing, the twins decide that it is nearly impossible for them to come to an agreement. Frustrated, they grumble and decide to just head inside.

“Li’l sis?”

“Huh, Abby?”

“It’s a note from our parents.‘Abigail an’ Sophie, we’ll be in town doing business for a couple days, so we will be gone during that duration. Love ya’ll and stay safe. Love, Bonnie’.”

“Big sis? Do you know--” Sophie stopped to register this. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?”

“Yes...yes! We’re gonna be home alone, pardner!”

“Yessiree!”

“Yeehaw!”

This was the only time the girls had agreed all day! Before going to make a checklist of things they should do, Sophie notices a white egg with pink and purple stars on it on top of the counter.

“Abby? Is this an egg?”

The eldest sister came over and inspected it for a moment.

“What else do ya think it is, ya dummy? An’ what’s it doin’ here? Easter was months ago! An’ it can’t be ours, since we don’t own any hens. So then where did it come from…?

“Then, let’s scramble it!” Sophie was always hungry. Sometimes instead of just growing crops, she'd just eat the seeds! Just the day before, while she was planting carrot seeds, her sister had caught her eating from the bag! But what Sophie hadn't told her is she did that frequently! She had even snuck a taste of some of Abby’s apple seeds once!

“Hell nah! What are ya, a crazy person or somethin’? This is one of the most exotic eggs Ah’ve ever seen!”

Before Sophie can reply, the egg suddenly starts to shake, and pink and purple light comes out of it as it starts to crack. The twins looked shocked, but then it splits apart.

“HOLY APPLE SEEDS!”

“Hello there, chirp! Are you two my mamas, chirp?” The speaker was none other than a newborn fluffy white chick. To add to the strangeness, she had large purple eyes, a pink beak, pink feet, a purple star on her chest, and a tiny purple bonnet tied under its chin with a bow.

“M-mamas?! What're you goin' on 'bout?!” Abby asked, startled. Meanwhile, Sophie was trying her hardest not to pass out from the shock.

“Why is the bird talkin'?! What's goin' on?!"

"I'm not a bird, chirp! I'm a fairy, chirp!" The chick clearly wasn't pleased.

There was no way Abigail would believe such a thing.

"Fairies ain't real!"

The bird puffed out her chest feathers a bit.

"If fairies weren't real, I wouldn't be here, chirp! ...Anyway, what's my name going to be, chirp?"

The girls huddle together for a few moments, before finally coming to that day’s second agreement.

Then, Abigail gently cupped the baby bird in her hands, holding her up to her face and speaking softly.

“Alright, li’l chick--”

She shot her a glare.

“Fairy, chirp!”

“We’ll name ya Sugar! Whatcha think ‘bout that name, li’l one?”

“That's a great name, chirp! For now on, my name is Sugar, chirp!”

Happy about this, the newly hatched chick (ahem, fairy), flapped her tiny wings and hovered in the air just a few inches above Abby’s hands. Once she got tired, she returned to her previous perch.

“Girls, I need to look for some...what was it again, chirp? Oh, yeah, legendary cowgirls, chirp!”

“What?”

“Hm?”

“I'll do my best to explain from what I know, chirp. I come from a magical place called Harvest Valley, chirp! It's got every single crop and flower you can imagine and more, and even has some types that can't be found in this world, chirp! Everything was peaceful, chirp! But then, one day, Barren, King of the Outlaws, appeared in the Valley with his gang, chirp! I don't know what he looks like, but from what I heard, he's probably all dark and scary and mean-looking, chirp! He and his gang stole all the crops and life from the soil, so the Valley can't grow any more food, chirp! And Barren’s set his sights on attacking this world next, chirp! The only ones who can stop him and get back everything he stole are the ones I'm looking for, chirp! The legendary cowgirls, Pretty Cure, chirp! ...At least, that's what I heard from inside my eggshell, chirp.”

“Pretty Cure…?”

“Just what is a legendary cowgirl, anyway?”

Sugar would have responded, but her stomach growled. “Never mind that, chirp! I'm hungry, chirp! Got any bread, chirp?”

***

Meanwhile, a man has stolen a loaf of bread from a store in the town. “Hey, you! Get back here with mah bread this instant!” The storekeeper demanded.

“Ah can't! Ah need it t’ feed mah family!” The thief retorted.

Calamity Maybelle, a fourteen-year-old bandit clad in black and green, who just so happened to be perched unnoticed on the store’s roof, sees him steal the bread, but stops him in his tracks when he tries to run off.

“You!”

“What? Where'd you come from?! Ya better not call the police!”

“Ah won’t, sweets. But Ah won’t let you escape, either. You're just what Ah need.”

She then reaches her hand straight into his chest with ease, grabbing hold onto his heart with one hand, and the loaf of bread with the other.

“If it's evil deeds you wanna do, Ah will make those dreams come true!”

Maybelle pulled his heart out of his chest and the loaf out of his hand, then jammed them together.

“Come forth, Crookinal!”

The Croonkinal emerges, and his body is left lifeless on the ground. The monster resembles a slice of bread with arms, legs, and a face. Around its eyes is a dark marking that looks like a mask, and from right under its face onwards, its body is covered in black and white horizontal stripes. “Crookinaaaaal!”

Countless citizens see the monster and call the police, but the Croonkinal makes a mess of things, destroying buildings and chasing people. Eventually, it smashes a few farmstands, including the one belonging to the Smith family! It gets out of control to a point where everyone, including the police, can do nothing but run and scream in terror.

***

“Girls, listen, chirp!”

“What is it?”

“I can detect…a Croonkinal, chirp!”

“What the heck is a Croonkinal, Abby?”

“Ah got no idea, li’l sis.”

“You two, follow me, chirp!”

Sugar started running across the floor towards the door.

“For what?”

“Just do it, chirp! You can trust me, chirp!”

“Ok, Sugar. Hop on Abby’s bike, an’ Ah’ll hop on mine!” The girls run outside, putting on their helmets, and Sugar gets herself seated in the pink basket on Abigail’s bike.

“Alright girls, this way, chirp!”

***

A short while later, the girls then see the giant slice wreaking total havoc.

“Is that a Crookinal, Sugar?

“Yes it is, chirp!”

Calamity Maybelle approached the two as they got off their bikes, giving them the most saccharine sweet voice she could muster. “Oh, dear. Is there a problem, girls?”

“Hell yeah, there's a problem! Ah dunno what ya crooktails are doin’, but Ah don’t like it!”

“Me either, Abby!”

"So, with that said…”

The girls each glare harshly at her.

“Hold it right there!"

"Reach for the sky!"

"We don't care what it takes! We won't let ya make a mess of our city anymore!"

"Not if we have anythin' t' say 'bout it!"

After saying that, both of the girls chests start to glow red and blue, respectively. From that light comes forth white, star-shaped badges with a red star on it on Abby’s, and a blue one on Sophie’s. The girls look over them curiously.

“What the heck are these?”

“Ah dunno…”

“Girls, those are Cure Badges, chirp! Now hold them out in front of you and say Pretty Cure, Let's Ride On, chirp! But you must be holding hands when you do, or else it won't work, chirp! That’s the only catch, chirp!”

“Ah’m a bit anxious, Abby!”

“Ah am too, li’l sis, but it’s worth a try!”

The twins hold hands, holding the badges out in front of them like Sugar had instructed.

“Pretty Cure, Let's Ride On!”

In a flash of red and blue light, the girls were now wearing an odd mix between cowgirl attire and cute dresses. The appearance of their hair and eyes had now changed dramatically as well.

Abigail smiled and put a hand on her hip, tipping her new hat.

“The Protector of Justice in a Red Stetson! Cure Sheriff!”

Sophie did the same, but with the opposite arms.

“The Defender of Peace in a Blue Stetson! Cure Deputy!”

“Together we shall protect our land! We will…”

The girls hold hands once more.

“Fight! Western Precure!”

They pause, taking that in.

“...What the hell did we just say?!”

Maybelle sees what the girls are doing, and looks at them in both anger and shock. She is NOT happy about this.

“Yay, chirp! You two are Pretty Cure now, chirp!”

The two newly-born Cures look at their new forms in complete shock, then ask a simple question in sync.

"What in tarnation is goin' on?!"

Originally written by @na11stuff, edited and worked on by @the-great-and-powerful-moddie, and beta read by @tabbykattene! Posted by Na11.

[biofunmy]

Following the Lead of the Diving Girl

The Diving Girl was born in Portland, Ore., in 1920. In my pursuit of her ghost, I find myself eyeballing three contentious Canada geese on a floating swim dock in the Willamette River.

On this overcast June afternoon, cottony clouds of varying thickness hang overhead, the sun and splashes of blue visible in the gaps between puffs. The promise of summer is palpable, though the season itself hasn’t yet arrived. The water is fine, nearly 70 degrees — warmer, in fact, than the air. Perched on the dock, goggles at the ready, my friend Fran and I wait for a big enough hole in the clouds to allow for the ritual of a sun-warmed leap into the water.

From this dock, just under the Hawthorne Bridge, you can observe the downtown skyline, prettily framed across the river. You can see the Marquam Bridge to the south, cars and bikes and people racing across. And, of course, you have this calm, silvery span of water, disturbed only by the occasional tourist boat or stand-up paddleboarder — or Canada goose, squinting suspiciously at you before it settles back down to snooze. This is the beauty of a swimmable urban waterway.

The Willamette River, which winds north nearly 190 miles from Eugene to Portland and into the Columbia River, has long been a hub of human activity. In recent decades, frequent sewage overflows made the water unswimmable, but the completion of a $1.4 billion public works project in 2010 changed all that. Every July since then, the nonprofit Human Access Project hosts “The Big Float” — a giant people-powered flotilla and beach party to encourage Portlanders to reclaim the river for swimming and other aquatic recreation.

I’ve spent the last couple of years writing a book about swimming. This river, it turns out, is also a landmark in swimming history — it’s the place where the modern American swimsuit had its big breakthrough, in the early 20th century. The Diving Girl surfaces again and again in the history of swimming, as an international cultural symbol and muse; she even makes a cameo in my own family’s history.

But, really, I’m getting ahead of myself. Rule No. 1 of summertime immersion? Get in the water. With that in mind, I take a running leap off the dock.

The rowers come calling

Let’s go back a little over a century ago, to a little operation called the Portland Knitting Company. Owned by a pair of brothers from Missouri named John and Roy Zehntbauer and their partner, a Danish immigrant named Carl Jantzen, the small retail shop had a few hand-knitting machines and did most of its trade in woolen items like sweaters and socks. The first day’s receipt, in 1910, was 35 cents for a pair of gloves.

The men were members of the city’s rowing club; one day in 1913, a fellow club member placed a special order for a woolen suit that he could wear while sculling during cool mornings on the Willamette River. Jantzen used a sweater-cuff machine to make the one-piece garment, so it would stretch. A lighter weight version eventually became the prototype for the first bathing suits offered in the company catalog.

At the time, men’s bathing suits were required to cover the entire chest; the groin area also had to be covered with a piece of fabric — O.K., it was a skirt — for modesty. Topless men were banned from places now synonymous with sunbathing, like Atlantic City. The reason? Well, the city proclaimed, it didn’t want “gorillas on our beaches.”

Jantzen figured out how to make a superior wool unitard with a rib-stitch that retained its shape and allowed a snugger fit than all the other swimsuits out there. (Imagine swimming while dragging eight pounds of wet wool — that was the existing competition.) The founders wore the new suits in the river; knit in green and yellow stripes, the suits were called “froggers” and soon everybody wanted one. In 1918, the company rebranded itself as Jantzen Knitting Mills. A black-and-white photo from the era shows men, women and children picnicking along the Willamette, all wearing Jantzen swimsuits.

Along came the Diving Girl logo. In her early years, she appeared on the cover of the catalog, wearing long socks and a red and white wool cap. (Remember the company’s origins as a woolens mill.) In 1922, Jantzen printed up 10,000 Red Diving Girl stickers and sent them to retailers to put in their shop windows as advertisements.

It worked pretty well, but not in the way they intended: People started putting them on their cars. The Jantzen girl windshield decals became a massive sensation. Within five years, 5 million Diving Girls could be seen on cars all over the United States. (They were eventually banned in Massachusetts in the interest of public safety.)

She was even made into a hood ornament, so that by the late 1920s and 30s, the Diving Girl was crisscrossing the country, spreading the gospel of swimming to every corner of America. There were free swimming seminars, as part of a national “Learn to Swim Week” campaign.

In 1923, Jantzen’s slogan came to epitomize a cultural revolution: “The suit that changed bathing to swimming.”

A suit for the jet age

In her worldwide travels, the Diving Girl even made it to Hong Kong. My parents met in 1968, in a swimming pool there. For one hot moment, they were the cliché incarnate. He was the lifeguard; she, the big-eyed beauty with long dark hair and a mean sidestroke. In photos of them on the beach early in their courtship, she is wearing Jantzen.

My mother says that almost all the imported swimwear in Hong Kong back then was made by Jantzen. She remembers wistfully that one of her three sisters, my aunt Rosena, had “the cutest floral one-piece by Jantzen.” In my own childhood, I remember the little Diving Girl as a fixture on the bathing suits worn by the ladies at the pool, and the glamour that came with it.

Everyone from Duke Kahanamoku to Elvis and Princess Diana wore Jantzen. In its heyday, Jantzen had more than a dozen design studios around the world. In the late 1950s, it produced the International Set, a collection of 17 suits from those studios. They were jet age suits for the new jet age and the planes that were taking people to exotic places. The Hong Kong studio produced the Shek-O, with a black-and-white woodcut print and a bell-shaped skirt inspired by a Chinese lantern. There were even designs by Hubert de Givenchy, created in his Paris salon especially for the company.

There were monuments. A series of 20-foot-tall, fiberglass-and-steel Diving Girl statues were mounted in strategic locations around the country; some even traveled internationally. In 1965, one was put up above a swimwear shop in Daytona Beach, Fla., called Stamie’s Smart Beach Wear. It became an icon.

One could say the same for the swimsuit, in cities and pools and beaches everywhere. Though ostensibly a functional garment, the bathing suit has long been so much more, particularly as it pertains to female bodies. Jantzen proved it could be both functional and fashionable, and helped turn swimming into an appealing — and acceptable — sport for women.

Eventually, other companies took up the mantle. Speedo is now the world’s best-selling swim brand. China makes 70 percent of all swimsuits. Jantzen itself was bought by a multinational manufacturing giant, Perry Ellis International, and then sold to a private company in 2019. Last year, Stamie’s in Daytona Beach finally closed, after more than five decades on the boardwalk, and the Diving Girl statue was taken down and shipped to Washington State for storage.

The Diving Girl comes home

Culturally and geographically speaking, you can’t get farther away in America from Portland, than Daytona Beach, home to NASCAR’s Daytona 500, endless water parks, and spring-breakers racing dune buggies on its 23 miles of hard-packed beach. They’re even in opposite corners of the country. But Jantzen is a bridge. When the Red Diving Girl was taken down, Daytona Beach residents protested. “Please let her be where she belongs,” they said. “A Florida visit isn’t complete without her.” “Save a piece of my history and my youth.” City leaders rallied together, a rarity; the city’s newspaper received a deluge of nostalgic letters and pictures, with a “Bring Back the Jantzen Girl” campaign; social media exploded: #JantzenGirlDaytonaBeach. Originally from somewhere else, the Diving Girl had come to represent something intensely local.

And so, last winter, the not-so-little Diving Girl took one last cross-country road trip. It took six days on a truck to get the 20-foot behemoth back home to Daytona. She was restored and feted with fireworks at a New Year’s Eve bash, and reinstalled above a plaza at the One Daytona entertainment complex.

Over the years, hems rose and fell with the fashions, both on the Diving Girl and on us. But over that same period, swimming moved from an activity that prioritized public bathing and hygiene to one that represented the pinnacle of sport and leisure, and took off as one of the most popular recreational pastimes anywhere. It’s a story of American pluck, entrepreneurship and cultural migration — all collapsed into one little red logo, and worthy of being blown up into a giant fiberglass store-top mannequin.

So, to honor the travels of the Diving Girl, I returned to her birthplace, in the crisp waters of the Willamette River. It was a baptism of sorts. On that afternoon, I swam between the bridges, and dodged the geese. Running right through the city of Portland, the recently renewed Willamette water was an escape in plain sight. I couldn’t help but laugh when a little boy and his mother stopped at the top of the walking path to stare at me swimming with the birds. I waved, and Fran snapped a photo before jumping in herself. Neither of us wore Jantzen. But it’s not a stretch to say that this freewheeling spirit of swimming is part of the legacy — here, there, and everywhere — that the Diving Girl left in her wake.

If you go

The Hawthorne Boat Dock is one of the easiest public access points for swimming along the Willamette River. Stand-up paddleboarders, dragon boaters and rowers also tie up here, but the crowd is generally friendly. Swimming and wading are permitted in the river, but there are no lifeguards on duty. The Human Access Project recommends several other good Portland beaches on its website, and also offers a useful safety primer on swimming in this urban waterway.

Bonnie Tsui is a frequent contributor to Travel. Her next book, “Why We Swim,” will be published next spring by Algonquin Books.

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[dinoridergirl]

WSA Class story

Hey so I needed to write a story for one of my classes and part of the assignment was that I needed to post it somewhere. Sorry that it ends abruptly but I ran out of time to give it a proper ending XD

So uh, here ya go :/

“ BEST LANDING EVER!!” Nate exclaimed before falling from the hatch opening of his destroyed pod ship and landing face first into the dirt below. Nate laid face down in the dirt dazed for a few moments. Suddenly, he leapt up off the ground excitedly and dusted himself off.

“ That was great!” he said happily and with a big grin on his face. He then turned around and faced his destroyed pod ship. His grin slowly disappeared.

“Aaaaaaaand, thats not so great.” he sighed.

The ship was dented and completely scrunched up. Nate had never been able to properly land a ship of any kind. He was a pretty good flier but wasn’t so good at landing.

‘Dad is going to kill me.’ he thought nervously.

Nate stared at the wreckage for a few more minutes. “Well, at least it didn’t catch on fire this time.” he sighed.

The ship then burst into flames.

“Dammit.” Nate muttered.

Nate then turned and grabbed his green backpack he had tossed out of the ship prior to him clumsily falling out of the ship. ‘Good thing I tossed this out when I did. It would’ve been fire fuel if I had left it in the ship.’ Nate thought to himself.

Nate then faced away from the burning wreckage and looked towards the vast alien wilderness that stood before him. Strange looking trees and odd shaped rocks decorated the landscape. A variety of brightly colored birds and bugs could be seen fluttering around. Distant echoes of alien creature calls sounded from a lush forested canyon. ‘Argwona is such a beautiful planet.’ Nate thought dreamily.

Nate stared at the green canyon before him. This is where he needed to go.

Nate was on a mission to find a special plant for his friend Natalie. Natalie was a botanist who specialized with alien flora. She had asked Nate to find this special plant for one of her experiments.  The plant was called a roobee bloom. The picture Natalie had given Nate showed a thick stemmed plant with bright red leaves and flowers with pale pink spots. Nate had been told the plant was difficult to find and getting to the place where they grow is no easy task. Nate had taken the challenge because not only did it sound like loads of fun, but he also wanted to prove himself to his dad. ‘Already might have screwed that one up.’ Nate thought glumly as he glanced back at the smoldering ship. Nate sighed and quickly checked to make sure all of his supplies were in his pack. Food, water, a blanket, and the photo of the plant. He also had a container to put the plant in when he found one. It wasn’t much, but then again the mission wasn’t supposed to be like a camping trip. The mission was to simply fly to the canyon, find and retrieve the plant, and to then fly back to the base. Nate however, no longer had a ship to fly back to the base with. Nate was worried about how he would get back to the base without his ship. He could walk; but that would be a very long walk.

..........

Nate began his journey as he strolled into the lush canyon. His spirits lifted as he wandered further away from the wreck. Strange creatures scurried around Nate’s boots as he stared up at the forest canopy. Strange brightly colored birds sang in the trees and iridescent beetles buzzed around exotic flowers. Nate stared in awe at everything he passed by. The animals, the trees, the flowers, and even the rocks almost made him forget why he was here.

Nate traveled deeper into the canyon for about thirty minutes before suddenly stopping. Nate looked around confused. Everything had gone completely silent.

The lush forested canyon  that had once been full of birdsong and the hum of insects had now become as eerily quiet as space. “Where did everybody go?” Nate asked to no one in particular.

His question was quickly and unexpectedly answered by a deep guttural growl.

Nate felt warm air brush the back of his neck. He whirled around and found himself face to face with a massive and hungry looking creature. Nate froze and looked at the creature with wide eyes. It was massive. The creature was dinosaur-like and stood on two legs. It had smaller forearms with three claws on each hand. It’s skin was pebbly and was a light shade of purple. It had six bright yellow, pupiless eyes that were fixed on Nate. It had strange knobby spikes running down its neck and back. The creature’s watering jaw opened, revealing it’s two rows of teeth.

Nate stood as still as he could. He took a deep breath and was trying to not loose his cool. ‘DON’T DO SOMETHING STUPID DON’T DO SOMETHING STUPID DON’T DO SOMETHING STUPID...’ Nate anxiously thought to himself. Nate gulped as he looked at the creature’s duel rows of wickedly sharp teeth before looking directly into the creature’s bright yellow eyes.

“ WELL HI THERE FRIEND!” Nate yelled loudly enough for the whole galaxy to hear. The creature then let out a deafeningly loud roar.

‘That was stupid.’ Nate muttered in his thoughts before bolting in the opposite direction of the creature. Nate ran as swiftly as he could through the dense foliage. The creature roared again as it thundered after Nate. It’s roars echoed through the canyon and frightened birds took to the sky in response. Nate was growing tired from running but pure adrenaline kept him going. Nate then realized he was starting to see fewer plants and that he seemed to be getting higher up from the canyon floor. The terrain became more rocky and soon Nate found himself above the canyon. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He found himself on top of one of the plateaus that formed the canyon. He also noticed that there were several other canyons all around. They all zig zagged around in a big confusing maze. Nate was beginning to feel overwhelmed. ‘How am I going to find this plant if I have to navigate through all this?’ Nate thought worriedly.

A loud roar made Nate jump and reminded him why he was above the canyon in the first place. He turned to see the creature making it’s way up to him by following the same path Nate took. Nate looked around for a means of escape. He saw two towering rocks up ahead with a narrow crevasse in between them. Nate raced toward the boulders. He could hear the creature’s booming footsteps behind him.  

 When Nate reached the boulders he shimmied his way into the crevasse. It was a tight fit but he managed to get far enough in to avoid the creature’s claws. The creature roared in frustration when it approached the boulders. It clawed at the crevasse but it couldn’t reach Nate. The creature pressed it’s nose to the crevasse and was sniffing ferociously. Nate could feel the beast’s hot breath  as he stared at it’s flaring nostrils.

It then made a loud storing noise before backing away from the crevasse. The creature let out another roar before turning and walking away. Nate let out a sigh of relief. He sat in the crevasse for a few moments. He listened for any sign of the creature but there was only silence. ‘ That was close’ he thought.

Nate then noticed that the crevasse opened up on the side of the boulders, opposite from where he came in. Nate sucked in his gut and held his breath as he shimmied deeper into the crevasse. He exhaled as the crevasse grew wider and wider. Soon, Nate found himself on the other side of the boulders. He was on a small ledge overlooking a completely new canyon. This canyon was much more rocky and had more shrub-like plants growing in it. Nate then remembered the twisting maze of canyons he had to go through to find the plant. Nate felt tired just thinking about that long walk.

No! Nate took a deep breath and stood tall. He wasn’t going to be bested by these canyons. He had a mission to complete and he was going to do it no matter how difficult it got!

Feeling much more confident and ready to continue his journey, Nate took a step forward. He forgot that he was on a ledge though and fell to the bottom of the canyon. Nate hit the ground with a thud and he landed in a patch of some sort of strange vines. “Ow.” Nate groaned. He lay on the ground face down for a moment before lifting his head up. He hadn’t fallen from too high up but the fall still hurt.

“I guess this mission could have started out worse.” Nate grumbled to himself.

Nate then tried to slowly heave himself up but then realized that something was restraining him. Nate then noticed the vines he had fallen in. They were a dusty pale green color and were rough to the touch. They had no leaves on them and the ones he had fallen on were wrapped tightly around Nate’s arms, legs, and body. Nate tried pulling away from the vines but they held on tight. “C’mon, let me go!” he said as he tried again to yank away from the plants. Nate then noticed that the more he moved the tighter the vines got. Nate began to panic. “Let go, Let Go, LET GO!” He tugged and pulled some more but it was no use. Nate was trapped by the vines. He couldn’t even reach for his multipurpose tool on his belt to cut himself out.

Nate lay belly down on the ground, trying to calm himself  down. “Stay calm Nate. Just think!” Nate said to himself. He took a few deep breaths to relax a little.

“ Come on Nate, think of something! Think! Think! Think!” Nate lay there trying to come up with a way to get out of this mess. “ What would dad do, what would dad do?!”

‘What would’ve mom done?’ he wondered. Nate paused for a moment and stared into space as the thought had caught him off guard. Nate then shook his head. ‘No! Don’t think about that right now!’ he told himself. Nate pondered on what to do for a few more minute when suddenly an idea popped into his head.

“Alright vines, you win. I guess I’ll just be stuck in your grasp forever now. I GIVE UP!” Nate announced before going completely limp.

Nate lay motionless before suddenly shooting up from the ground and tugging as hard as he can to break free from the vines. It did no good. Nate only succeeded in making the vines tighter. Nate collapsed back to the ground defeated.

‘STUPID! Of course that plan wasn’t going t work! Catch the vines off guard, what a stupid idea!’ Nate scolded himself. Nate’s anger and frustration at himself quickly faded.

‘Is...is this how I end?’ he thought. ‘I failed.’

“I shouldn’t have taken this mission.” he mumbled to himself. “ Natalie trusted me with this mission and I failed her.” Nate closed his eyes and lay there in a sad heap telling himself how much of a loser and an idiot he was.  Little did he know was that he was being watched.

A chicken sized bird with brown, orange tipped feathers and beady black eyes was watching him from some shrubs a few feet away. It listened to Nate’s self pitying for a few moments before cautiously approaching Nate. The bird saw the issue as it got closer. The bird carefully approached the vines and tickled the base of the vines with it’s beak. The vines immediately let go of Nate as soon as the bird tickled them. The bird continued tickling the vines until Nate was free.

Nate opened his eyes when he noticed that the vines seemed to have loosened around him. He could move his arms and legs. Nate carefully got up and looked around. He was free. Nate then noticed the small bird watching him with it’s dark eyes. “Hello!” Nate said to the little bird. “QUEEP!” the bird responded. Nate began to step forward when he felt a small tug on his foot. A single small vine held on to his foot tightly. “Seriously?” Nate sighed.

The bird then sprung into action. It approached the base of the vine that was still holding onto Nate and tickled it’s base. The vine released Nate’s foot. Now he was free. Nate stared in shock at what he had seen.

“Did... did you save me?” Nate asked the bird while pointing to the vines. “QUEEP! QUEEP!” the bird replied while nodding. Nate took a few steps away from the vines before smiling at the bird. “Thank you.” he said to the bird. “QUEEP” the bird replied.

[kkpetshop]

The Untold Story About Aquarium Shop Singapore You Must Read

Aquarium Shop Singapore

Any uneaten food also needs to be taken from the aquarium after every feed. Yes, even only a fish has to be happy. In practice the expanding fish often begin pairing up and preparing to spawn after only six months of developing on. On occasion, it is worth it to acquire exotic fish as pets, even better, make it exotic freshwater fish. Deciding on the form of Aquarium You may select marine fish or fresh water fish to make your bit of living art.

Salty supply is necessary for the existence of the fishes since they are accustomed to staying in the saltwater. Other essential supplies are the fish tank pumps that are installed within the fish tank for those fishes to acquire air which they need for their survival. You are needed to obtain various aquarium supplies so as to create an area where the fishes can survive and thrive.

When you decide which you’re likely to use live plants, you’ll want to understand how to select the perfect aquarium plants. In addition, it consists of a great little garden during its base, where you could get a fantastic view of the city without climbing the tower. The outdoor park is also rather large with some nerve-wracking together with gentle rides. There’s a famed shopping mall known as `Mustafa’ which sells a myriad of items that range from pain balms to hi-fi electronic goods. These on-line stores deliver big types of aquarium supplies and enable you to decide on the best one for your aquarium.

Set the aquarium in which you live. You must have the ability to receive all the way around the aquarium. For this reason, it is imperative to keep the aquarium at proper temperature. Do some research on the kind of cichlid which you want to breed to make certain that you pick the right aquarium for it. A well designed aquarium appears attractive and lovely. Selecting a Unique Aquarium selecting the most suitable aquarium can appear an unnerving job. Blessed with the breathtaking elegance of the world’s biggest coral reef, the Great Barrier Reef consists of plenty of marine living.

Aquariums are utilized to keep an array of fishes in a home or a workplace. Ideally you will select an aquarium that fits with your home or apartments decor, offers an intriguing number of aquatic life, and satisfies your aesthetic sense. Aquariums are not just the perfect house for your fish but they’re also able to give an attractive focal point in any property. Oceanic Aquariumsthe Tank Oceanic aquariums arrive in a range of sizes.

Whatever They Told You About Aquarium Shop Singapore Is Dead Wrong…And Here’s Why

Try to keep up a high-grade point average since it will count, and just then begin searching for colleges whose specialty is in marine biology. It was a year now since our final attempt with fish. A visit to Singapore isn’t complete without a shopping interlude. Treasure Island is conveniently found in the middle of the Strip. Coney Island is situated in the southernmost portion of Brooklyn. If you plan to obtain a boat, I’ll be delighted to be your consultant (strictly no charges!) Otherwise, you will need to join a marina for a club member to be able to take advantage of its berthing facilities.

Gourmet dining at The Steak House gives you the relaxing atmosphere you would like after a very long day of excitement. The hotel is situated opposite Hyde Park in the core of Sydney. It also has one of the largest conference facilities in the world. It’s the city which never sleeps! It’s a stunning city and you’re going to find there’s no lack of things to do and see in Sydney. The main reason isn’t simply that it’s the 2nd biggest city of Spain, or that it’s the capital of Catalonia.

The Most Popular Aquarium Shop Singapore

There are a lot of options and potential diverse set-ups, the only means to spend the uncertainty out of your next special aquarium purchase is to plan right ahead and think of your aesthetic needs together with how long and effort you are inclined and can commit to your aquarium. You’ve got a selection of exotic and conventional dishes. Buying all types of aquarium is the best method to keep in contact with nature if you stay in an apartment. Therefore, if you intend to go to this place I will advise you to book your ticket online. As soon as you figure out some of best places to see around Sydney, you’re going to be too preoccupied to go to any other portion of Australia. Then again, if you want to take her places, it’s critical your boat ought to be fully equipped with electronics. Finding somewhere to enjoy superior meals is truly simple.

The post The Untold Story About Aquarium Shop Singapore You Must Read appeared first on K & K aquarium & birds centre.

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[sensitivefern]

Day after day, Boswell treads water. His flurries of zeal at court come to little... Boswell is mostly in Edinburgh, and I, rather lost in the petty social swirl there, found no character as continuously engaging as the hero’s big toe, with its ingrown toenail; this pathetic digit, already familiar to readers of the Continental journals, makes its reappearance on April 24, 1779 (‘My sore foot was troublesome’), and inflames and remisses, is maltreated and suffered and dreamed about (‘I dreamt that I saw the cause of my toe being so painful’), and at last, to our great relief, before dinner on January 27, 1780, is decisively cut into by the shilly-shallying surgeon (‘I felt myself resolved to bear the pain, so he cut a good deal of the nail of my great toe out of the flesh. The operation hurt me much. But as soon as it was over I perceived that I was much relieved for I felt only the pain of a green wound instead of the pain of my toe irritated by the nail in it’), and henceforth slowly heals, to fade finally from notice on the 6th of May... Like doctor and patient, reader and writer grope together through a puzzling mass of symptoms and uncathartic crisis that unfold with a maddening organic slowness toward the ambiguous optimum of further survival.

[John Updike]

===

The state closest to the Beni was based around Lake Titicaca, the 120-mile-long alpine lake that crosses the Peru-Bolivia border. Most of this region has an altitude of twelve thousand feet or more. Summers are short; winters are correspondingly long. This ‘bleak, frigid land’, wrote... Victor von-Hagen, ‘seemingly was the last place from which one might expect a culture to develop’. But in fact the lake is comparatively warm, and so the land surrounding it is less beaten by frost than the surrounding highlands. Taking advantage of the better climate, the village of Tiwanaku... began after about 800 B.C. to drain the wetlands around the rivers that flowed into the lake from the south...

[1491]

===

T’ville, from Aug. 6, 1966. The house looks better with new screens in the windows, the roof and the back bedroom painted. [...] It was the day of the fireman’s fair and parade. Both Mary’s girls were in the parade, which went by just after we had finished dinner. Susan was playing the clarinet... The whole thing was touching and cheering. Each town had sent its delegation, and they competed with one another in music, display, drum-majorette stick-twirling and other tricks. In one, there was a girl who did flips; in another, the girl would suddenly sink to the ground, then quickly start up again.

[Edmund Wilson]

===

No eaves; so that very quickly one of the hallmarks of compound work, never referred to in the manifestos, became the permanently streaked and stained white or beige stucco exterior wall.

Then there was the principle of ‘expressed structure’. The bourgeoisie had always been great ones for false fronts (it hardly needed saying), thick walls of masonry and other grand materials, overlaid with every manner of quoin and groin and pediment and lintel and rock-faced arch, cozy anthropomorphic elements such as entablatures and capitals, pilasters and columns, plinths and rusticated bases, to create the impression of head, midsection, and foot, and every manner of grandiose and pointless gesture – spires, Spanish tile roofs, bays, corbels – to create a dishonest picture of what went on inside, architecturally and socially. All this had to go.

[From Bauhaus to Our House]

===

That one Holstein cow should produce 50,000 pounds of milk in a year may appear to be marvelous... But what if her productivity is dependent upon the consumption of a huge amount of grain (about a bushel a day), and therefore upon the availability of cheap petroleum? What if she is too valuable (and too delicate) to be allowed outdoors in the rain? What if the proliferation of her kind will again drastically reduce the number of dairy farms and farmers? Or, to use a more obvious example, can we afford a bushel of grain at a cost of five to twenty bushels of topsoil lost to erosion?

[Wendell Berry]

===

Unlike Benjamin Rush, whose medical theories and practices have been relegated to the slops of American history, Nathaniel Hawthorne has remained one of the canonical elect, a certified literary genius... But Hawthorne was hardly isolated from the great currents of nineteenth-century American gastrosophy. His sister-in-law, Mary Tyler Peabody Mann (Mrs. Horace Mann), wrote one of the most representative books of Hawthorne’s time, Christianity in the Kitchen. [...] One of Hawthorne’s short stories from 1846 carries the epigastric title: ‘Egotism; or, The Bosom Serpent’. The story’s protagonist, Roderick Elliston, is a ‘lean man, of unwholesome look’, his complexion ‘a greenish tinge over its sickly white’. As it turns out, Elliston’s problem is more than your garden-variety dyspepsia. He is the ‘man with a snake in his bosom’. And thus Elliston’s convulsive alimentary refrain: ‘It gnaws me! It gnaws me!’

[A Short History of the American Stomach]

===

SKUNK: Many investigators have made detailed food studies of skunks and have shown that their principal food is insects and most of the insects taken are injurious to plant life. When fruits are ripe and plentiful, they constitute an important part of skunk diet. Most of these are gathered from the surface of the ground, so represent waste as far as man is concerned. Mice constitute another important food item and their destruction is favorable to man. An occasionally bird is taken and not infrequently they were previously injured or already dead when taken by the skunk. Under these circumstances, this too is a service to man.

Skunks deserve much credit for digging out the June bug or May bettle in both the larval and adult stages.

===

spiny restharrow | Ononis spinosa Mediterranean region, extending out Turkestan way... the root is used medicinally – its constituents include ‘glycosidic iso-flavonoids and their aglycones formononetin and onogenin, the triterpene α-onocerin, the little known ononid’... ‘Along with parsley root, licorice rhizomes and juniper berries it is an important component of diuretic herbal tea mixtures’... in the wild it is found on dry banks, forest edges, rough grasslands principally on limestone soils... is prickly... Leguminosae...

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Liatris L. spicata ‘pioneers plant succession in strip-mined spoils and in old fields’... chief pollinators are bumble bees and bee flies; the glorious flower moth (Schinia gloriosa) feeds upon it as a well camouflaged caterpillar... ants and lady bugs... sheep find numerous species tasty; deer, the opposite... voles are said to collect the corms, storing them in their pantries...

[The Book of Field and Roadside]

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❚David Frum Retweeted Sky News Australia BREAKING Sky News sources say Donald Trump was 'yelling' during his phone conversation with PM Turnbull and hung up after 25 minutes

Shy Shelter Dog FLIPS OUT After Realizing He's Been Adopted

The Trump Era Is Al Franken’s Time to Shine The Minnesota senator has emerged from the shadows to make life hell for Republicans.

Donald Trump Grabs National Prayer Breakfast By The Pussy This dumb ritual happens every year, called the National Prayer Breakfast. It’s a bipartisan shindig, where politicians on both sides of the aisle, of all faiths, can come together and agree to spend the morning praying to Jesus. It’s super evangelical, run by a creepy cult of right-wing dominionist Christians called The Family. So obviously our secular government should embrace it as a tradition, right? ANYWAY. Donald Trump got to go to his first National Prayer Breakfast on Thursday morning, and instead of doing like a common Obama, making nice speeches about faith and family, while the wingnuts in attendance rock back and forth and pray for the unborned babies, Trump urged everybody to pray REALLY HARD... for Arnold Schwarzenegger to get better ratings on “The Celebrity Apprentice,” because that’s what these folks really care about.

HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE MOTHERFUCKERS

Doctor, writer, and all-round polymath Thomas Browne (1605-1682) is now better known for his literary work but in his own time was legendary as the greatest – and first – scientific populariser of his day. Browne’s best-selling Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Common Errors, debunked myths in botany, geology, geography, anatomy, and zoology, as well as history and scripture. Going through seven editions during his lifetime and translated into several European languages, it made him the first public “expert” and a pioneer of popular science. Common Errors is a landmark work of myth-busting. In it Browne tackles important questions such as: do elephants have knees? Why do we say “bless you” when we sneeze? Is the earth a magnetic body? Did Jesus have long hair? Who would win in a fight, a toad or a spider? [...] One of Browne’s most prolonged experiments involved the ostrich, acquired by his son Edward. A flock arrived in London in the early 1660s, brought by the Moroccan ambassador as a gift for the king, and immediately caused a splash – exotic animals were rare in England at the time. Edward managed to get hold of one and kept it in his stables. A frenzy of letters between father and son followed, discussing its eating and sleeping habits, the shape of its feet, and the noises it made (“a strange odde noyse … especially in the morning and perhaps when hungry”). This experiment in collaborative zoo-keeping came to an abrupt end when the ostrich died in its sleep one night, as Browne had predicted, being unused to the cold of a London January. It was immediately dissected. Browne was nothing if not thorough.

[kkpetshop]

The Untold Story About Aquarium Shop Singapore You Must Read

Aquarium Shop Singapore

Any uneaten food also needs to be taken from the aquarium after every feed. Yes, even only a fish has to be happy. In practice the expanding fish often begin pairing up and preparing to spawn after only six months of developing on. On occasion, it is worth it to acquire exotic fish as pets, even better, make it exotic freshwater fish. Deciding on the form of Aquarium You may select marine fish or fresh water fish to make your bit of living art.

Salty supply is necessary for the existence of the fishes since they are accustomed to staying in the saltwater. Other essential supplies are the fish tank pumps that are installed within the fish tank for those fishes to acquire air which they need for their survival. You are needed to obtain various aquarium supplies so as to create an area where the fishes can survive and thrive.

When you decide which you’re likely to use live plants, you’ll want to understand how to select the perfect aquarium plants. In addition, it consists of a great little garden during its base, where you could get a fantastic view of the city without climbing the tower. The outdoor park is also rather large with some nerve-wracking together with gentle rides. There’s a famed shopping mall known as `Mustafa’ which sells a myriad of items that range from pain balms to hi-fi electronic goods. These on-line stores deliver big types of aquarium supplies and enable you to decide on the best one for your aquarium.

Set the aquarium in which you live. You must have the ability to receive all the way around the aquarium. For this reason, it is imperative to keep the aquarium at proper temperature. Do some research on the kind of cichlid which you want to breed to make certain that you pick the right aquarium for it. A well designed aquarium appears attractive and lovely. Selecting a Unique Aquarium selecting the most suitable aquarium can appear an unnerving job. Blessed with the breathtaking elegance of the world’s biggest coral reef, the Great Barrier Reef consists of plenty of marine living.

Aquariums are utilized to keep an array of fishes in a home or a workplace. Ideally you will select an aquarium that fits with your home or apartments decor, offers an intriguing number of aquatic life, and satisfies your aesthetic sense. Aquariums are not just the perfect house for your fish but they’re also able to give an attractive focal point in any property. Oceanic Aquariumsthe Tank Oceanic aquariums arrive in a range of sizes.

Whatever They Told You About Aquarium Shop Singapore Is Dead Wrong…And Here’s Why

Try to keep up a high-grade point average since it will count, and just then begin searching for colleges whose specialty is in marine biology. It was a year now since our final attempt with fish. A visit to Singapore isn’t complete without a shopping interlude. Treasure Island is conveniently found in the middle of the Strip. Coney Island is situated in the southernmost portion of Brooklyn. If you plan to obtain a boat, I’ll be delighted to be your consultant (strictly no charges!) Otherwise, you will need to join a marina for a club member to be able to take advantage of its berthing facilities.

Gourmet dining at The Steak House gives you the relaxing atmosphere you would like after a very long day of excitement. The hotel is situated opposite Hyde Park in the core of Sydney. It also has one of the largest conference facilities in the world. It’s the city which never sleeps! It’s a stunning city and you’re going to find there’s no lack of things to do and see in Sydney. The main reason isn’t simply that it’s the 2nd biggest city of Spain, or that it’s the capital of Catalonia.

The Most Popular Aquarium Shop Singapore

There are a lot of options and potential diverse set-ups, the only means to spend the uncertainty out of your next special aquarium purchase is to plan right ahead and think of your aesthetic needs together with how long and effort you are inclined and can commit to your aquarium. You’ve got a selection of exotic and conventional dishes. Buying all types of aquarium is the best method to keep in contact with nature if you stay in an apartment. Therefore, if you intend to go to this place I will advise you to book your ticket online. As soon as you figure out some of best places to see around Sydney, you’re going to be too preoccupied to go to any other portion of Australia. Then again, if you want to take her places, it’s critical your boat ought to be fully equipped with electronics. Finding somewhere to enjoy superior meals is truly simple.

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