#like more often than not I was told to pursue the STEM and my art and music enjoyment could be my little hobby to destress from my career

[vegasvagus]

I wonder how I would've turned out if my love for art and music were celebrated and encouraged as much as my love for science and medicine were growing up

[kohakhearts]

when people first meet me and inquire about my studies im generally hit with two different responses, being 1) “wow, that’s an unusual combination”/“you don’t see that often”/etc. and 2) “you must be SO smart!” (or its evil twin, “you must hate yourself ha-ha”), and while the first is obviously a better response than the second, both are kinda…awkward to react to.

like? IS it an unusual combination of interests, or is it actually that most institutions make it exceptionally difficult for people to pursue stem and arts concurrently? and that we don’t often talk about the heavy crossover between stem and the arts because we’re so culturally obsessed with this notion that the world is split into Art People and Science People (also known as English People and Math People)?

and how would my interest in a science make me any smarter than someone in my program who chose to pursue a minor in history instead of physics? also, NO, i don’t hate myself. obviously taking stem classes after spending years believing im “not a math person” has lowered my gpa, but that’s not really something i care about, because at the end of the day i find the subject endlessly fascinating and i enjoy my classes very much, and i get better at math every semester because i have no choice. because it’s just…a method of communication. it’s a language. you practice, you improve - but you have to be consistent and intentional about it. the same way you have to be consistent and intentional about analyzing fictional texts and historical documents.

which is to say that like. you are using the same skills. i tutored a high school student last year who looked at me like i was crazy for saying that close reading a short story is functionally the same as solving an algebra problem. you collect like terms. then you compare and contrast them to make a statement about them - it’s human nature to seek refuge in what is familiar even if it is simultaneously traumatic, or x = 2 and y = -2. you can chart it, you can graph it, you can draw it. listen, isn’t there something so inherently beautiful about the word integral? it’s something intrinsic, baked into a person or a thing - the fundamental values formed within you by tiny, infinitesimal pieces: moments, experiences - they coalesce into something completely different, but still. you can go back. you can find the pieces. define them, pick them apart, put them together again in new ways. expand them, contract them, equate them to something else just to understand them.

half the study of mathematics is called analysis, for god’s sake. what is the study of art if not analysis? is it not the goal of the artist, the writer, to make sense of our place in the world? and is this not what we do in physics, too? look at the world and try to find reason in it? as the poet spends their life trying to make the intangible tangible, the particle physicist attempts to study dark matter. when we form a sentence, we utilize a complex system of equations that are so second-nature to us we don’t even register that’s what we’re doing - but there’s a reason this branch of linguistics is called syntactic calculus.

like…believe me. if you told my teenage self i’d be taking calculus-based courses in university, i wouldn’t have believed it. i teach high school students now who tell me they know they aren’t good at english, but it doesn’t matter to them because they do so well in math. and i get it. i do. but it’s disappointing, too, because i think my knowledge of math has made me a better reader and writer. and it feels like most people are missing out on that connection, because they feel like it’s impossible to make. but any experimentalist can tell you there’s an art to the scientific process. any musician or poet can tell you that great art is dictated by numbers - rhythm, rhyme and metre, all of it. the only group of people as interested in conceptual symmetry as physicists are artists.

anyway, all i’m saying is like - one is not more essential than the other, these things are inextricably linked, these things are as fundamental to human existence as breathing. there’s a reason why astronomers defer to shakespeare to name newly discovered bodies in space, you know? we've all gotta learn to love the math in our art and the artistry behind math.

[scientia-rex]

Got a lot of "is this real" tags and while I don't have the original documentation, there's an interesting article from 2013 about how PDE5 inhibitors may be useful in primary dysmenorrhea (painful periods). They were looking at vaginal administration specifically rather than oral administration. Looks like one of the reasons oral administration wasn't originally pursued was high side effect rate, which tracks with my experiences prescribing it for erectile dysfunction--a lot of men report pretty bad headaches with it, and if the trade-off was cramps vs migraine, I'd take the cramps. (Your sinuses also have erectile tissue, so people often get stuffy noses when they take it.) There's a CBS article about the study which notes the funding got cut off; however, since original human trials of Viagra took place in the 1990s, this article couldn't have been from that batch of data, which makes sense since they say "in subsequent tests." Nice lay language review of the current state of menstrual cramp treatment here.

So, long story short, yes, this is for real.

I talk a lot about medical sexism, and I'm not just talking about the sexism individual medical providers have internalized and inflict on patients. I'm talking about what research gets funded, what gets studied, the fact that in most medical and psychological studies where female rats and mice are included they literally have their ovaries removed so hormones don't "mess up" the results. (This is NOT a TERF dogwhistle, TERFs can choke, female mice and human women are not the same, stop throwing trans women under buses so you can make nice with fascists.) Most people in positions of power and authority who get to decide what research is done are white straight cis men.

Sexism in medicine is why our understanding of long COVID is so fucking piss poor: if we'd studied post-viral autoimmune inflammatory conditions when fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome were being described in the 1980s and 1990s, when there was a goddamned whole ass episode of Golden Girls about it, we'd understand long COVID a hell of a lot better now. But women are more likely to get autoimmune disorders than men, and finding the needle in the haystack that is the antibody your body has made against some protein that is present in your own body is too hard for male scientists, so instead it's "women are just crazy hahaha hysteria is real am I right bro let's go diagnose her with a garbage can disorder and call it a day." I am not kidding. I got told, many years ago, by a woman, that fibromyalgia was a "garbage can disorder." Well!!!! There's a FASCINATING study from 2021 in which they gave serum from fibromyalgia patients that had either been "washed" (had immunoglobin G removed) or not to mice, and the mice who got the fibro IgG developed decreased fucking grip strength and movement so I guess now you gotta call the mice crazy!!!

Anyway!!!! Go into STEM fields not because they are inherently more valuable than the arts but because you, too, can become a highly-educated, deeply indebted pedant.

hiiiii, does anyone want to become evil with me?

[faeriejukyung]

True Beauty’s Gaping Mother Wound

*disclaimer*: I understand that all the listed traits are things which are often very common in Asian households, and it may seem that rather than being concerning, these are just a part of Asian culture. That is why, I feel that it’s necessary for me to make it clear that I am, in fact, Asian (Indian to be specific), and parental abuse is something that is extremely normalized here. As someone who has experienced it firsthand, I want to say that just because something is common/normal, doesn’t necessarily mean that it is correct. If you or anyone you know is in a situation like that, it’s very very important to speak out. And it’s not your fault, i know it’s easier to believe that way but it’s really not. We deserve to be in a loving environment, regardless of what culture we are born in.

Throughout the drama, Jukyung’s mother shows many traits of an abusive mother. I have been able to outline 4 of them. I don’t mean to write her off as an evil character,, because overall she is well intentioned, and just like any other mom, she does love Jukyung. This is shown in episode 8 too, where she shows remorse for her actions. That however, doesn’t justify her abusive behavioral patterns in any way. Because we can see how badly it affects Jukyung, her self esteem and her overall view of herself.

-

Act 1: “I’m going to kill you today and go to jail” -- Physical Violence.

Throughout the series, we see Jukyung's mother being very violent. But one scene which particularly stood out to me was the scene where she finds out about Jukyung's dad getting scammed. (in episode 1). While it is true that her dad caused a huge financial loss to the family, and anyone would feel angry in a situation like that, it is also true that there is never a good reason to physically abuse someone.

After hearing the news, Jukyung's mom is overcome by anger. It's completely okay to feel frustrated, but the way she violently jumped at her husband, clearly intentioned to hurt him, and the way she needed to be held back by juyoung and heekyung highlights her abusive nature. And this isn't a one time thing where she momentarily lost control of herself. She constantly shows similar behavioural traits throughout the drama.

In the scene where we see Jukyung's mom and dad together properly for the first time, their relationship dynamic is established. He's meekly massaging her shoulders while she orders him around. Their is an obvious power imbalance in the relationship, and the way Jukyung's dad cowers in fear around Jukyung's mom is a proof of that.

-

Act 2: "Why would you kill my precious son?" -- Conditional Love.

We see examples of Jukyung’s Mom’s conditional love in the kdrama AND in the webtoon. Conditional love is when a parent or a parental figure makes their child compete for love. They withhold their affection until the kid acts in ways that are desirable to them, and if the kid fails to do so, the parent often punishers them through different methods. This is their way of maintaining control over their children.

Jukyung’s Mom’s conditional love manifests itself in the form of favoritism towards her eldest daughter Heekyung, who’s not only conventionally beautiful but also very smart and has a high paying job, and towards her youngest child and only son, Juyoung, who is also written to be very attractive. Both Juyoung and Heekyung have gifts that Jukyung does not posses -- beauty and brains. The conditions that are established in order to attain their mother’s affection are getting good grades at school, and being conventionally attractive, which is why Jukyung often gets the shorter end of the stick

In the scene where we are first meet Heekyung is the drama, their mom’s affection towards her is very evident.

This is shown in the webtoon too.

She displays this favoritism towards Juyoung too, and even more so. In episode 1 where Jukyung tries makeup for the first time, and gets ridiculed by him for doing a bad job at it, she naturally feels angry and yells at him, “do you want to die?!”, but instead of telling Juyoung to stop, their mother yells at Jukyung for yelling at Juyoung (”why would you kill my precious son? why?”). It’s already very evident that Juyoung has picked up the habit of constantly taunting Jukyung for her face from his mom. In the webtoon, when Jukyung decides that she wants to pursue makeup arts and asks for her mom’s support and fees for academy, her mom flat-out refuses, saying that they don’t have enough money. However as we find out later, money wasn’t the problem, because she had enough money to send Juyoung to a cram school for acting.

I find it hard to believe that any good parent would constantly compare their children and pit them against each other like this. In the webtoon and the kdrama, it is made clear that Juyoung doesn’t have particularly good grades either, but he doesn’t have to face his mother’s wrath by the virtue of being good looking. Jukyung on the other hand, does not have any redeeming qualities.

-

Act 3: “I’m going to throw all your makeup away” --Excessive Anger.

Another sign of parental abuse is display of excessive anger. It’s usually used as an intimidation tactic to keep the child in line. Sometimes, it can simply happen because they lose control of themselves. Either way, parents who get angry more often than what is supposed to be normal, and hurt their children (physically or verbally) in the midst of their anger, repeatedly, are abusive. I feel like I don’t even need to elaborate on this one. Jukyung’s Mom is angry during half of her scenes. And the way she acts upon that anger crosses the limit too. Don’t get me wrong, it’s important to express your the way you feel, but the way Jukyung’s Mom does it, is extremely unhealthy and hurtful to others around her. Whether she’s jumping on Jukyung’s dad or talking down on Im Jukyung, she’s very inconsiderate of how her anger affects others. She almost always expresses herself in an extremely volatile way.

Jukyung described makeup as a hopeful light opening up a new life for her. There’s even a whole music segment of her discovering the powers of makeup, characterized by pastel and bubblegum tones, and the segment has a magical feel to it. Suffice to say that makeup brought an almost magical kind of hope and optimism to her life. In episode 6, Jukyung's Mom goes to her school to get her report card. When she sees her low grades, she gets so angry that she threatens to throw away her makeup, without once considering why Jukyung is so attached to it. In my eyes, she's actually very similar to Soojin's dad who also uses intimidation and physical violence to keep his daughter in line. If we put the same background music for the scenes where we see Jukyung's Mom threatening her, as the ones where Soojin's dad abuses her, they'd practically be identical. The only difference is that the show often plays Jukyung's Mom's behavior as a joke.

In episode 7, after seeing that Jukyung didn't improve as much as she wanted her to, she actually threw away all her makeup. Even though Jukyung did try, and did improve, it still wasn't enough for her mom. Jukyung's restlessness after not seeing her makeup on her table was palpable through the screen. Finding out that her mother threw all her makeup away sort became her breaking point. We see her yell at her mother and express her feelings for the first time.

I think it's important to note that Jukyung, who's already finds it very tough to reach out to her courageous side, was inspired by this incident to stand up to her mom, to express her outrage. Saying that makeup meant a lot to her is an understatement.

-

Act 4: "What's the point of looking beautiful with all that makeup on if you're ugly underneath?" -- Verbal Abuse.

We all get into arguments with our parents from time to time, and I’m sure we’ve all been yelled at by them at some point. Verbal abuse however, is not something that is normal, and the two shouldn’t be confused. A parent who constantly humiliates their child, yells and screams at them, talks down on them is in simple terms, an abuser. 

In episode 1, when Jukyung tries makeup on for the first time and goes to school, she gets ridiculed by her bullies and her classmates. Crestfallen, she returns back home after school and goes to her mother for reassurance. Instead of providing that, her mother ridicules her even more and calls her makeup “Ghost Makeup”. This is something abusers often do. Under the guise of teasing the victim, they often attack the victim’s self esteem, appearance etc, to make them feel insecure and to maintain their position of power over them. Jukyung’s mother isn’t very different from those bullies who told Jukyung that she was ugly and made her feel like she could never amount to anything. 

Another example that irks me a lot is from episode 3, when Jukyung’s Mom is chewing her out for being late, and suddenly the conversation turns to cosmetics and makeup. This is also one of the traits of verbal abuse. Instead of arguments surrounding the basic issue, they branch out and turn into character assassination. Her mom accuses Jukyung of wasting all her time on makeup instead of studying, even when Jukyung clarifies that she got late because she missed her bus, not because she was out buying cosmetics. But her mom doesn't listen and says to her, “What’s the point of looking beautiful with all that makeup on when you’re still ugly underneath?” 

Jukyung’s face after hearing her own mother say that was heartbreaking. Unfortunately, this type of mother-daughter relationship dynamic isn’t something  that is rare. Mothers frequently project their own insecurities on their daughters and put them down. Jukyung’s Mother’s behavior explains her self esteem issues, it gives an insight about where her insecurities really stem from. Sometimes our abuser’s thoughts and image of us start maligning our own self image. Frequently hearing them tell us that we are worthless, and that no one will ever marry us or love us, makes us believe that we are in fact, worthless and incapable of being loved unless we change something about ourselves. We frequently get an insight into how Jukyung thinks of herself throughout the drama. 

“It’s not my fault that I was born dumb” (In episode 7, after finding out that her mother threw away her makeup.)

“You know that I’m messed up” (In episode 2, referring to her face, while asking Lee Suho to keep her bare face a secret)

The drama is yet to end so I don’t want to completely write Jukyung’s Mother off as an abuser. I hope she becomes a better mom in the show, I really do. Because Jukyung deserves a loving mother. And Jukyung's mom does in fact have a few redeeming qualities, however, simply love and caring isn’t enough, you need mutual respect, reassurance and effort in each every relationship. We know that Jukyung’s mother is also often labelled as an ugly woman, and she believes that she could only get by through studying well. (“It’s going to be okay as long as you study well” - episode 1). In a world where a woman either has to a exceptionally beautiful to be considered worthy, or be exceptionally intelligent and professional lest she isn’t blessed by beauty, it’s very easy to internalize self hatred and direct it on to other individuals (especially if those individuals are your children). That is why i genuinely find myself rooting for Jukyung’s mother and hoping for a character development arc -- because i understand where she comes from, and because i can empathize with her. 

-

Fin.

[runephoenix6769]

“What is with the Blake / Yang hate this week? Folks seem particularly fired up.” I asked this question on a forum because of something I’ve noticed the last few days on discussions about Blake and Yang/Bumbleby/shipping in general. I keep seeing the same answers.  “It ruins the team’s dynamic.”

Welp, I’m pretty certain none of those people would say that Raven/Tai and Tai/Summer ruined the team’s dynamic. Or that Ren and Nora are currently  ruining the team’s dynamic.  What is this holy than thou crusading to protect the sanctity of the team dynamic? Rwby has always been first and foremost about interpersonal relationships. It’s what drives the actual plot. Character growth, failing relationships/friendships. How they change over time, either to grow or crumble. 

“It’s being shoehorned in, for fanwank.” How? How is it being shoehorned in? Give me a narrative breakdown as to where/how/when this occurs? Compare it to the Sun/Blake narrative and show me the glaring differences between the Yang/Blake narrative to prove that bumbleby was never planned yet blacksun was?  (Sidenote. Anyone that has been asked to do this on the forum has yet to do it.)

“Yang showed interest in boys.”“ Yes, yes she passed comment once. In vol 1 episode 1. 8 VOLUMES AGO. She has shown not a lick of interest in guys since. Its almost as if she’s like any normal 17 year old girl who is growing into adulthood and figuring herself out, who might be realising her interest in Blake isn’t strictly platonic and is trying to navigate that whilst also grappling with what that means with regards to their friendship. And dealing with an over arching situation that is, ya know, potentially the end of the world as they know it.  It’s about two years in universe, right? Which is about right of an amount of time for what its happening between them to play out. It only feels like longer to the audience because, well, its taken 8/9 years to tell the story up until that point. 

“The Fans are too loud/vocal/come on too strong.” Ok, this one I agree with, we are loud and vocal and that might come across as coming on strong  (here’s a huge) BUT, there is actually a genuine explanation for why it seems that way.   If you really think about it, objectively. 

Hear me out.  Fans are excited about the potential representation we don't otherwise usually get in media. I mean, if you have 10,000 pieces of media and only ONE of them represents lgbtq people, of course we’re gonna be excited and talk about the ONE quite a bit with others who are like us. This might also be the first time we’ve seen anything like this, or seen ourselves represented in a somewhat positive light. It stands to reason that the other 9999 pieces aren't going to hold our attention as much, esp if its the same hetero romance played out a bajillion times before, right? I mean, if you have a group of people who are constantly represented in the 9999 other shows, their voices are going to spread thinner, right? They aren’t going to be gathered all on one place, talking about the same thing because there are 9999 other choices to connect them to other people. They aren’t going to care as much if their straight ship happens/doesnt happen 

“Hey, I can move onto another piece of media that is churned out by the status quo. No big deal.”

Hetero romances are ten a penny. Flick through netflix, hulu, crunchy roll etc.  Where as if you have a group of people who are only represented in ONE show out of the 10,000 those people are going to gather in one place to connect with others and its only going to seem like they are louder due to the densely packed space.  These same people have been majority silent about the other 9999 pieces of media as their voice isn't usually represented in a positive light - being queer characters are usually brutally murdered or sidelined. (Thankyou Hays Code.)- or not even represented at all. (Bury Your Gays is a trope for a reason, folks.) And we are NEVER the titular characters. We’ve been living on crumbs and subtext for decades! Not to mention showrunners who actively queerbait the hell out of us for ratings and viewership. The almighty Pink Pound as its often referred to in business. “But why do they have to make them gay?” You’re not made gay, you’re born gay. It just takes longer for some people to realise than others. It can be a gradual realisation. And this is quite possibly the case with Yang/Blake, slowly coming to realise their own burgeoning sexualities and attraction to each other.

”Why do they have to be gay?” They don't need a reason to be queer! They just are! Queerness is only a part of a person, not their everything. It’s actually quite refreshing to see Yang/Blake being portrayed as much more than their potential sexuality.  Ask yourself, ‘Why does a character have to be straight? And why doesn’t a straight character have to constantly reaffirm their sexuality? Why is ‘straightness’ assumed by default?’ Heteronormativity, is something that has been perpetuated by decades of media. (helped by the Hays Code with its out of date moral code. To be other is to be punished within the narrative.) That straight is the default setting. It’s not! We exist! Everywhere! We always have and we are going to talk to each other about it when we see a glimpse of ourselves represented in what has been a relative Sahara Desert when it comes to queer content were we are not villainised.   “The romance is detracting from the plot.” Two seconds ago, people were claiming that the romance was none existent. Which is it? But Nora and Ren’s romance that is being held up as a mirror to bumbleby is fine? That Jaune relentlessly pursuing Weiss was perfectly ok. Neptune openly hitting on female characters is fine. 

“I don’t have a problem with LGBT. I just don’t want it forced down my throat.” Again, out of 10,000 pieces of media, this is just ONE show. Nobody is forcing anyone to watch it or participate.  Queer people have had to stomach literal 100′s of years of straight media forced upon them. Since the very conception of the written word and narrative storytelling. In plays, theatre, art, music, tv, film, on billboards, advertising, in places of education and learning etc etc. Queer people are bombarded with it whilst also being surrounded by negativity towards queerness. 

“They are shoving it down my throat!” part two Is hand holding, compassion and expressing concern for another person and comforting them somehow offensive? Renora kissed, not a problem. Arkos kissed, not a problem. Show me in the sand where the line is drawn. What is the difference? Please explain this to me? Why is the expression of queerness somehow offensive? Is this because decades of media have perpetuated the false idea that all queer people are sex crazed perverts? That you’ve been groomed into thinking that queer sexuality is only based in the act of sex itself? That queer sexuality couldn’t possibly be similar to heterosexuality in its expression?

That it couldn’t possibly be about attraction, emotional, mental and maybe one day blossom into physical between two consenting adults, a pure expression of love the exact same as heterosexuality. 

That some how queer love stems from some sort of deviancy or mental health issue. That queer people are some how bad or evil, and therefore their expression of affection is wrong? Oh, I wonder where those beliefs have possibly stemmed from?  “Why are they in my face?” part three.  50% of of the titular cast are potentially queer. Blake and Yang. But if you look at the overall cast ensemble that runs at minimum 16 any given volume, that’s a measly 12.5% (prolly a lot smaller if you actually counted the whole cast that appears in rotation each volume) Also, someone did the math. Blake - a titular character- actually has less spoken lines that Jaune. ffs. B&Y spent neatly a whole two volumes of 8 apart. 25% of the narrative as it stands on entirely different continents. 

I fail to see how it being in someone’s face could be the case.

  “I just don't see it!”

That’s ok and perfectly valid But listen when people who have lived this experience are telling you that their experience is being portrayed on the screen. That they see themselves being represented.  OK, This completely got away from me. In conclusion. They are more straight people than queer people and media often reflects that.   We are usually the silent minority, we are sick of it but we are used to it and we are very excited that things seem to be finally changing.

It’s two characters in an large cast in ONE show out of 10,000. Its a piece of media that, for a change, hasn’t been 100% curated for straight people.  We are often not allowed to play in the sand box and if we are, we’re told to play with the broken toys, be grateful and quiet. So when we are given a sandbox to play in with new unbroken toys, we are gonna dog pile in there and make a ruckas, calling our friends over. What I’m trying to say is, it’s gonna get rowdy.  and here’s something to think about.  “When you are used to privilege, equality feels like deprivation.”  

[antihero-writings]

Before It Kills You Too

(Cover art by _xstlyricax_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her profile in a reblog!!)

Fandom: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)

Fic Summary: 

Hera goes for a drive after a fight with Zeus, and has some time to think. Her internal monologue and memories, using Blackpink's "Kill This Love" as a prompt. ||

Anger was a fire, it burned white hot and devastated the world around it. But then it faded...This was more than anger.

Character Focus: Hera

Notes: If you haven't listened to, and/or watched the music video for Blackpink's "Kill This Love" (I’ll put a link in a reblog!), I highly recommend you do so either before or after reading, as the fic is based on the lines, and a few of the visuals of it!

The cover art is based off of the visuals of 0:59-1:12 of the music video too!

 I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog!!! I'm not kidding when I say that makes my week!!

(I’ll put some more notes in a reblog!)

Chapter 1: I Owe It All to You

Hera kept glancing from the road to the speedometer, the dial sneaking steadily upwards: sixty miles an hour to seventy in seconds.

She leaned over and took a cigarette from the pack, putting it between the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. She took out the lighter and clicked it open, lighting the end, then closed it again and set it back down in the cupholder while she breathed in.

Smoke never tasted so sweet as when she was angry with him.

Eighty, ninety.

“Good to see you again, Bunny!”

“It’s only been a few days!” She laughed, “And who’s Bunny?”

“You are!” Zeus took her hands and gave her eskimo nose kisses. “Who else?”

The golden girl smiled, big and bright—

—the kind of smile one can only give when the world itself is big and bright. When one lives in a realm of hope, where beings keep their secrets, and their promises, and no one lies, or steals, or cheats.

She breathed out, smoke billowing like her mouth was the gates to the Christian’s hell—(they say hell hath no fury right?).

Sometimes she wished she had Zeus’s power; that she could set the world on fire with a glance.

A hundred.

The world was nothing but streaks of light across her vision. Not trees, people, and buildings; not distinguishable as life or meaning, just lines of color as she flew by. Maybe things were better that way. She could dance in the in-between, reach up and grab the ribbons, twirl around with them in beautiful absurdity. Only absurdity was beautiful; truth and sanity were far too ugly.

“Bunny I—”

“Don’t ‘Bunny’ me!”

She took another long draft, letting the smoke’s medicine filling her lungs.

And out.

Breathe out, feel the negative emotions leaving your body, all the meditation gurus say.

What a load of bullshit that was.

For every soothing inhale there was always an exhale that felt like it was clawing its way out of her throat. For every sweet hello there was a bitter goodbye, full of curses at his back, in return. For every incredible high there was a unfathomable price. That was the rule to life; what goes up, must come down.

And she had risen too high, once upon a time.

The test of life had no answer, let alone a right one. Even the gods were slaves to fate, and emotion.

The tires screeched hellishly as she rounded corner.

Hera walked around the corner.

“It just—I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him! You know?”

The queen stopped. It was that nymph’s voice. The one who came by earlier.

“Ahh I’m so jealous! Tell me more! Tell me!”

“Well he just…I don’t know! When he kisses me the whole world just kind of…stops. You know? And when he listens…I feel like he’s actually listening.”

“Ugh, too sappy! Tell me the dirty stuff!”

“Oh stop! I’m not gonna tell you about our sex life!”

Hera rolled her eyes, beginning to walk away when—

“Well he is the king of the gods. You’re right; It’s better if I imagine.”

The queen froze.

“Eugh I don’t want you imagining me in bed with him!”

“No, I’m imagining me in bed with him!”

Hera couldn’t hear them anymore. Couldn’t see the world in front of her. She was staring at a space before her eyes only she could see; a space, a memory, where the world was wide and she and Zeus were the only beings in it.

That space was shattering piece by piece.

Her breath was shallow in her chest, her blood pumping her ears.

“Mama?” Ares’ little voice brought her back to the world. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

She immediately let go of her son’s tiny hand. “I’m so sorry sweetheart!” She crouched down and took his hand in both of hers, this time with the most gentleness she could muster, and kissed his fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah…‘m okay.” He took his hand back and rubbed it.

He looked at her apprehensively.

“…Are you okay, mama? …Are you angry?”

She whizzed passed broken stop sign, catching her reflection in the rear view mirror; her hair in tattered locks like rags about her face, eyebrows permanently furrowed, lip permanently pursued, blue eyes dim and hollow, with nothing of the brightness they once contained; only a few lingering sparks of electricity in an abandoned power plant.

‘Okay’. ‘Angry’.

Such ugly words.

“I just…” the golden girl pushed her hair behind her ear sheepishly, her eyes bright, “I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him…you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Aidoneus muttered softly.

She put her gently hand on his. “Don’t worry, I know you will one day.” She grinned.

And what made it better was that she really meant that.

He tried to smile back.

“So what’s that…like?” he asked softly.

“Well…when he kisses me the world kind of …stops. It feels like there’s nothing and no one in the universe but him and me. We can talk about anything. And when I talk it feels like he actually listens. He always makes me laugh. When I’m with him…it feels like nothing else matters…”

She hated that word: okay. It was too simple, too easy; one could always throw it out as an answer. It didn’t mean, I’m doing very well, or I’m doing poorly—(though it could mean either depending on the context). Okay was just, ‘fine’, ‘alright’. Okay could mean you were doing wonderfully, having a great day, and okay could mean you would rather be dead, and either way people would smile and say good! I’m okay too!. Okay was never truly satisfied, never fully living. Just existing. ‘Okay’ was a word for ghosts; for those who are neither dead nor really alive, neither sinners nor saints. Just floating through the world, caught in between.

She was always okay…and she was never okay.

She rolled down the window, cool air rushing in to the car and scooping up all the smoke, taking it out into the night, giving it to some other lonely Goddess who needed it.

“Ugh, this again? I thought we were done with this…Just leave it for now. You’ll feel better after lunch.”

And, anger, anger was a fire that blossomed like a rose high, and bright, and scorching for a while, eating everything it saw. Then it dwindled. Sometimes it could be lit again by a passing breeze, if the embers were still fresh enough. And sometimes that relight could touch a passerby leaf or bush, and from there desecrate forests and cities. But often, even then, once it had finished blazing it would wither and die. Anger burned white hot and violent at first, but eventually it would fade, and the world would be left to deal with everything it blackened in its wake.

She sometimes had a vague image of smashing Zeus’s head in, of him clutching his big ugly skull, golden trails of blood intermixing with his violet hair, draining down his cheeks. And there she was, holding the stem of glass, half of the vase, in her hand, the rest of it in pieces all over the floor before them. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to take out all that anger out on innocent paintings. Sometimes she had to destroy something, before it destroyed her.

“You’re acting crazy.” He had said.

Crazy, was she?

Crazy for believing visions in her head, which were always right in the past? Crazy for being angry? For kicking him out? No.

Crazy for staying with a being like him?

Yes. If she was crazy, that was why.

If I’m crazy, well, then…

She smirked, taking a long draft, and letting it out, grey wisps filling the air around her.

Thanks, baby, I owe it all to you.

She had a faint recollection of being sane once. Before him. He always made her crazy, be it when she was first fell in love with him, or when she rose in hate for him. But there was a time, when, before all this, she was a sweet, naïve little golden girl in the forest, with her sanity in tact, who loved animals, and taking care of broken things, her innocence still put together.

He thought he knew crazy. He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But then that impulse would fade as quickly as it came, and she was left with guilt for even thinking that way. She’d never do that. She might burn his picture, but she wouldn’t actually hurt him…would she? She hoped it would never get that far.

No. That was anger. The boiling thing rising inside her that made her want to smash, and spit in, his face, and burn paintings, that was anger. Anger rose, vehemently, but in the end it dissolved.

This was more than just anger.

This, this feeling; this dull resounding ache at the back of her consciousness like an unending death knell; this thing that bored a hole in her stomach, making her feel constantly sick; this thing that hung as a weight in her chest; this thing wrapping around her, chaining her wings; this thing that stained her eyes with sleeplessness; this thing that broke into her mind and ransacked her thoughts, tainting all those happy memories, making them seem diluted with lies, and sickening to think of, and never, ever left her house—

This was heartbreak. Eternal, infernal, heartbreak.

She was on a long stretch of road now, out where nature still bloomed and she didn’t have to look at anyone’s faces or talk to anyone. The ribbons of light still outlining the air—(was it two hundred now? She’d lost track.).

Lucky me.

Everyone always told her she was lucky. Not everyone got to be the wife of the king of the gods. Just her. She was lucky she had a husband who was powerful. Who was rich. She was lucky she had a husband who adored her. Who doted on her. Who listened to her. Who she could talk to. Who made her laugh.

Not everyone had that. Some had husbands who were poor. Who were weak. Who didn’t love them, and whom they didn’t love. Husbands who didn’t dote on them, or give them so much as a wanton kiss. Who fixed a permanent scowl on their faces. Who they couldn’t talk to. Husbands who lied to them, and cheated on them.

She was lucky she didn’t have that.

Not everyone got to be queen.

Lucky her. So lucky he chose her. So lucky she got the crown. No one else.

No one but her.

So lucky she had that handsome face to wake up to every day.

(Every damn day)

So lucky could talk to him every day. So lucky could kiss him, and hug him, and make love to him.

(Sometimes she couldn’t even look at him.)

So lucky she had Zeus. That goofy, dumb, brave, arrogant king as her better half. So lucky she had a husband who was so sweet, and kind, and gentle, and funny, and patient, and forgiving. So lucky she didn’t have had a cheating, lying, conniving, backstabbing little weasel for a husband, who put that crown on his head, and walked into his office like he owned the world—!

And he was the one person who could say he did. Including her. Sometimes she couldn’t say a word against him.

He owned the world. Along with every fucking girl in it.

And he did fuck them.

After it all, what would he say?

We all lie, so what? Something like that.

So what.

Him; the illustrious king with his throne, and his lightning. Her; a jealous queen with a stolen crown.

The only one to blame was herself.

“I just feel like everyone’s lying, everyone’s—!” the golden girl cried, her hands over her eyes.

Someone took her arm, someone whose grasp was gentle.

He put his finger on her chin, tipping her gaze up to him.

“I’d never lie to you.” Zeus said, giving a gentle smile.

And what made it better was he meant it.

She returned the smile, placing her hand over his. “Nor I to you.”

That naïve little ray of sunlight darkened by his moon.

We’ve both lied, so what? That would surely be his excuse.

“You know what?! Why don’t we talk about you for a change?”

He’d said he was sorry before. He’d promised to be better.

And she believed him, then.

He’d spent enough time telling the truth that she believed he meant it when he apologized. When he made promises. When he spoke to her, she thought he meant the things he said.

I cheated on you, I’m sorry.

I lied to you, I’m sorry.

Now she questioned everything he had ever said. His apologies, his promises, his compliments, his kisses. Were those words so long ago just another lie? His promise to never lie to her, was that just the first lie of a thousand? As numerous as the hours they spent together. Did he ever intend to keep his words back then?

That was the unfortunate thing about lies; they could reside in even the most sincere of promises.

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

Long ago she’d wanted him to apologize. She’d been more than desperate to hear those words falling from his lips.

Now she knew they meant nothing. They could, and usually would, be just another lie. And, even if he meant them, they wouldn’t fix this aching hole he’d left in her chest.

She remembered herself at her wedding; them, the picture of a perfect, royal couple, his violet a compliment to her gold. Both of them practically shimmering, wearing traditional wedding attire—(though impossibly embellished and adorned)—and those goofy, light-filled smiles. The whole pantheon applauding, smiling, wiping away tears at their back.

In other countries, at weddings, they said they’d be together in sickness and health, till death did them part.

Did this count as sickness? As death?

Didn’t he break that promise? Did her promises matter after he broke his? Was her faith and faithfulness worth nothing anymore?

She now imagined herself in a black dress, standing at the back of that ceremony with a bow, and an arrow made of adamant, laced with the venom from a certain many headed monster, its gleam reflected in darkened gaze. She breathed out as they spoke, and loosed that arrow, shooting that girl in the back. Olympus shouted in vain, as she watched all that gold flow out of her past self, those blue eyes fade to a cool grey, keeping her from making the biggest mistake of her life. And she’d look at Zeus’ horrified face and think

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

That was surely better than this. Better than dying slowly, the blue in her eyes dimming day by day into lifeless grey still animated somehow, better than that gold leaking out of her with each forsaken sunrise she woke up next to him.

Would he be happy then? Without her? He could fuck around with whoever he wanted.

Would she be happier, dead, without all this?

There was no way she could have known, back then what their lives would become after a few millennia. How that god who held her hands and said he’d never lie to her, who hugged her and kissed her, and seemed so in love, could become dissatisfied. That lust would overtake him; he’d keep wanting more and more, gorging himself on it. She had no way of knowing that she wouldn’t be enough one day.

She was young, and innocent then, and didn’t know better.

She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Something flashed gold in the headlights before her, and for a second her mind manifested before her; she saw that golden girl still, her own hair draining down the street like liquid, that white wedding attire—old, ragged, covered in burns—her own naïve eyes, still full of light and life, staring up at her, terror overtaking their innocent frames. And her own eyes boiled.

The sound of breaking glass was like a cooling rain upon a fire that had been left raging too long.

******

Zeus was doing important business work. Focus was imperative.

Someone knocked on the door. “Your majesty.”

He fumbled with the spinner he was playing with, dropping it on the floor, sitting upright. He folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat, trying to look professional.

“Yes? If it’s Hermes wanting to install racing tracks in the sky again—”

“Uh, n-no,” the messenger poked her head in the door, looking nervous, “It’s… about your wife.”

He blinked, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “…What’s does she want this time?”

“Um…” she swallowed, avoiding his gaze, “S-She’s been in a car accident.”

*****

Notes cont.: Do you guys have any ideas for what song I could use for Zeus for the next chapter? (I want the next chapter to be framed like this one--based around a song, but for him, and from his perspective.) Let's see...In the simplest terms, I'm looking for a song about someone who knows they've made mistakes and/or hurt someone, and wants to do better. It doesn't have to be kpop, it can be anything XD (Though to be honest I'd prefer if it wasn't American pop...)

[therealvagabird]

The Days of Clay - Pt. 1: Lands and Oceans

Another setting concept! This one for a paleo/neolithic world. I’ve had the urge to make this kind of thing for a while now, but I finally got done with the editing.

You can read the full setting rundown all at once on my WordPress. But I will also be posting it in separate parts here on Tumblr depending on your viewing preferences.

Feel free to a leave a comment, and share!

The world is vast, yet humanity is small. Wilds stretch all about, dwarfing even the largest stone houses of Man. It is a primordial era, when the thinking folk knew not the strength of metal, nor the heights of civilization. Most are born and die knowing but a fraction of all the world about them, or if not, braving seas and lands filled with ravenous monsters of a forgotten age. These are the first days, the longest days, the eternal waking dream of those who first knew what it was to tell stories.

In the Days of Clay, humanity exists scattered across many continents and isles in a world of vast seas and dangerous wilds. Great beasts of ages past hunt humans like vermin, and the elements are often the most dangerous foe of all. Fine resources which would allow for technological advancement are rare. Copper and tin are like gold and jewels, though in turn tribals may make extensive use of saurian bones, the carapaces of giant insects, and other exotic materials. Most tribes live confined to tiny fractions of their homeland or hop from island to island in endless seas with nothing but the stars as their guide. Yet others may roam far and wide, or travel from land to land should they be so brave. Though advanced metallurgy and the heights of empire are yet unknown, humanity is not always so “primitive”. In many places there can be found great cities of stone, or gathering places of many tribes, leveraging the power of cooperation. Likewise some crafters may do things with rock and wood and leather that would put even iron-based technologies to shame. Magic is absent, but spirituality is everywhere. The Days of Clay are a time of diversity, danger, and possibilities.

The Thirteen Lands and the Seven Seas

Continents:

Ancient Land of Sakha

Within the waters of Asra, the Great Blood Sea, the old continent of Sakha stands as it has since time immemorial. Not the largest landmass, it nonetheless has many arable river-lands hidden deep within its interior clefts, and numerous peninsulas and nearby islets which have made the coasts a boon for seafaring tribes. The Sakhan peoples are among the most diverse of any continent, having mastered mountain-climbing, boat craft, basic riverside agriculture, and even the domestication of certain beasts of burden. It is the claim of the Sakhan shamans that their land is the oldest in the world, and the birthplace of Manu and Manya – the first humans created by the gods.

Sakha’s climate is very hot, with mountain ranges erupting from broad highland deserts. Within the gaps of these mountains, however, can be found riverways which give rise to flourishing green sanctuaries. Out to the ocean, the bounty of the Blood Sea is abundant, and many tribes stake their claims upon nearby islands, pursuing dangerous seacraft to trade goods between the Sakhan mainland and the outer isles – sometimes even to the far neighbors of the Blood Sea.

Native flora of Sakha includes varieties of desert palms, coniferous trees, and hearty broad-leaf shrubs. Low-lying vegetation is common, and hundreds of varieties of grains, fruits, and aromatic herbs either have their origin in Sakha or were brought there through gradual trade across Asra. Fauna includes many mammalian varieties, including large goats, camels, some pygmy horses, and cattle. Big cats and jackals constitute predator species, and although there are not many saurians to be found upon Sakha, there are a great many enormous snakes and arthropods both in the deserts and along the coasts. Ape-Men are also prominent in the south and east, though not all of their tribes are hostile.

The peoples of Sakha tend to be darker-skinned due to the harsh sun of their home, though are sharp of feature and their hair is less kinky than tribes to the south. Sakhan peoples are as a whole regarded to be more “civilized” than most of their neighbors, having pioneered trends of building, copper-craft, boat building, and other technologies throughout their history. There are hundreds of gods in Sakha, though many of the shamans and priests seem to give reverence to the same higher concepts of “light” and “shadow”. Battles between entire tribes over supposed disputes between their gods are not uncommon. The Sakhans are also noted traders and travelers, sometimes being found on entire other continents after long and adventurous sea-voyages most in their right mind would never consider.

Batyr, Land of Wolves

To the northeast of the Blood Sea there juts a prominent chain of mountainous isles, stretching further and further east all the way into the deeps of the frozen north. The coastlines of Batyr are treacherous to sailors who do not know their secrets, but they hide a hidden boon. Just about the tip of the Land of Wolves there can be found its broad steppelands, which though culminating in snowy barrens at their furthest reaches are some of the most bountiful wilds in all the world. Vast forests and open plains filled with game, if one can just brave the harshness of the winters. To the south, the mountain ranges are less prominent, meaning that those who wish to reach Batyr from outside must know their way about the island-jumps, and the coastal tribes of Batyr are themselves more disposed toward heading south into the Ocean of Tiham than the western Blood Sea.

Though temperate for most of the year, the winters of Batyr are biting cold and can freeze unguarded humans where they stand. Most of the flora that isn’t woody steppe-shrubs are tall and mighty growths of oak and pine which have endured countless years beyond the memories of the oldest shamans. Saurians are unheard of, along with most great reptiles, and any cold-blooded beasts must seek refuge deep underground. Batyr’s greatest wealth and greatest danger, therefor, is held within its name. Massive mammals can be found all throughout the far country’s wilds, from towering mammoths, to great god-birds, and the fearsome dire wolves. There is nary a beast of fur and fang anywhere across the thirteen continents that cannot be found in a larger and more terrible form within Batyr.

Batyrian folk tend to be pale of skin and hairy of body, though darker tribes may also be found, either from ancient mixings with wayward natives of other lands across the Blood Sea, or from tribes out in the distant east. Hair colors come in many ranges, and beards are as popular as anywhere to keep back the chilling winds. Furs are worn in absence of less durable fabrics. Though many are happy to trade, Batyrians have a fearsome reputation, as they are also known to be raiders, and many of the wilder tribes maintain gruesome practices stemming from a single-minded desire for survival. The hunting of large game has bred a people who are not to be trifled with, channeling the unstoppable spirit of the mighty wolf.

Darkest Ar-Nung

Far to the south, beyond the furthest expanse of the Ocean of Tiham, there lies a hidden land where few have journeyed. Though in ancient times humanity did in fact reach those far shores, not but a paltry handful have ever come in or out ever again. South of the very tip of the Hinterlands of Siral’ik, Darkest Ar-Nung dwells across the stormy seas. It is a desert land of great peril, where all must struggle to survive. Though known for its searing and mind-baking heat, to the very south the mountains of Ar-Nung connect to the great ice which blocks off the shadowed reaches of the frozen lands. Travel to Ar-Nung in near impossible save for the savviest of seafarers from Siral’ik who know the way to hop across the island chains of Tiham to eventually reach Ar-Nung’s stormy northern shores. Though there are said to be lands in the frozen wastes beyond Ar-Nung’s most southern mountain ranges, those reaches go unnamed save for being considered to be part of Ar-Nung, as no human has ever journeyed so far into that icy hell and lived.

Within Darkest Ar-Nung there are many perils. It is not just the unforgiving climate and ferocious predatory monsters one must be wary of in the broad deserts, but also the numerous subtle ways one might be killed. Tiny arthropods and reptiles hold enough venom to kill even their titanic cousins in a single bite, while flora of the most beautiful hues – some even resembling their useful or edible counterparts – may likewise inflict a horrid and agonizing death on any who even touch them. Places where water might be found are no less dangerous, as great crocodiles and sharks lurk within the rivers and along the coasts, fit to swallow a grown warrior whole. Meanwhile, to the south, the frozen mountains which lead into the uncharted ice-lands hold untold horrors none have ever braved, from fabled frost-wights and storm-dragons to unnamed, hungering things deep within the mountain caves.

Despite this, the peoples of Ar-Nung are regarded to be rather intelligent and unaggressive, having mastered the delicate art of survival in such a country over many generations, and averse to undue risk and conflict when there is already such peril in their home wilds. They are a dark-skinned folk, even so dark as natives to lands like distant Noba Rugna, though their features do not in any way resemble those of their neighbors, possessing weather-worn faces and bristling hair. The Ar-Nung tribes may be found all about their continent, even within the mountains of the south, and those few who have ever managed to journey to Ar-Nung and back have told stories of those strange and silent folk who engage in all manner of bizarre rituals to ward off misfortune and evil. It is the necessity of the Ar-Nung tribes to know the spirit of every plant and animal upon their country, as to harbor uncertainty is to be subject to a sudden death.

Etlen Rugna

The land known as Etlen Rugna is in fact a jagged and mountainous continent divided up into many smaller regions by prominent inland seas along with numerous lakes and rivers. It dominates the western reaches of the Blood Sea, with its north coming close to the outer isles of Fjallgarth, while its south is likewise not too far by island-hopping from Sakha. Numerous tribes have made the diverse climes of Etlen Rugna their home for long ages, warring and trading in equal measure, enjoying the bounty of what some would call the most plentiful of all mankind’s lands. To the west of Etlen Rugna is the Etlen Udra – the Etlen Sea, which few have ever dared to cross. A quite skilled shipmaster might be able to make it to Frozen Nunaat by way of Fjallgarth, though many upon Etlen Rugna’s shores know nothing of the cousin-continent with which their share a name – Guarana Rugna.

The northern reaches of Etlen are vibrant, seasonal, and rich with many landscapes from soaring mountains to gentle prairies. Rivers, lakes, and inland seas are all commonplace, as well as deep and temperate forests. To the south, weather becomes hotter, culminating in biting deserts to the far south, dotted with oases of palms and other tropical flora. Animals upon Etlen are as diverse as the landscapes or the people, though most are not so large or intimidating as those that might be found upon other continents more suited to their climes – smaller breeds of mammoth are relegated to the furthest northern tundra, for instance, whereas saurian are found upon the outer isles and peninsulas of the far south. Within certain reaches, ape-men might even be encountered in not inconsiderable gatherings. Etlen Rugna is a vast land, though crossing its many wilds is no easy task, dwarfing neighbors like Sakha. Even trade within Etlen’s borders is not always so commonplace.

Just as with their homeland, the peoples of Etlen are varied in appearance and practice. To the north, they become more fair of complexion, whereas to the south their skin and hair becomes darker and rougher, as with each river-gap and mountain pass their roaming territories become more like the harsh deserts and jungle isles across the sea. It’s in the south and east that tribes tend more towards basic practices of agriculture and weaving, while in the north their industries are more inclined towards fishing, hunting, and raiding. There are hundreds of gods and spirits worshipped across Etlen Rugna, and in times of scarcity some of the greatest and most unforgiving bloodlettings have occurred, as tribes turn upon any outside of their immediate kin. The diversity of Etlen fosters as much xenophobia and hatred as it does cooperation and understanding, and even travelers from lands as schismatic as Sakha have remarked on the pains every Etleni takes to distinguish their tribal identity from all others, as confusing one Etleni folk with another is often a grave offense.

Far Anpe and the Islands of Fire

Across many of the far seas to the west, across the Etlen Udra, and the K’aino Udra, and the Devil Sea of Xulub, there is a distant country at the furthest reaches of the world’s shores. This is Far Anpe, a hidden range of mountain isles crowned with fire and watered with mystery. Formed of a grand chain of volcanoes, Far Anpe is most treacherous about its northern and southern tips, where the peaks are still young, and new mounts are prime to be born from the boiling waters of Xulub and the polar ice. Separated from the jungles of its sister-continent Guarana Rugna by the K’aino Udra – the K’aino Sea – Far Anpe is composed of tall mountains in its near entirety. Those places not defined by colossal peaks are fertile beyond compare thanks to the rich black soil, and on the sloping foothills leading out to the sea house numerous tribes who have built civilizations to rival the stonework citadels of distant Sakha. Save for trade with Guarana or the south tip of Dziil, the Anpean peoples go unknown to the rest of the world.

It is said in the ancient stories that the first Anpean tribals were among the most adventurous and daring of all folk in the world, until they came to the Islands of Fire from beyond the northern sea. Their heroic chieftains claimed that these peaks were in fact the gates of hell, and that just beyond – should they be so bold – the promised land of paradise awaited them. Finding the mountains and green slopes of Anpe, the tribes settled there at last, content that they had found their promised land. Most of the Anpean tribes control fortified encampments placed within the mountain clefts, which they use as communal shelters when not engaging in nomadic herding and foraging. Dangerous beasts like snow-jaguars and giant snakes might be found in the clefts, but for the most part the deadlier saurian are relegated to neighboring Guarana Rugna. Long-necked camels provide wealth to the herder tribes, whose wool they trade with the fisher-folk and mountain-dwellers. In certain hidden valleys, large mammals such as the lumbering shellbacks and giant sloths may provide adequate challenge for hunters, and to the south, the very earth heaves with fiery hunger. Apeans tend to have dark skin and hair, do not often grow beards, and have sharp features. Though small in stature, the Anpean people are fair of face and enduring of body and soul, descended from great warriors and grown even stronger off the bounty of their sacred homeland.

Fjallgarth

Northernmost of those continents that border Asra, the Great Blood Sea, the very name Fjallgarth inspires fear in the hearts of those folk who set their tents upon Etlen Rugna’s coldest shores. To the more distant Sakhan, should they be versed enough in stories brought from traveling tongues, it is a name that belongs to a strange land, where the people are white as the snow they wade through. The homeland of the fabled giants. Some stories are more fantastical than others, but save for Frozen Nunaat or other climes within the cold wastes of the icy Skathon Sea, no continents are as frigid and brutal as Fjallgarth.

Mountains, icebergs, fjords, and sharp valleys mark most of Fjallgarth’s landscape. Its coasts are near all intractable to outside sailors, no matter how fine-built their canoes or rafts are built. Sea-serpents dwell in the waves, along with kraken, sharks, and whales of colossal size. Yet this does not deter the brave natives from fishing within the rich yet chilling waters. Inland, there are reaches which can be found which are not so rocky and hard, and indeed many wild stretches where the sun is warm in summer and no sight of snow is to be had in the hot months save for crowning the distant peaks. Yet in the distant north, where both Fjallgarth and Batyr meet the icesheets of the Skathon Sea, even the great mammoth and dire bear struggle to stave off the cold. It is told in the fables that hairy men who feast on human flesh, along with giants who can command the powers of blizzards and wildfires can be found in those treacherous wastes beyond where even the most fearless raider chief might travel.

The folk of Fjallgarth are similar to those of northern Etlen, being fair of skin and hair, though yet moreso than their more temperate southern cousins. They grow to prodigious sizes and are fond of wearing enough furs to match their own hirsute appearances, and engaging in a warrior lifestyle which puts most other folk of Asra to shame. Fjallgarthan tribes are also known to be skilled seafarers, having constructed boats capable of reliable island-hopping. While the Fjallgarthan raiders might build no great temples or broad gathering-grounds – at least not as the southeasterners do – the northmen have been spotted in as far-away lands as Sakha and Noba Rugna.

Frozen Nunaat

Few have traveled to Frozen Nunaat since the ancient days of its settling by humankind. Even the ape-tribes have little to do with the vast wasteland, but for those who dare the gnashing ice, it can be a country of great plenty. From the more temperate volcanic isles in the south rich with fir trees and good fishing, to the prime whaling shores of the icy north, there is more to Frozen Nunaat than its name suggests. Laying beyond the reaches of Asra, in the depths of the cold Skathon Sea, Nunaat is said by some to be the home of frost giants or other mythical beasts.

Most of the continent consists of broad tundra, hence its name, though this is not the totality of its landscape. Along the south shores there is some resemblance to Fjallgarth in terms of the wilds consisting of a blend of pine forests, fjords, and warmer volcanic wastelands and outlying isles. It is here that settlers from Fjallgarth wage intermittent battles with the native folk, though trade of furs and other goods is also common. Fish and game birds are in plenty, and in many ways the southern parts of Nunaat are not so lesser in wealth nor hospitality than places like Etlen Rugna. The winters are harsh, indeed, but any who settle there are well accustomed to them save for the worst of years. Northward, where the distinctions between land and sea become blurred by virtue of the all-encompassing ice, things are less endurable. Most of the interior is considered a hellish desert to all but the most determined of overland travelers, devoid of oases and cold the whole year round. Even in the warmer months, when one might not have to contend with blizzards and endless night, that is the time when the wolves and bears begin their migrations, hungry after the dark months. Yet in the north there is still bounty to be found. Great whales, seals, and penguins migrate along the north shores, and the native Nunaatun peoples display a skill for harpooning that outstrips even the barbaric Fjallgarthans.

Nunaatun tribals, separate from the Fjallgarthan outcasts who have since made semi-permanent encampments upon the south shores, tend to be short of stature and thick of bone. They grow abundant hair, though beards are less common, and their skin tends to be dark from the constant sun-glare off the snow. In many ways they resemble the folk of distant Anpe or Siral’ik, though to see any of those human strains in one place would be a rare sight indeed. Though overall a peaceful people more focused on survival than grander designs of migration or war, they are among the few folk who the Fjallgarthans will speak with reverence of, as it is said by them that when the nights grow dark and the winds cold, nothing will stop a Nunaatun from doing what they must to survive.

Guarana Rugna

East of Anpe, surrounded on three sides by the seas of Xulub, K’aino, and Etlen Udra, the jungles of Guarana Rugna are as deep and green as any abyssal waters. From the highest peak to the lowest river-valley – of which there are hundreds upon hundreds – the verdant plant life of Guarana coats the entire breadth of the continent. Hot, humid, and lush with a diverse menagerie of flora and fauna, the many tribes of Guarana have all they need to survive and more – and even more ways to meet an unfortunate end. Survival-craft is a necessity, even by typical human standards, and river-canoeing is a popular method of navigating the otherwise intractable jungles.

Not all of Guarana is composed of forest – there are also wetlands, grassy plains, and a few small deserts, but for the most part, jungled sprawl coats the majority of the land. Were the trees to be stripped away, it would be seen that Guarana Rugna has a landscape as varied in altitude and natural wonder as any, though this can be hard to tell when trekking through boundless jungle reaches, shrouded by trees which look mountainous in their own right. Saurians are plentiful, and larger mammalians are scarce. Humans, apes, and other warm-bloods must be quick and observant to avoid being snatched up by a stalking pterosaur or raptor, and even great carnosaurs may camouflage themselves within the sheer density of the foliage. Great serpent-leeches and rope-spinners can snatch a whole human up from above or below, yet that is not all. Beautiful flowers and insects as small as a fingernail can deliver agonizing death before an unlucky creature has had time to realize what their lack of awareness has brought upon them. Guarana Rugna is a land of a thousand beauties, and a thousand dooms.

Yet the tribes of Guarana love their home and the bounty it brings, having had their senses honed to obsidian sharpness over long generations, learning from their surroundings so that even the mighty devilsaurs may not tear down their tree-houses, and the quetzal-boa would prove no greater threat than a songbird – when met with a dart coated in harvested manchineel poison. Guaranan folk tend to be short of stature and dark of hair, though their skin tones are very diverse, as some may spend most of their lives shrouded by the heavy foliage, and others baked to a deep brown beneath the coastal sun. Dense body and facial hair is uncommon due to the humidity and heat, though the Guaranans are fond of body paint for many purposes – clan identification, imitation of poisonous creatures, religious use, or camouflage. Though quite skilled at the building and utilizing of river-canoes, as well as high-altitude construction, the Guaranans have never been inclined towards trade beyond the waters, save for a few ambitious peoples who ply the island chains between their northern shores and the south coasts of the Leghen Alps, and a few others who dare cross the K’aino sea to trade with the affluent Anpean peoples.

Himaleh Vistra

East of the Ancient Lands of Sankha, north of the Ocean of Tiham, there is a strange and jagged land considered quite intractable despite its location at a crossroads of several continents. Himaleh Vistra is named for its great mountains, larger than any in all the myriad ranges which dot the shattered lands across the seven seas. To the north of the Vistran range lays little but desert and tundra steppe, yet to the south the river-broken coasts are lush with jungles. It is an overall misshapen land, carved up by peaks and ravines, rivers and gulfs, which have made it notorious as a confusing hinterland for any who dare make the journey to its shores. Yet many have made that journey, for not unlike those peoples who huddle around the Blood Sea, Himaleh Vistra’s central location in the world means that its beaches may oft be landed upon by visitors from far Siral’ik, from Sakha, and even Noba Rugna. If one dares make the trip to Himaleh Vistra in search of rarities not to be found on their home continent, they will be rewarded by seeing more diversity and exotic beauties than most humans would ever bear witness to in their simple lives.

The Vistra range is Himaleh Vistra’s namesake and most prominent feature, composed of a meandering chain of colossal mountains which stretch from east to west, between the closest gaps of Siral’ik and Sakha. A diverse country, most of those hills north of the Vistra range are composed of steppe and tundra, much like the nearby reaches of Batyr and Siral’ik. These other northern steppe-lands are separated from Himaleh Vistra by little more than the straits of the Skathon Sea, and during the coldest winters vast stretches of that ocean may freeze over, allowing mammoths and their hunters to cross should they be so ambitious. To the south, Himaleh Vistra is much more hospitable, lush with deep jungles and fertile riverlands where many tribes make their homes. Saurians might be found, along with ape-tribes as can be encountered across the entire breadth of that continent. Giant snakes are also a common threat and are worshipped by some tribal sects as living gods. Himaleh Vistra is noted as having some of the greatest diversity of flora and fauna of any continent the world over.

Those people who call Himaleh Vistra their home appear quite like the denizens of Sakha in many ways, though they tend to be darker of skin overall. Among the peaks and to the northern steppes, these Vistrans can be seen to have lighter skin, and some with features more like their neighbors in Siral’ik. The divide between the different regions of Vistra is quite pronounced, with the dwellers of the coasts and foothills considering the jungle-tribes to be more primitive than them, while both the southern cultures regard those who live north of the Vistran range as being little more than barbarians. Despite this, the Vistrans are noted to be quite accepting of outsiders, as they have gathered much wealth by aiding enterprising seafarers in finding safe harbor on their jagged shores. The Vistrans have the privilege of being some of the few people to realize that the scope of the world far exceeds the borders of their homeland, and in turn their trade of rare goods has let other tribes realize this truth as well. To find an artifact crafted in far Siral’ik while one is bartering in an Etleni encampment can be attributed to a Vistran trader somewhere down the line.

Hinterlands of Siral’ik

To the furthest north and east, across numerous islands and twisted stretches of land between the Ocean of Tiham and the Skathon Sea, there are the Hinterlands of Siral’ik. Though few journey there, the cultures of that distant country rival even great Sakha in what they have accomplished since their first settling. While goods from Himaleh Vistra are valued in their own right, for a western trader to find an item from Siral’ik is the best of luck, so lauded is the craftsmanship of the mysterious peoples of that mysterious land. Jungle, highlands, forest, desert – all climes may be found in Siral’ik, across the Hinterland’s many offshoot peninsulas and winding reaches. The very borders of the country can be hard to define, for in the north the continent merges with the bitter Skathon ice, and to the south a hundred-thousand islands disperse across the Oceans of Tiham and mysterious Kaiwa.

Giant apes, ape-men, saurians, huge snakes, devil-crabs – these are just a small selection of the species that can be found throughout the many disparate climates of Siral’ik. Much like Etlen Rugna, Siral’ik is a jagged continent which contains within itself climates suitable to near any species that might be found upon the world. Travel within Siral’ik comprises an epic journey in and of itself, to say nothing of travel beyond its shores. Though most of the land is within the frozen north, its winding peninsulas and island-chains venture quite far south, meaning that the distinct appearance of Siralese folk can be found throughout a significant range.

Siralese tribals – sometimes referred to as Siral’iki – tend towards shorter statures, paler skin, dark hair, and almond eyes. Beards are less common than in lands like Batyr, though not rare, and within the south stretches or in the high tundra where the snow-glare is bright, dark skin is also quite normal. Though many of the Siralese peoples live simple lives as nomadic hunters or clan-based fishers and farmers, the adventurousness of the Siralese is well known. Not content with spreading out across the entire breadth of their own homeland, the Siralese are some of the best seafarers in the world, having mastered island-hopping to reach lands as far as Batyr and Himaleh Vistra. Though none ever returned, it was also the case that in the distant past Siralese seafarers managed to reach even Darkest Ar-Nung, as well as cross about the curve of the world upon the waves of the Kaiwa Ocean. While none of the numerous islanders who dwell within the mysterious reaches of Kaiwa would consider themselves “Siralese” – if they have even heard such a word – their appearance attests to a shared blood with both those intrepid tribes and their cousins all the way across Kaiwa in reaches like Dziil.

Leghen Alps

Surrounded by the Sea of Gami to its west and the seas of Xulub and Etlen Udra to the east, the Leghen Alps are an isolated land little-explored from the western reaches. Instead, the tribes of Leghen hold more in common with their neighbors in Dziil or even Guarana and Anpe. Defined by its prime mountain range, the Leghen Alps are great peaks which rise above vast forests, swamps, and other green reaches all along the eastern coast. Across their heights, brief prairies give way to the expanse of the Sea of Gami, whose treacherous waters are all that separate the nomadic Legheni peoples of that region from their counterparts in Dziil. Save for a few fearsome creatures like great bears or the rare ape-tribe, the Leghen Alps are noted as a peaceful place, assuming one does not allow themselves to get lost in the deepest of its forested clefts.

Saurians are quite rare in Leghen save for the southernmost swamps bordering Xulub, with most of the wildlife being composed of smaller mammalians, and the flora being quite typical and not often dangerous. Still, while there are many pleasant climes for settlement, the Legheni know not to dally too long when crossing the passes of the Alps. Strange creatures dwell in those shadowy clefts, and in the wrong season it can be the case that entire tribes would meet a terrible end trapped by vicious snows. Still, so long as one stays in the more explored forests, or along the coasts, there is much plenty. Even the dangerous oceans of Gami and Etlen Udra – prolific homes to some of the most horrifying sea-beasts – are not so treacherous so long as one sticks to the ancestral routes.

Legheni are quite similar in stature and appearance to their neighbors in Dziil, being strong of body and face, if not the tallest in all the lands, with sun-toned skin and dark hair, which they are fond of decorating. Form the forests to the prairies, Legheni tribes are quite adept at surviving the perils of their homeland and then some, having made trips to Dziil and Guarana Rugna in the past in the name of trade – something their neighbors would not otherwise be inclined to do. Hunting, fishing, farming, herding – all are known to the Legheni, and where lumber is good and the call of the open sky is not so pressing, they will even build quite impressive villages among the trees. Yet the Legheni are creatures of habit. They will not venture into waters they don’t know, and they will not tarry in the mountains. The ancestors of the Legheni are, after all, just those individuals who were not so foolish as to get lost in those horrible reaches.

Noba Rugna

Below Etlen Rugna, and forming a great chain between the rifts of the Etlen Udra and the Caraka Sea, Noba Rugna is the southernmost of those continents within the “Asra Bounds” – the area by which seafaring tribes from the various lands about the Blood Sea prefer to travel and trade. At its north, Noba Rugna is a hot but fertile land marked by its bountiful coasts, yet to the south it contains as many mysteries as distant countries like Ar-Nung. Across vast mountains, badlands, deserts, the arid reaches at last give way to jungles of primordial age and depth, at last culminating in the far south shores where sweeping grasslands roll out to the temperate Caraka Sea.

At its northernmost extent, Noba Rugna is not too dissimilar from nearby Sakha, being arid but not the most brutal of climes, with its rocky deserts crossed by numerous rivers about which humans and beasts alike are able to seek succor. Seacraft is common there, and the waters are not so treacherous as those to the south. Some saurians prowl the wastes, but for the most part the land is manageable to those acclimated to the heat. South of the very harshest stretches of the desert expanse, however, there can be found some of the deepest and most lush jungles in all the world – and certainly nearest to Asra. Creatures of every type may be found there, from the smallest pygmy ape-man to the largest and most terrifying saurian. South of those forests, temperate grasslands and savannah proceed out to the south ocean, home to most of the larger mammalian species upon Noba Rugna, as the lizards and great arthropods prefer the damp of the northern jungles.

Noba Rugna’s people are hearty and strong, suited to survival in heats even more unforgiving than summer in Sakha. Along the north shores, they tend to resemble the Sakhan folk a great deal, though perhaps with darker tones to their skin. Within the jungles and grasslands where few northerners have dared tread, the tribals can reach hues as black as night, with rough hair and many diverse features and body types adapted to different climes. Those within the jungles tend towards shorter, lither builds, while within the grasslands endurance and strength is favored for long hunting journeys. Though the northern Noba Rugnans sometimes think of their southern counterparts of primitive, any who have made it past the dangers of the southlands and laid eyes upon the great works and daring feats of those folk would know better.

Wide Lands of Dziil

Far, far to the west, past the reaches of the Leghen Alps, and the great Sea of Gami, there is a land of cruel extremes which extends from the furthest north to its southern twin of Anpe. This is Dziil, the highlands. A series of mountains which cleave their way out from between Gami and the great Ocean of Kaiwa, to the west those grand peaks descend into temperate rainforests up to the far ice, while to the east the foothills roll into broad badlands which meet their end in the waters of Gami. Wild and seldom visited by any save for intrepid seafarers from Leghen, there can nonetheless be found some appealing stretches within Dziil’s borders – though those that claim them as their home must be prepared to defend them from the various tribes of the outer wastes.

Dziil is a mountainous country whose namesake range split the length of the continent down the center. To the furthest north the peaks extend all the way into the great ice-sheets, while to the south they taper off into many of the volcanic islands which define the roiling Sea of Xulub. West of the Dziil range the climate is more temperate, so long as one remains in the middle regions, lush with warm tropics and cool rainforests. East of the peaks, things are not quite so lush, defined by broad prairies at best and searing flatland deserts at the worst, though these mercifully abate at the shores of the Sea of Gami, among the reedy wetlands where the fisher-tribes dwell. Ape-men and saurian are both in abundance out in the west, while enormous bison, aurochs, and other large mammals reserve the eastern plains to themselves, being hunted by the nomadic tribes there. Despite its relative shallow depth, the Sea of Gami is also full of life, including opportunistic super-predators who sailors must be wary of if they wish to journey across the full breadth of the ocean.

Tribal folk of Dziil tend towards dark or tanned skin, though with considerable variation, having strong and beautiful features much like their neighbors, though standing the tallest of all the folk in those lands surrounding the seas of Xulub and K’aino. They are survivalists and hunters, managing to stake out prominent territories throughout their rugged homeland, facing any foes with bravery in their hearts. Though fierce, they are not often ones to war with each other, though when they do it is most common among the eastern tribes. Out in the deserts and plains, many of the nomadic folk see an easy opportunity in raiding their neighbors rather than risking their own starvation. Those who have made it so far as Dziil from other lands – a feat in and of itself – have remarked upon the brutality with which the Dzillai greet intruders.

Seas:

Asra, the Great Blood Sea

One of the most important and well-traveled of the Seven Seas, and perhaps the most storied. It is Asra whose waters border the lands of Etlen Rugna, Fjallgarth, and the Ancient Lands of Sakha. These three lands conduct the most frequent wanderings over the Great Blood Sea, but the mingling waters of Asra also reach as far as the western shores of Batyr, and other lands besides. The Sakhan peoples named the great expanse “Asra” after the rich hue of the setting sun over its waves – it was only later that it became known for the numerous battles which took place across its waters. Though dotted with many islands and host to much travel between its three neighboring lands, the human tribes have also shed much blood upon the waves and lost even more to the jaws of hungering leviathans.

Caraka Sea

The Caraka is a jagged ocean which cuts the land of Noba Rugna from its northern sister of Etlen Rugna. Filtering into the southernmost waters of the Etlen Sea, as well as the western stretches of the Ocean of Tiham, it is a little-explored waterway save for a few of the daring coastal tribes of Noba Rugna. Its waters are warm, but its coasts are treacherous, and one may find themselves stranded on any number of islands if they cannot navigate the inlets of Noba Rugna, or worse – be swept out into the daunting expanse of Tiham.

Etlen Udra / Etlen Sea

To the west of Etlen Rugna lies is sister sea, Etlen Udra. Descending from the southern tip of Nunaat, across the fjords of Fjallgarth and down to the nameless ice at the bottom of the world, Etlen Udra is a stormy ocean of mystery and danger. Unknown to all but a few of the most legendary sailors to have ever journeyed out from the west, Etlen Udra is the path to the Leghen Alps, and even perhaps Dziil, Guarana Rugna, and Far Anpe besides. The Etlen Sea forms the great barrier between these lands and the continents about Asra. Yet within the very oldest stories of humankind does some inkling remain of this truth. Within Etlen Rugna, Guarana Rugna, and Noba Rugna are told stories of the Breaking, when once the fields and mountains stretched unbounded before the elder gods cleaved the Etlen Udra into the wilds, shattering the earth in twain. To the shaman-storytellers of Noba Rugna and Etlen Rugna, it is assumed the western lands sunk into the sea, while the peoples of Guarana Rugna likewise consider the east to be a distant myth.

Great Ocean of Kaiwa

The largest ocean in all the world, so massive that no human has ever comprehended its scale. None have ever crossed its breadth through sheer skill alone. The seafaring clans of the great ocean may journey about its many islands, but even they cannot say where all Kaiwa’s bounds lay. Likewise, unknown to even the wisest shamans, in elder times some hunter tribes of Siral’ik even managed to make the trek across the shattered ice to the north peaks of Dziil, but that way has long since been forgotten. Between Ar-Nung, Siral’ik, Dziil, and Anpe, and speckled with as many islands as there are stars in the sky, the mysteries of Kaiwa are as endless as its blue horizons and abyssal depths.

K’aino Udra / K’aino Sea

Descending down from the Sea of Xulub, the K’aino Udra separates Guarana Rugna from Anpe, and Anpe from Dziil. It is a warm ocean, though quite harsh, and brimming with dangerous creatures. Thick with life, it provides an endless bounty to those who fish along its shores, though crossing its expanse is no easy feat. Even if one avoids death by one of thousands of ravenous beasts large and small which prowl its waters, the many islands within the green waves are said to house hostile tribes of humans, lizardmen, and ape-men. Though all types of predators may be encountered amidst the waves of K’aino, the sea-serpents are the most renowned of all.

Ocean of Tiham

The largest of the eastern oceans, rolling over a great expanse between the south shores of Himaleh Vistra and Batyr, and the far and darkened beaches of Ar-Nung, as well as flanking the eastern edge of Noba Rugna. Tiham is host to many islands, most near to the coasts of its bordering continents. It is rather warm, though prone to storms, yet that has not stopped many seafaring tribes from taking advantage of its riches. Great leviathans may be found in its waters, as with many of the seas, though they are more prevalent about its interior where the abyss descends with sudden rapidity away from the shallow waters near to the broken, isle-flecked coasts. The very name of Tiham comes from the mythical ur-dragon said to dwell within its very deepest waters.

Sea of Gami

Splitting the great plains of western Leghen and eastern Dziil clean down the middle, there is the mighty interior seaway known as Gami, stretching from the ice-flats of the north down to drain at last into the Sea of Xulub. Shallow for the most part, it is not free of perils. Within its teeming waters are as many dangers as there are resources. Still, that has not stopped the native tribes upon both sides of the sea of making the most of it, and some peoples spend near their entire lives upon the waters. So long as one is well-versed in the craft of the waves and keeps a sharp eye out for anything bigger than a saltwater alligator or giant gar, it can be an outright pleasant life exploring Gami’s waters and all its tributaries.

Sea of Xulub / Devil Sea

One of the most terrifying yet enticing of all the world’s great waters, the Sea of Xulub, also known as the Devil Sea, lies where the Sea of Gami filters out between the Leghen Alps and Guarana Rugna, forming a hub between the waters of Gami, K’aino, and the Etlen Udra. It is a warm and tempestuous sea, with many reefs about its edges and many islands that dot its waves. Yet the center of Xulub is unfathomably deep, perhaps as deep as such abysses that can be found in Tiham and Kaiwa. Horrifying beasts lurk below the black waves, and none but the most skilled of seafaring tribes may brave its central waters. Still, the reefs and island chains which wreath the Devil Sea are among the most bountiful to be found, more colorful than Gami and fresher than K’aino, rich with valuable coral and mollusks and tropical fish. It is not uncommon for the tribesfolk of that region to make war over the valuable islands, and battles are far more frequent than among the other island-hopping tribes of reaches like Kaiwa.

Skathon Sea

The northern sea, the name given to all those waters beyond the reaches of Nunaat, Batyr, Siral’ik and the like where the great ice-flows crash together and icebergs roam like mammoth god-beasts. It is not the coldest ocean – the waters beneath Ar-Nung and off the southern tip of Anpe have that honor, but unlike those darkened waves, many people have actually explored the reaches of Skathon. Most of all the shipbuilders of Fjallgarth and Nunaat, who whale and raid among the icy flows just as much as traverse them on foot. Cold-blooded leviathans are predictably rare within Skathon, yet the whales and pinnipeds are more than titanic enough in size to still provide dangerous sport. Yet it is always the gnashing ice and frigid waters that make for the greatest danger of any who seek to traverse the Skathon reaches.

[sawyer-saucee]

my beef with the school system

I feel stupid

That’s not really a revolutionary thing, I usually feel pretty stupid. But this time it’s because I know I’m failing. I thought I would do better this year, but I’m not. The classes are too hard and too demanding for me. Yes, it sounds like I’m just a slacker with no motivation, and it’d be easy to believe that. It’s what I believe about myself. But here’s the reality: I just don’t like academics, and that should be okay. Why should any child be punished for not liking math or science, or for not responding well to the strict and rigorous environment of a school? Why can’t kids pursue their own interests without being made to feel like their lack of interest or limited success in a subject that they don’t even enjoy is a personal failure?

Why can’t a kid like theatre, and just do that? Or like art, and just do that? Why can’t high school be a place where you leave the heavily structured, broad curriculum of elementary and middle school, and just do you? Pursue your own interests and passions without being forced to do things you hate, you’re not good at, and that make you feel like an idiot?

A person’s intelligence is not based solely on their grades or their interests. If a student hates math, why should they be forced to continue taking math throughout high school? If they have the basic skills to function in society (basic multiplication, addition, subtraction), then why do they have to learn statistics? Why do they have to learn calculus? Why do they have to spend hours trapped in a room, having information they don’t care about shoved down their throats? How many people even remember what they learned in their high school math classes? Not many. I barely remember what I learned in middle school, and they told us that we were going to need it “in real life.”

I’m not anti-school, I’m not anti-stem, I’m not anti-academics. What I want is choice, support, and understanding in schools. Let the artsy kid just take the artsy classes. Let the super academic kid just take the STEM classes. Let the kid who hates math opt out of it, or at LEAST let them take a casual, non-demanding version of it. Let the kid who likes to run around take PE, and let the kid who doesn’t like it opt out. Stop placing so much emphasis on academics, grades, and effort. Effort is important, yes, but if I don’t care about a class, if I don’t want to pursue it in the future, why should I care? Why should I waste my effort on it instead of directing it into something I actually care about?

Stop giving out homework and long projects. School should start and end IN SCHOOL, during school hours. Students should not have to worry about schoolwork when they’re at home. If the curriculum is so fast-paced and demanding that it would be impossible to NOT give students homework, then that’s a bad curriculum. If a student needs support, give it to them. Not everyone learns at the same pace or in the same way, but that doesn’t meant that students who deviate from the norm should be shackled with more stress, more work, more studying, more review. If schools changed so that students could take classes pertaining to their interests and opt out of ones that they didn’t care about, they would have so much more free time to seek extra help if they needed it. Say that a student loves English and literature, but struggles with time management and getting through a whole book. Without all the extra subjects filling their plate, they could take time out of the day to seek support at school instead of scrambling to finish things at home. Class periods could be longer, not only giving students more time to spend with their teachers and in subjects that they actually care about, but also giving them more time to complete work and lessen their load.

Success in school is obviously largely the responsibility of the student, but when so much is piled onto one student’s plate that the smallest slip in effort leads to a snowball of late work and missed concepts and piles and piles of things to do to catch up, that’s not good. That’s awful.

Students at large aren’t happy. When are we going to stop blaming them for it? When are we going to stop chalking every academic failure up to slacking? When are we going to stop shaming students for not liking or not caring about a certain subject? When are we going to start treating high-schoolers like what they are: people. People who can make their own decisions and who, more often than not, know what they like and what classes they want to take. When are we going to stop with this stupid “survival of the fittest” mentality, where students who struggle with time management or certain concepts, or really any student who makes a mistake is left behind? It’s ridiculous. Stop treating students like robots and start treating them like people.

[doyouneedtorant]

april 29, 2019 (time unknown)

This is an old piece that I wrote for an English assignment. It is entitled “The Missing Fairy Princess”. 

It’s backpacking season at the University of Michigan. For those of you who are unaware of what that means, “backpacking” is the process of choosing classes to put in your “backpack” before registering for them at a later date. It involves many hours of obsessing over the course guide and worrying about what the future will look like if you do not get the classes that you need for your major. With that in mind, it’s an extremely stressful experience for someone as manic and worried as me. At this point in my college career, I am bombarded with adults telling me “Oh, you’re just a freshman! You don’t need to know what you’re doing with your life quite yet!” when in reality, this question of “what do you want to be” is single-handedly eating away at my heart. I am a person of many ambitions and yet in a school full of aerospace engineers, aspiring business men and women, medical students, and overachieving triple-majors, I feel as if my creativity has been pushed to the side for a more practical pursuit. In these times, I cannot help but look back at the young girl I used to be who wanted to be everything.

At my preschool culmination, the teachers all asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. All the boys and girls said they wanted to be firefighters and police officers or dentists and doctors. Yet when it got to me, I said I wanted to be a fairy princess. One of the parents laughed at me and my dad essentially told them “Hey, if my daughter wants to be a fairy princess, she can. It’s more original and creative than being a police officer, like your kid.” Now, this is just something my father has told me over and over; I can only really trust him and his memory skills to assume that this retelling of the story is actually an accurate depiction of what happened. Same goes to the time that he told me that the mothers that led our Girl Scout group had to pull him aside, because during arts and crafts, I tried to make a mind-control device to brainwash the other girls. Although I can’t remember a single thing about these events, I’ve heard these stories so many times that I can seriously see them - well, at least in my own imaginative way. I see me shrieking “I want to be a fairy princess!” at the culmination and suddenly I’m in this cute, little purple fairy costume laughing as my dad has his altercation with the other parent. I can vividly see this “mind-control device,” a black-and-white pinwheel that spins as if I was some engineer who could have actually made that at the age of eight. Over the years, these tales have deeply embedded into me that I could be whatever I wanted to be and I had the drive and ability to be or create something inspiring. And at that young age, I could have been a fairy princess. I could have made a mind-control device. And as I got older, I found myself in love with so many things - writing, singing, teaching, learning, math, English, science, animals. I wanted to be everything and when you’re eight, the idea of being everything seems achievable.

Whether or not those stories were true, there’s clearly a path of imaginative behavior that trailed off from then. Starting in elementary school, I was starting to write my own books. Yes, crappy by default, but true pieces of art in the eyes of my younger self. (My debut story was Pretty and Paris, a book about two poodles that discovered they were sisters and then one was kidnapped by a jealous ex-best friend who planned to sell her on the black market. Iconic.) I was making short films about pineapples with jobs and reality shows about my stuffed animals. I started writing music about the food in my fridge and the boys I thought were cute in my second grade class. I learned how to play the guitar and piano by my own hand and I realized I loved to write poetry. In high school, I was in theatre and started writing plays and when adults told me they were good, it encouraged that childlike creativity that had always followed me throughout the years. I was bound for amazing things and that eight-year-old girl could look in the bathroom mirror and recognize it.

But now I am 19. And, yes, that’s ridiculously young and I am fully aware how bizarre it is for me to be saying I can no longer be creative or that I cannot be whatever I want to be. But at this point in my life, there definitely is a limit on the possibilities. I came into college thinking that I would take all the classes I was interested in, that I would be in multiple clubs, that I would have internships lined up for me. But that’s not actually how reality works. There are GEs (the “general education” credits that the school swears you must take to be educated) and prerequisites that you are forced to take as stepping stones. You have a job because the cost of living in a college town is extremely exaggerated, so now the time you have for clubs is cut short. There are internship opportunities over summer but you are so tired from a demanding semester that you cannot even imagine putting in a minimal level of effort until you have to next semester. I think most importantly that the biggest shock was that if you do not do certain tasks, you absolutely cannot be whatever you want. If you do not take Biology 172, you cannot be a doctor; and if you decide halfway through your college career that you want to pursue medical school, the amount of time and effort that you would need to just catch up with the intense checklist of classes for the MCAT would probably kill you. Not to mention if you want to attend graduate school at all, the competitive nature of students today requires you to get an extremely high GPA, despite the fact that classes are gradually becoming more difficult and teachers praise themselves when they fail a whole class with an unreasonably unfair exam.

Not to mention, the stigma around being a humanities major is hard to avoid. My friends joke about me being homeless after college when my useless degree creates a jobless and unsuccessful life. Growing up in Los Angeles and attending a performing arts school warped my view on how people saw art, especially in a school that worships STEM. Where I came from everyone was going to be some sort of creative when they grew up: a performer, a dancer, an actor, a photographer, a playwright. And to be honest, I believed that. I saw my peers achieving great things while they were still seniors in high school and it made that dream seem much more realistic. With that in mind, that creative eight-year-old flew two thousand miles away from her home, destined to achieve these amazing feats, just to be told creativity is only allowed when it is flirting with practicality. Maybe I could have gone to a liberal arts school instead or somewhere more understanding of arts-oriented students, but how can one do that when the University of Michigan has so much to offer? An amazing reputation, a sense of pride that no other school could match, an incredibly talented and intelligent body of students that collaborate to increase the chance of success, a campus that looks like it was plucked from a catalog. I mean, it was a no-brainer. I knew any program I decided to go into would be academically rigorous and extremely insightful. Now, do not get me wrong, the humanities classes I have attended were exactly that, but the fear of not doing enough has become a very heavy weight on my shoulders. Everyone I meet is a future doctor, engineer, material scientist, epidemiologist, dentist, or nurse. Where were all the fairy princesses?

I decided that I needed to do more and went into what I like to call: “Phase I: I am going to be a doctor!” The idea of becoming a pediatrician was attractive; I always adored children, I wanted to find a career where I helped people, medicine and health continuously peaked my interest. So, with this in mind, I launched my pre-med phase and started to plan out the next three years of my life, the classes I would take, the medical schools I liked, what internships I would do over summer. (It’s sufficient to say I am an overthinker.) I registered for, you guessed it, Biology 172 and a statistics class, making my way through the advised pre-med checklist. Things were going pretty smoothly and then I failed two exams, started missing lectures, and had to explain to my father that for the first time in five years, my grades were not amazing. I came to the conclusion that the root of my stresses was Biology 172 and I withdrew from the class two- thirds through the semester.

No more doctor.

Right now, I am looking at pre-health or pre-social work, trying to find something realistic to pursue and the question “Where are all the fairy princesses?” haunts me. I like to ask people what they wanted to be when they were a kid and what they would want to be now, but often the answer makes me sad. My friend who just graduated with a degree in sociology told me he wanted to be a teacher when he was younger. Teachers, unfortunately, are not paid well and so many kids turn their cheek to education, unless it means becoming a professor at a high- paying university. My friend instead got his degree in sociology, but has no idea what he would ever do with it, so he is applying for reception jobs at local hospitals and clinics instead. Another friend told me he wanted to grow up to be a basketball player, but the skill required and the sheer realistic nature of the dream steered him in a different direction. If money or impracticality remained out of the picture, my dream would be performing on Broadway, or being a cast member on Saturday Night Live, or winning a Tony for Best Play, or singing my own songs in front of a giant crowd. However, the fear of failure or not having something to fall back on is honey for my anxiety.

Once again, I want to make it extremely well known that I understand how young I am. I am going to live a long, luxurious life and the worries I have now will all fit into place, and in my fifties I will be laughing with my husband and children about how silly my troubles actually were. But for now, they are real and they are daunting. It feels like everyone knows what they are doing or they are committed to suffering through the difficult classes they need to succeed. And frankly, I’m not. Every time I look in the mirror, I still see my younger self in the reflection - a purple fairy dress on, stuffed animal in hand, smile plastered to my face - and it is hard to not feel disappointed. I want to look back at that little girl and tell her that we did it. I want to tell her we became everything we dreamed of - a writer, a performer, a doctor, a veterinarian, a teacher, a psychologist, an artist, a chef. And although I cannot predict the future, I understand some of these options have been eliminated just by major choice.

To tell sixteen-year-olds that they need to have some basic understanding of what they want to do with their lives by the time they apply to college is utterly ridiculous. The way we have been taught to push ourselves to absurd heights has left no time to breathe in between class breaks. My fellow classmates are either not participating in any social scene so they can study, or they are engaging way too much and developing some form of alcoholism or drug problem before they hit twenty. Those of us who plan to go to graduate school have stopped learning in order to save space for short-term memorization, when in reality, we all went to college in hopes of learning more than we did in high school. No one seems to be super happy about what they are doing in college because despite the fact that adults have raved on about how in college you get to study exactly what you want to study, the opposite has proven itself true. I may be a speck of dust on Michigan’s campus but the alarming rate of students that feel the same way tells me that something is wrong with the whole process. During these next three years, I hope to catch a glimpse of my younger self by diving into activities and classes that excite me, but I worry that one day, she’ll fade away and I’ll just have to wait for my dad to tell me more stories about her.

[cmtrydrve]

            hey ! my name’s link , i go by he/they pronouns , am 21+ & live in the cst timezone ! my only personality trait is being a bts , sment & girl groups enthusiast . i’m an aries sun with a pisces moon , which means i can be aggro , am always loud & obnoxious , but am a secretly sensitive softy , so plz be nice to me !!! this is my child , mikey , who’s stuck in 2006 & never grew out of his emo phase ( take that , mom ! ) . he’s also an aries , because my jjks always end up like that . hopefully , you’ll love him as much as i already do ! under the cut , you’ll find some misc . info & wanted connections . here are links to his dossier page & his pinterest board , which will hopefully give you some deeper insight . i’m excited to be here & write with you all ! like this if you’d like to plot & i’ll fly to your ims , but also feel free to add me on d*scord ( it’s easier for me as well ) : no brain only loving bts#6669 !

— jeon jungkook. he/they. demiboy. | was that michael “mikey” kwon i just saw in the hideaway lobby ? i hear the twenty-two year old spends most of their time working as a record store clerk / studying communications , but i’ve always just seen them dyeing their hair different colors with kool-aid . they live in 3c and i often see them in the halls. they always give me a vibe of getting into arguments online , an entirely black wardrobe and drinking six cups of coffee to make it through the day . 

misc . info :

his parents are both very hip artists who met & fell in love while attending art school. they’re both very modern kind of parents, which meant that mikey grew up around a lot of self-expression (& being told to try it for himself), paint everywhere & pot.

growing up, he was allowed to paint his walls & even ceiling however he pleased & it instilled a love of creativity in him. his parents still have paintings he did as a child hanging up on their walls & fridge. even now, he still draws casually, though it was always a hobby for him & not his actual passion.

his parents are extremely caring & understanding. as a teenager, they allowed him to go out & party & always made sure to get him home safely. mikey genuinely can not remember a single time they ever yelled at him even when he fucked up massively. so he tries his best to make sure they’re happy & taken care of. but they’re adamant in supporting whatever mikey wants to do.

they were both the alternative types, which meant that rock music filled their home. mikey was familiar with classic rock from a young age & the sounds of fleetwood mac & other similar bands fills him with a warmth that can only be attained from childhood nostalgia.

his first taste of love came at the age of seven. his parents always brought home new albums to listen to & his dad purchased three cheers for sweet revenge by my chemical romance. while the screaming & raging instruments could have been too much for anyone else his age, mikey embraced it fully.

it ignited an adoration for the genre as a whole & soon enough, his parents were bringing home various emo music albums to sate the always dramatic & over-reacting mikey. for christmas, he received mcr’s discography (at the time, just two albums) on vinyl, which he still has hanged proudly on his wall as an adult.

he owns every variation of every mcr album now. vinyl, cd, cassettes. he even collects the japanese versions because he likes the way they’re designed.

he dropped the name mike / michael because of mikey way & he refuses to answer to anything else.

even though it’s largely part of “cringe culture” now (which mikey refuses to participate in), he loves hot topic & goes there whenever he can. his closet is full of band tees & he has a drawer filled with those spiky belts, bracelets & pants with the suspenders from his teenage years.

he’s been dyeing his hair regularly since he was twelve. he’s had every color under the sun. this is what his hair currently looks like but he dyes the highlights with kool-aid, so the color is always changing.

he has a nostril piercing & would probably get more done if someone so much as implied that he should.

he has a mcr stan twitter account & he gets into fights with everyone he decides has a wrong opinion. he’s been suspended multiple times for being too aggressive online, but he always comes back. he also has a tumblr account but he just uses it to reblog pictures of gerard way (his bias KJHFDKJ).

he works at a record store & goes to school for communications. he hopes to either be a radio dj or podcast host. he wants to get paid to talk about how much he loves music either way. but he loves his current job because he gets to talk about music all day and recommend albums to people. also it’s helpful in perfecting his own vinyl collection.

yes, he cried the day mcr broke up & yes he bought tickets to all their reunion shows. he took the day off when the tickets went on sale & his boss was understanding, knowing how much he loves the band.

he’s extremely impulsive. if you tell him to do anything, he more than likely will. he has a lot of stupid scribbled tattoos on him for this reason, especially on his hands.

while he doesn’t mind appearing masculine & even embraces it, he doesn’t fully align with being a man. he started identifying as nonbinary in his teens, but has never felt 100% a man his whole life. he’s fine with both he or they pronouns for the most part, though he does have his preferences day to day. he introduces himself as nonbinary so it’s not a secret & everyone who interacts with him is aware.

he’s kind of a party animal. he’s that loud person who drinks too much & ends up blacked out on the floor.

he gets in trouble a lot, because he plays music very loudly at both his workplace & his apartment. but he’s of the opinion that if music is too loud for you then you’re just too old.

he’s aggressive & very arrogant. he will fight you about anything & everything. he just likes to argue & he thinks he’s right about everything.

in typical aries fashion, he loves to flirt & be flirted with. he just adores attention & seeks out affection where he can find it. he gets crushes really easily & pursues aggressively (he’s extremely charming & good at making people feel good about themselves), but he gets bored when he actually obtains the person he desires. he’s never really seriously dated, but has had over a billion crushes in his lifetime.

thought dramatic & annoying most of the time, he’s also very loyal & has a good heart. if you’re in his circle of people he likes, then he’ll do anything for you point blank. he always tells his friends that he’d die for him & he means it.

while he tries to appear confident, he has secret insecurities stemming from being the middle child. he has issues with feeling like he’s not good enough or thinks he’s unnoticed by everyone, so he acts up by being dramatic.

he drinks A LOT of coffee, so he’s pretty much always bouncing off the walls.

he’s extremely pansexual & loud about it. if you’ve known him for longer than five minutes then you’ll find out how he wishes he could smash gerard way specifically in the helena mv to smithereens.

he very casually knows how to play guitar. he’s that person who plays wonderwall at every party.

while he’s not a fan of pop music, he knows most girl group dances & can do them well.

wanted connections :

exes (any gender. it will more than likely be something casual, like a few months or less, but we can discuss the timeline! also it can be messy or friendly. extra points if there’s lingering feelings!)

hookups / fwbs (any gender. singular experiences or regular type things)

childhood plots for those who’ve lived in seattle (childhood friends, first kisses / crushes, all that good stuff)

flirtationships that don’t go anywhere

one-sided crushes (don’t mind who has the feelings!)

mutual pining but they’re both idiots & have no idea

party buddies (can be drinking &/or smoking). emo music buddies. netflix buddies. any of these can be combined.

enemies???? (if we can decide on a suitable plot. or enemies with benefits :smirk:)

someone who knows of mikey from his stan twitter but doesn’t realize it’s him & talks shit openly about the asshole who runs the account in front of him.

on the opposite side of the spectrum, someone who he flirts with in the dms & they plan to meet up after realizing they live in the same apartment building.

tinder date (it can go well or not)

frequent customers (customers he flirts with or can’t stand because they just loiter or gets into fights with because they have bad taste in music

someone who takes advantage of mikey being willing to do anything he’s dared to do. make him do all the stupid shit he shouldn’t be doing, whether it’s getting tattoos / piercings or anything dangerous or just idiotic.

you’re sick of this asshole blasting music late at night & go to yell at him for it but oops he’s actually attractive (or you actually can’t stand him, whichever GKDHFGJFKD).

i have a huge tag full of plots i’d love to do on my rp spam blog. not all of them will be fitting for mikey but just ask me & we can try to change some elements or something!

literally anything you can think of i’m probably down for it!

[arecomicsevengood]

On Alan Moore’s SUPREME

It is an understatement to say we live in interesting times. These are chaotic times, and I hope we survive long enough to learn from them. I do not know how they will be remembered. I only know that I do not believe that hindsight is 20/20. Rather, nostalgia has distorting effects that render eras in caricature. I know this because while people often look at things and say “hey, remember the nineties?” with this quasi-ironic tone meant to pigeonhole things according to a handful of superficial traits, I actually feel like I do remember the nineties, and they were not that, but they were very far from where we are now.

I recently tracked down collections of Alan Moore’s run on Supreme via my local library. Supreme was a character created by Rob Liefeld at Image. Liefeld and Image are both prime examples of what people think of when they think of “1990s comics,” though their influence continues to this day, maybe stronger now than it ever was then. The backlash against this stuff that followed, which involved a great deal of nostalgia, that you see in things like Mark Waid and Alex Ross’ Kingdom Come, or Kurt Busiek’s Astro City, is, I would argue, way more definitive of the era, in that there was maybe a “square” or defensive reactionary tone that seems more out of step with the modern moment, maybe because they essentially “lost.” Moore’s Supreme is about comic book reboots, and comic book history. It’s pretty nostalgic, but it’s also one of the more optimistic Alan Moore comics: The reaction against the superficial Image work also included a rejection of the “grim and gritty” aspects of Moore’s eighties work.

These Supreme collections are out of print, which is weird. While new stories continue to be told set in this universe Rob Liefeld created, but I think it’s pretty widely acknowledged that Moore’s comics were the best things to come out of there, the stuff where the ideas make the most sense, where there’s material that can be expanded upon. I know Brandon Graham took material from Moore’s work for his Prophet run. The recent Warren Ellis/Tula Lotay Supreme: Blue Rose derives from concepts in Moore’s run. It’s vastly tonally different, aiming for some sort of slow-paced Solaris vibe of mystery, which Moore’s run explains in such a way that it feels like Ellis’ run would have less of a reason to exist were his source text widely available.

I read Moore’s first issue at the time of its release, and was not that into it. When I think of the comics I was into at the time, I understand why: Thinking of Mark Waid/Humberto Ramos series Impulse, or Christopher Priest and Mark Bright’s Quantum And Woody, the emotional connection I had with those books as a reader is basically impossible to imagine anyone having with Supreme. I don’t think Moore was interested in doing that: I think he was trying to crack “nineties comics” and was seeing a bunch of dumb garbage it was very easy to think mixing in some pastiches would improve.

Also, the character is basically just Superman, and while in some ways Supreme is “better” than, say, Scott McCloud’s Superman Adventures, in that a good deal of work and thought is being put into creating these riffs on the Superman concept, Rick Burchett’s art, drawing Bruce Timm designs, is more appealing than what Joe Bennett comes up with, though, so it’s kind of a wash. Chris Sprouse comes on board later, and when he’s drawing the book, it’s great. The book moves from being “kind of a slog even though it’s clever” to “actually pretty fun.” After working together on Supreme, Moore and Sprouse would launch Tom Strong together. That’s another comic I stopped reading early on because I wasn’t getting that much pleasure out of it. Both Supreme and Tom Strong have flashback sequences drawn by other artists (in Supreme, they’re usually handled by Rick Veitch) that are also meant to be reference some other genre or historical moment, fleshing out backstory but also demonstrating Moore’s cleverness, which is two-fold: it’s both the cleverness of a plotter, telling stories pithily, and the cleverness of a student of comics showing how much he knows, via jokey parody. This becomes tedious when baked into the structure of every issue of a comic, but it’s also how Supreme gets to have Rick Veitch pages, which are welcome when the stuff set in modern times is drawn by people whose work isn’t fun to look at. Still, it’s a superhero comic where the core of most issues is not a fight but an extended vaguely comedic riff.

Another person to continue on to Tom Strong is letterer Todd Klein, who does a great job here, enough so that, when late in the run there are issues he didn’t letter, they’re demonstrably worse and harder to read. Tom Strong does have a different colorist than Supreme though, and in some ways there are weaknesses even in Sprouse’s issues that can be laid on the coloring: It’s “nineties” in a true way, in that it’s tied to the computer coloring that was then state of the art. I am pretty sure I read the later issues of Tom Strong in collections a roommate owned, but I remember none of them. Most likely I will forget these issues of Supreme. The most impressive thing about Moore’s run is the long-term plotting, that the payoff to a year’s worth of stories is set up very early, and points that would pay off later are seeded throughout.

Still, in the mind of a kid, a year is a very long time. A developing brain pursues a lot of interests. There are very few comics I read every issue of for a year: To do that would cut into my ability to take chances on comics like, say, Alan Moore’s first issue of Supreme, when I’d never read any of the previous ones. Another reason I didn’t follow the title as a kid is this: By the time you get to the point where you have a preference for good superhero comics over bad ones, you’re also interested in non-superhero comics. The best stuff in the series are later Chris Sprouse drawn stories that work effectively as superhero comics, where multiple villains fight multiple heroes, and jokes are made steadily. This all follows up on groundwork laid earlier in the run.

These collections are not published by Image, but rather a book company called Checker I am pretty sure is no longer in business. The books at my library were not in great condition, and they’re not very well-designed. There’s an Alex Ross image on the front,  and Rob Liefeld on the back, alongside text that gives bios of Moore and Liefeld but says nothing about the Supreme comics the books contain. The interiors use Alex Ross drawings between issues, to cover for the original cover art being largely abysmal. I’m pretty sure Liefeld could reprint them at Image, although “this comic is drawn by a ton of different people, and quality varies” is not an appealing sales pitch. There were also other flashback stories, drawn by the likes of Melinda Gebbie and Kevin O’Neill, that ran in the original comics but aren’t in these collections, which I would hope a future reprint would restore. Around this time, Moore also did a run on Youngblood with Steve Skroce that was never collected, fondly remembered by some but also compromised by the fact that the last few pages currently extant, were drawn by a considerably worse artist.

What’s fun about these Supreme comics is that, for all the nostalgia for the past they contain, they’re still dense with ideas. It’s clear that what Moore appreciates about the old Superman comics he’s explicitly homaging is the imagination therein. He’s riffing, but extrapolating as well, these aren’t pure analogs. There are these science fiction or mythic elements all pressed together. I’m not saying there’s much that originates with Moore here, but in his bricolage things feel new, it’ll get your neurons firing. This is truly wild: the concept of the Supremacy, where all the alternate Supremes hang out, and its corresponding Daxia, where all the alternate reality versions of his nemesis hang out, both built in limbo, is surprisingly similar to plot points on the show Rick And Morty.

There are comics that are better than Moore’s Supreme, many more of them available now than there were twenty years ago. I read them, I write about them, and much of my championing of them stems from a preoccupation with storytelling. But there is a different kind of substance to these stories. It’s not “substance” in the sense of meaning, or emotional content. The substance is the sort of idea-space you swim in while reading fantasy or science fiction. I like to think that if you’re reading this you consider yourself a smart person, and that manifests itself as a certain snobbery in certain ways. Maybe you don’t read that sort of stuff as much as you did when you were a kid. As an adult, I’ve got other hang-ups. It is maybe a form of solipsism, though it stems from empathy, or a desire for it, obsessed over my own ability to relate to others. This is the stuff that makes up the content of “literary fiction” whereas I think of being a kid and trying to be imaginative or imagine possibilities beyond reality as essentially a spiritual quest. Reading this collection I could sense I wasn’t engaging it enough, even if only a portion of the pages were drawn well enough to make me want to engage it.

Moore is a spiritual person, obviously. You can listen to him talk about his work and artmaking and time and life and death and find a great deal of comfort. So much of his work is deeply reassuring and helpful, even though much of it is dark and more pessimistic than his Supreme run, and it’s often done through these genre pretexts. His work is much richer than what’s propped up by current trends, and it’s all informed by this grand history of literature, where what follows in Moore’s wake is frequently hollow because it doesn’t have this grounding in possibility and potential, but is instead premised on the observable. I’m making fun of Warren Ellis here, his obsession with science magazines and the idea of Moore’s run of Supreme as an observable phenomena after Moore made it exist.

It’s easy to view the way you engage this type of work as escapism, and there is truth to that, I think, when you’re an adult reader. I do think that when you’re younger, engaging with this stuff is more of a building a toolkit of ideas to engage with existence in a way that will stave off existential woe one encounters as they age. I frequently have this feeling that I am more tired than I used to be. My head is now subject to this feeling which is for all intents and purposes stupidity that maybe stems from trauma of having bad things happen to me (I have repeatedly been the victim of violent crime) and anxiety over things still to come. (Whether it be more crime or fascism or whatever, the complete collapse of the social fabric.)

There’s a feeling of being enervated I want to chase and have no idea how to, but it was genuinely present in my past. I know I can’t find it in nostalgia, in binge-reading old comics. That is 100% a trap and I know that the feeling I want is actually dependent on the absence of nostalgia, of being awake to there being possibilities in the future I can barely foresee. Moore’s run of Supreme taps into this energy, and he doesn’t think of it in a nostalgic way, the way he viewed 1963. He was engaging the moment, and finding the energy and collaborators that would propel him into the America’s Best Comics line, the sort of “better things” that might exist for a person in the near future that it is in the moment impossible to foresee. In all likelihood, the ability to manifest these things comes from a receptivity to potential that these comics evince.

Last week I turned 34, then the next day I found out my editor at The Comics Journal, Tim Hodler, was leaving it. I’m aware I need to leave Baltimore, get a new job, embark on a career path, enter into a new relationship, change everything about my life; all of these things both for their own sake but also to hopefully get the gears turning in my brain so I can write fiction again and feel that I am doing something.

When I read these book collections I was sort of wishing that like 2/3 of the pages were redrawn so that a book could exist which would have a reason to be read. Now I’m writing about it so I can remember I read it, and trying to explain why I’m doing so inevitably becomes about dissatisfaction with what is potentially giving way to something better, but I’m as overwhelmed by the facts of my own existence as Chris Sprouse would be at the fact that all the pages I would want him to redraw were already drawn by other people. Moore’s Supreme run can be reduced to these things that are essentially truisms: It’s “a moment in time,” “a transitional work.” This is true for so many things, but it is better to be these than the other thing that so much amounts to, a dead end.

[zodiacale]

anyway today I hung out with someone I haven’t seen in almost a whole year and they told me how they could already tell just how much I’ve changed and I probably could’ve cried right there because I’m so glad I’m not who I was, and I keep harping on this, but I’ve still got ways to go to be where I want to be. I think a lot of this change is stemming from letting go of my past, some of it forced by circumstance and some of it just reaching its due time 

and I think it’s time to lay other parts of me to rest, one of them being this blog and tumblr in general. as addictive as this site is (I feel like I’ve been on it forever and it’s coming on seven years lmao free me!!!) I’m finally starting to feel as though I’ve outgrown it somewhat?? I just feel out of place in more way than one and I feel that’s my cue to go!!!! also I have this app on my phone called moment that tells me how much time I spend on my phone each day and I spend ~3-4 hrs a day, and at that rate I’ll spent almost 9 years on my phone in my lifetime!!!!! and that doesn’t even count the time I spend on youtube and tumblr and whatever here on my laptop!!!!! like damn I could get quite the education in with that time, I could read so many books, make so much art, take care of myself and take care of the people I love!!!!!! if I’m not even really enjoying my time on social media anyway why waste it on it? another interesting thing I was discussing with my friend was that we don’t go on social media as much when we’re happy, but we only want to delete it when we’re unhappy. like why not just delete when we’re happy and not on it as often regardless and keep pursuing whatever’s going on in our lives that’s making us feel that way? 

[recentanimenews]

INTERVIEW: Gen Urobuchi’s Creative Turning Point With Thunderbolt Fantasy

  Tiffany Chen contributed to this interview.

  Noted screenwriter Gen Urobuchi may be known for his works of Puella Magi Madoka Magika and Psycho-Pass, but for the last five years, Urobuchi has been working on a passion project of his own with the series Thunderbolt Fantasy. The series — produced by the Taiwanese glove puppetry studio PILI International Multimedia, as well as the Japanese companies Nitroplus and Good Smile — ran its first season in 2016, and since has aired two more seasons and two movies, to which Urobuchi told Crunchyroll that he never expected.

  “The series has only managed to develop into what it is now thanks to the response we got from the audience after it started airing,” Urobuchi said.

  As Thunderbolt Fantasy Season 3 comes to an end, Crunchyroll had an opportunity to speak with Urobuchi about why he chose puppets to tell his next story, the exciting challenges that it brought to his creative process, reaching his turning point as a creator, and more! 

    First, how have you been doing over the past year, particularly with how COVID-19 has impacted the industry?

  Urobuchi: It made recording voice-overs with the cast in the studio a bit more difficult, and it took a while for effective workarounds to be found. In other ways, funnily enough, doing things like script meetings remotely with Zoom and similar software has made things a bit more convenient.

  You said in the Thunderbolt Fantasy - Before Broadcast Special that you were introduced to PILIIs puppet productions during a trip to Taiwan in 2014. Looking back, did you ever imagine that encounter would transform into a series that now includes three seasons and two movies?

  I had absolutely no idea at the time. The series has only managed to develop into what it is now thanks to the response we got from the audience after it started airing. 

  Do you think you would have created Thunderbolt Fantasy as an anime series had you not encountered PILI’s puppets? Or was it because of the puppetry that the series was born?

  A lot of my motivation involved finding the best way to showcase what the performers at PILI are capable of doing, thinking about what kind of subject matter and structure would help them gain wider recognition. This project's genesis stems from me becoming familiar with the people at PILI.

    You’ve written stories across a large variety of mediums, including anime, visual novels, tokusatsu, and more. But do you approach your writing for Thunderbolt Fantasy any differently?

  The big things that I focused on at the writing stage was treating the sword battles with a lot of gravity from a composition standpoint, and structuring the scenes in a way that would make good use of the sets and art that goes into them. 

  What do you think separates PILI’s puppetry from something more traditionally Japanese, like Bunraku? Why do you think Thunderbolt Fantasy is best told through PILI’s puppetry?

  I'd say a big distinction between PILI's glove puppetry and other traditional arts is their dedication to staying on the cutting edge of entertainment and the way they aggressively pursue new methods of expression that help revolutionize what they're doing. 

  What did you learn most as someone with more of an animation background making something that utilizes puppetry? How was it working with various cast and staff members with anime backgrounds on this title?

  Working on this show has painted a crystal clear picture of how creative passion is something that defies formats and genres. Working on a project that crosses the boundaries of language and tradition has been very personally stimulating and motivating. I was also really pleased to see people who normally work semi-exclusively in anime enjoy the challenge of trying something new, and seeing how they adapted to it. 

    How has COVID-19 impacted production during Thunderbolt Fantasy Season 3?

  Most of the shooting for Season 3 was completed before the pandemic grew to be quite so severe, so other than the voice-over recording sessions in Japan, there wasn't much of an impact. Honestly, there were other issues that came up when it was time for the season to premier that are still a problem at this point. 

  How far out did you plan the Thunderbolt Fantasy story when you were initially writing it at the beginning?

  For the most part, I knew what I wanted to do with Season 1 and 2 while I was writing them. It wasn't until Season 3 that I started thinking about things in the broader, long-term sense. 

    How did you get TM Revolution to voice a continuous main character through a movie and two seasons?

  We made the offer not expecting it to be accepted, but it was. We were very lucky that our timing coincided with a period where Nishikawa-san had started pursuing more acting roles on stage and TV.

  Shang Bu Huan and Lin Xue Ya’s relationship is a major force in the series. What do you think is most interesting about how they interact?

  The thing about the two of them is that they're polar opposites, but have complete faith in each others’ abilities, and often have mutually beneficial aims that leads to them fighting on the same side. That gives their relationship a tension that wouldn't be found in a friendship, which helps make the story more exciting. 

    You have some big projects coming up. Is there anything fans can expect in the near future?

  I've met a lot of new people and there have been changes around me lately that have reinvigorated me a bit. The different projects all progress differently, though, so I'm not sure what's going to be announced first. One thing I can say is that all of them are taking the international market into consideration during the planning phase. 

  Do you have any messages for worldwide fans of Thunderbolt Fantasy or your other works?  

  I feel as if, during the course of the Thunderbolt Fantasy Project, my journey as a creator has reached a certain turning point. It's my intention to use this renewed outlook to bring new stories to everyone, soon. I hope you'll look forward to it.

  ©2016 Thunderbolt Fantasy Project

      Kyle Cardine is a Managing Editor for Crunchyroll. You can find his Twitter here.

By: Kyle Cardine

[frederator-studios]

Elise Simard is an animation director and homemade special effects expert with a style all her own. In the tradition of the avant-garde, her films don’t tell a single linear story; rather, they evoke the feelings of many stories, happening all at once, and all around us. Soon we’ll be able to experience her vision literally all around us, as she ventures into VR filmmaking. I hope you appreciate “Opening Hours” above, and her other films—“Breakfast” is the most introspective 2 minutes you’ll have all week. Elise has a wonderful ability to see the artistry in the ordinary, a knack that we can all aspire to. And beyond her talents, she’s a great person. Enjoy!

What can you tell us about ‘Opening Hours’?

It’s inspired by Jarry Park in Montreal; all the little lives that live and visit there. The park is big enough for many different energies to co-exist. It holds one of my favorite swimming pools in Montreal—I was inspired to explore what it’d be like if the pool had an occult, mysterious power. The goal was to open these different pockets of atmospheres, bringing people from one place to another without a traditional story.

Where did you study animation?

I went to Concordia University in Montreal to get a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts. I focused on design for two years, but fell in love with film animation, and began taking as many classes in it as I could. I was drawn into the animation program particularly because we were encouraged to be experimental. My first student film was even in 16mm!

Vintage! Why do you think animation was your calling?

I’ve always seen things from a cinematic angle, like viewing the world in shots and scenes. I’m excited by little things that inspire stories in me. At first, I was the atypical animation student in my class - I didn’t draw! It was only once I entered the program that I learned how to do so.

Whoa! So what'd you use to animate, before you had sweet drawing skills?

I used lots of cut-outs and raw materials - I still do! My first films, I drew on or around little pieces of tape and wood. I layered materials then photographed them, creating images just for the lens. And I played with how light draws out textures, which is still a focus in my work. With lighting, I can create a library of special effects, all self-generated.

What are some of your techniques?

There’s compositing, which lets me create my own computer graphics. And photographic compositing: exposing part of an image, covering it up, then exposing it again. Optical printing, as well. “Afloat at Dawn” demonstrates the effect of these techniques with lighting and texture. I shot on film for a long time before transitioning to digital.

What motivated that change from film to digital?

I grew curious about the potential of using new technologies to create. I actually just began a Master’s program for 3D animation a few months ago. I’m experimenting with VR especially. I’m still learning the basics, playing with the software and cameras.

That’s awesome. What do you imagine doing with VR?

I’m exploring its potential to create textures and luminous effects. I’m very excited about where it might go! I’m attracted to texture as a tool for storytelling, to evoke different emotional states. It’s difficult for me to describe exactly what I’m going for with VR… especially as I don’t yet know myself! It’s a new challenge.

Let’s talk motifs in your films, namely one: bears. What draws you to them?

Hmm, I’ve never really thought about that! They do show up quite a bit. I suppose because I prefer a subject barely moving at all, and very subtle movements. And I imagine bears as being very languid, so they inspire that kind of light motion for me. I suppose that’s why I’m drawn to them.

It’s funny, just yesterday I found the first thing that I ever animated in school: a bear walking! I’m doing tests on it in VR now, and it crackles, it’s so textured. It’s acetate, plastic, and the ink is 10 years old: chipped, yellowed, embedded with bits of dust. It’s a lovely discovery.

I love your ‘tiny musical’ “Breakfast”; what’s the story behind it?

I wrote the song in university. When I got the chance to spend two months at the Aberystwyth Arts Centre in Wales making a film, I had to choose a project very quickly. So I decided to record the song, with the lovely Clara Ortiz Marier singing. The film stemmed from the song. It was lightweight animation—everything I needed to create the film was in my suitcase. 

Where does sound usually come into your process?

Sound is very important in my work. I usually start with sound, then fine tune it to what I see in my head. Process-wise, I’m drawn to technical challenges and using formal elements, like sound, to evoke feelings and moods. I try to be as intuitive as possible in the way that I sculpt story.

Your work is avant-garde; what are your thoughts on narratives?

I’m so bored when I’m locked into a narrative! I use it as a starting point. For example, “Beautiful Like Elsewhere” is a scifi film, written with a clear narrative. But in creating the film, I backed up—I wanted to evoke a sense that you are viewing this story from another dimension. A more lyrical, visceral experience. Part of that is editing from the gut, rather than editing to a script.

How did your fascination with lighting come about?

As a child I played with mirrors a lot. I loved seeing how light reflected off of them, and how it changed when I altered the angle or amount. I would sit with mirrors in dark closets, experimenting. My Grandma had crystals - a whole basket of them - and I’d shine light through them to reflect on the walls. I suppose it makes sense that I’ve become an artist now! Although for the longest time, I was considering paths deemed more ‘practical’.

Was your family skeptical when you chose to study art?

My mother actually told me to do it. I didn’t care for what I was pursuing, and one day she said to me, “You know, art is what you love to do. Not everything needs to be hard. Why don’t you study it?” I’m lucky; my family was always encouraging.

Do you have a favorite among your films?

My latest film is always my favorite. So right now, it’s “Beautiful Like Elsewhere”.

As part of the NFB, you collaborate with other filmmakers often. How is that experience?

Yes, I’ve worked for other artists a lot, and I’ve been very fortunate—everyone that I’ve worked with has been open to my ideas and creations. And they’ve opened up their processes to me. I’ve learned from everyone with whom I’ve collaborated.

Who are your biggest inspirations?

Lately, I’ve been inspired by the book Thought-Forms by Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater; it was created at the turn of the 20th century, and inspired the making of this magical bum. I’m very interested in transforming sex into lyrical and immersive forms right now, and this is part of a 3D experiment I’m currently undertaking.

I deeply admire Agnes Varda; her warmth, presence, and audacity are so inspiring. Even more so now that I am entering this new and wide open field of VR and emerging tech. There are qualities of her work that I’d love to see translated into VR. I’m not sure how it all relates yet, but I’m keeping an open mind.

Thank you for sharing your work with me Elise! Best of luck on all of your projects. I can’t wait to see where your VR ventures take you, and the medium as a whole. It’s good to know there are artists ensuring that it won’t just be “a toy” after all!

- Cooper

[jmrsullivan-blog]

SHE OF THE SEA

A short story about an otherwise land with no cat pirates, especially not female ones.

SHE OF THE SEA 

For Aimee Charlotte Brown

On almost Christmas 2017

By J.M.R.Sullivan

Cats hate sailing. Most cats spend their entire lives avoiding the wretched wet and, generally, nobody wants to be a sailor. Sailing is regarded so poorly in the Purisian Confederacy that their navy is almost entirely made up of prisoners and convicted felons. The number is so large that there are entire fleets of penal ships, though state of the art they may be, few of them actively do anything. It was an inherently cultural problem. For the average Volunteer Pursian sailor’s status was so low, that he was likely only to be preened after a Binwhisker or Littersniff. The Purisian Navy was a prestige project, staffed by the unwilling, and in retrospect; what is truly shocking is the inevitability of the tale i am about to unfurl.

Sailing however, is not to be confused with the act of piracy, or rather, the occupation of being a Pirate. A cat who sails for the nation is a wet slave and a sad whiskers, but a cat who sails for himself braves the wretched wet for great reward. To him gravitates a most persuasive romance of daring avarisitc adventure and exotic encounter. Very few cats do become pirates, their natural loathing of the sea deterring but the most irregular, but those who have often become notoriously followed, and perversely admired. A person more regularly immersed in a life at sea might hogwash all these charming fantasies. Indeed, a more regularly immersed person may tell you that for the majority, a buccaneer’s lot is brutality from without and within, his poverty, and very often his death. Regardless to the truth of these perspectives, one thing is consistent, it is “he”.

There are no female cat pirates. Mathematics would dispute this, but cats haven't much time for mathematics. For a Prince* to harness his inner conflicts and unleash them on an unfair world in witticisms and well choreographed swordplay, was perfectly believable, even perversely covetable. But for a Princess to rush so headstrong after treasure, to risk her constitution and beauty, to pursue what could be so easily provided by an admirer, and worst of all, to do so in such proximity to vast amounts of water, was frankly, unthinkable.

But this was all about to change…

*Technically all cats are titled Prince and Princess. This stems from both a pragmatic need to prevent petty quarrelling, and a deep rooted obnoxious pride that instills in them the belief that all Cats are inherently royal creatures. This mixture of arrogance and etiquette created an insufferable, occasionally ridiculous, but sustainable society.

My story begins in my humble island parish. As a noble seeking a simpler life I had taken post on the small port refuge of Saltskerry. Here our island served as a way-station off the north coast of Purisia for the many trout and tuna miners, venturing out to barren northern iceflows. Once there, they would besiege the most gargantuan of icebergs, lay their charges and swing their pics, and liberate the silver trapped within. These ships would return to port bloated with their fishy fortune and after many weeks of labour their crews would disembark upon Saltskerry to trade their newfound silver for gold, and their newfound gold for flesh.

As a man of the creed I discouraged these more illicit activities, and the cohort of gangsters and thuggies that surrounded them. But, I would refuse none my spiritual stewardship, be they miner, cohort or even pirate. All, in time, became the same. and all would be returned to the hand of the keeper. life was hard enough for the people here, few grew to age and fewer saw bounty. It was not my place to judge the many names that would become etched on the beams of the parish.

The trouble began one dawn in August. A most terrible storm had raged the night before, howling and thrashing throughout the night. Vengeful, massive and reported as far as the Lapin coast, It had whipped at our little island all night and away in the distance i could hear the frantic scrabble of man against nature, as so many crews tried to secure their restless and invigorated ships. I, unconcerned with such matters, lay tucked in my Hutching until a great crash startled me from my housing. Unsure of my spectacles and composure I hurried half robed into the hall where I would meet her.

“Do you speak fer keeper, sir?”

Silhouetted in my splintered doorframe lent a soaking wretch. Her female form betrayed by sodden clothes that clung and ran with water. A face scarred with trials, And a most ruined long wig.

“Your long ears, do they work, Myaa?”

As my poor eyes awakened, I took in the distinct pragmatic attire of a buccaneer, complete with sword, belt and now surely ruined pistols. Her high slurred meow proof of breeding as the lowest variety of alleyscratch.

“Yes, madam, I am the father here…” blurted I. “But i assure you,we have no gold to plunder.” Composure finally bleeding back into my character. “Be … be about your way now and we shall forgive the vandalism as rot and strong wind.” I Completed, surprising myself.

A purse was slung into my chest, which i caught ungraciously.

“Oh no sir, Not gold i’m after. Gold will not solve this, Myaa.”

The knave in my nave lurched further, i could now begin to make out her expression. And i saw a desperate invigorating fear. Her eyes, wild and sharp. The fear of someone who had seen death, but was determined not to become acquainted.

“I don’t understand”

“I seek divine protections sir. Upon reception of ‘string of bad luck, I concede, finally, for some holy securities. An exercise in blessed protections. Big year ahead.”

She liberated another purse from her sodden coat.

“When so nearly ruined, when t‘sea tries ‘take it all, worth of things, worth of things aint the same after.” She weighed the pouch in her hand “Way I learn it, value of such varies like the tide, What a drowner wouldn’t wish for a desert, and what the richest thirsty sultan wouldn't wish for a sea.”

“You cant drink sea-water” I responded instinctively, before remembering my mortality in this company.

“Ha, Indeed!” she conceded, winking.“‘self a lesson for another time…”

“So, This big bag a’ gold for ‘tever ward or sacrament will keep keepers hand keen to me interest. Myaa?”

I eyed the jingling bulge for a moment, a moment not lost on my guest. My covetous peep prompting an expansive wet grin that saw my aspirations, of what good could be done with such a sum.

“Alas madam, I have no such trinkets. Nay, do i think any exist outside the stalls of shamsters and quacks.”

She deflated into a pew with a squelch.

“You certain?” she enquired, crestfallen. “You ain’t sat on some tellin’ of a long lost relic of Keepers kindness made manifest?”

“No miss.” My tone softening at her despondency “ if we’ve got any of those, they haven't told me. We could probably use one, out here.”

“Myoh.” She relented, mournfully.

“But, If you repent of your wickedness and that of your crew, then surely i can bless you? That's something?” I encouraged.

She stirred not.

“Do you repent of your wickednesses and that of your crew?”

“Their debts are now paid.”

“Paid..? By who’s account?”

“On account ‘them bein’ dead sir, wrecked upon the rocks yonder.”

This shook the fog from my head, as i realised the reason for her state.

“A wreck!? should we not send help? We can assemble a posse...”

She waved the notion away “No bother, all dead, to a man.”

She reached to doff her cap but it were missing. “A good crew they was too. Definitely a setback.”

I rummaged for a towel for the sopping criminal now in my hospitality. Which she rejected; “Got Wet bones sir, ain’t no bother for me.”

“Then Should we not at least perform some kind of service, for the perished?” I proposed.

Her haggard face turned to me and a light of appreciation glimmered “A kind gesture father…” expression hardening... “But I canne’ stay.”

“So you were a pirate captain?”

She straightened her back and lifted her chin “Captain? I’m Keepers-own pirate Queen! Myaa.”

“I didn't know pirates had queens?”

Her manner dropped conspiratorially,

“In my experience father, What a pirate can and can’t ‘ave is limited only by ability.”

“Well... Your Majesty... do you repent of your wickednesses and pledge yourself to Keepers hand?”

“Not on your life, I’m a careerist” she paused in thought. “And I don’t see how it squares wit’ hangman neither.”

“Maybe not square with this law, but that of the next.”

“Nah, you’ll bless me, just as you would any other wicked monarch.”

“I shan’t”

“You bloody shall, Myaa.” Her hand slipping from her lap to her hilt like magic.

I took a step back

“I shan’t bless you madam, I will admonish pirates, bury pirates, I think i’ve even officiated a pirate wedding once, But i cannot ask of the keeper to favour someone so unrepentant.”

“That So?” Her eyes narrowed defiantly, but her focus snapped off, and her brow furrowed.

I leaned in to the pause...

“Fair ‘nuff” She conceded, popping to her feet and surprising me into instinctive recoil. “A good captain don’t fight ‘tide! Thank You, Father.”

She strode out of my church, wringing out big strands of her wig as she went. I scurried in pursuit to the doorway.

“Who are you, madam?” I called to the retreating figure.

“She of the Sea, Queen of Pirates, and a pleasure it was to meet you, father…?”

“Von Hopp… err.. Your Majesty?”

“Ha! Very good! Myaa.” And she marched down the path, closing my little gate behind her.

As she fled into the growing daylight I gathered the wreckage of the door, mopped the flagstones of evidence of my visitor and, after having had breakfast, ventured down to the town to inform the constable. A militia rapidly formed (more for want of bounty on “pirate royalty” than civic duty) but despite their enthusiasm, no trace of She of the Sea could be found. She had slipped away like a serpent amongst the bustling sailors, Each too rough, disinterested or preoccupied to recollect her presence at the port. And each too intelligent to betray “pirate royalty” in their own line of work.

We then headed down to the rocks beneath the parish and sure enough, the fleeting remnants of a wreck were scattered amongst the shingle, but so savage must have been the the storm upon that ship that no bodies could be found, and any of the vessel present, nought but matchwood. I held a little service with whatever recognisable items i could find upon the beach and lit some candles as the sun began to set. The sea on the horizon became quite calm, and i retired early after a very long day.

Worried of a repeat visit, I had the constable stay with me for a week or so after the incident. He was a portly hamster, more interested in a smooth running island than adherence to the letter of the law. A good enough sort for a such a questionable refuge, to be sure, but he well understood the value of a blind eye, and the community prevailed on the understanding that most misdemeanors would sort themselves out amongst affected parties. Noone benefited from excessive pioty and the boat was best not rocked. When her patronage did not repeat, I returned to my routine as I had the ten or so years prior. I tended the faithful, Kindly proslatised the rutters and vagrants, and admonished the dead. In this way, life continued until about six months later, when I received an interesting Invitation.

Though I have become a humble clergyman in occupation, my heritage of royalty created certain obligations, both mine and otherwise, to the other nobles in the Kingdoms. As a result of this, I received an invitation to the Ceremony of Vantages, A Purisian royal affair acting as the culmination of a years politicking and intrigue. Officially, all Purisian royalty occupies the same rank, but some sit higher than others in the great room of pillars, and this positioning will dictate the influence for the coming year. All Cats are Princes, yes, but a formally informal King is certainly implied as a result of this meeting, and all Royals from within and without are invited to witness this, and assumedly admire the feline decadence displayed.

And so, Duty calling, I packed my Finarries and prepared for the three day voyage that would take me to the northern border of the Purisian Confederacy. From here i would travel down the river Mog to the the Purisian Capital, Clowder. Here the Oppulance and wealth of the Confederacy was in full display, and in keeping with the Purisian character, it’s citizens pretended not to notice. I had always had a degree of polite Contempt for the Purisian Confederacy. I found its overbearing deliberate indifference to it’s wealth and splendor progressively tiring. Indeed, a societal smugness to their success permeated the citizenry from the highest pride to the lowest bumsniff. and of course, the curious omittance and subversion of the source of this wealth, a shame of which i shall not speak of here, alienated many modern minds in the know, of the cost of all these feasts and banners.

As a Lapin royal I was allocated a seat with other Laputians on the lower circle. Our showing was meagre as Lapin was quite removed from Purisian influence. Clearly few of my brothers felt the need to endure the boredom. The Ceremony of Vantages is a very drawn out affair. Purisian royalty would mingle their way around the gantries and pillars subtly and seemingly obliviously, moving into their formally informally preordained positions. The results of months of backbiting, conspiracy and political intrigue. Occasionally there would be awkward pauses as cats, determined to perhaps climb another rung on the societal ladder, would at the last second jockey, sometimes even discretely scuffle for a slightly higher pillar. By the end, a new hierarchy would be determined, and a formally informal king (or queen) would sit highest amongst the court.

Or so it should have been. About two hours into the ceremony, as the lower pillars had reluctantly filled, and the remaining aristocracy politely fraternised to increasing altitude, my eyes finally closed. My head lolled starboard to the already sedate shoulder of Count Hessen von Burrow and everything should have been as it had been the last ten times before. But a very familiar crash provided a welcome intermission.

Striding beyond a broken door into the centre of the hall disrobed a familiar figure. A Purisian royal, slowly discarding her finaries, revealing a rogue beneath. With a long splendid wig and fabulous Bicorne stood She of the Sea, clapping defiantly amongst the discretely squabbling aristocracy. Her sarcastic applause echoed until it held monopoly on the acoustics.

“G’devenin, Sirs…. Madams….” She ventured into the bewildered silence. “Sorry for my questionable punctuality, Myaa.”

A butler type feline rushed forward from the stands to intercept but was swiftly deflected, spiralling behind as she paced the room.

“I did find myself without invitation, making me sneak in here like a draft, such lack of good manners unbefitting such noble nobles, such poor treatment of a fellow Queen.. ”

This statement peaked interest, and the slowly incircling guards held fast.

“Who the devil are you? Meow!” Questioned an anonymous voice.

“By what breeding do you back your claim, Mew?” called another.

“Plenty breeding ma’am...your Da for one, Myaa!”

This retort caused such an audible intake of breath some of candles went out. One or two more delicate minds feinted, and A ripple of delight spread amongst the foreign dignitaries, who had until this point been counting seconds to the feast.

“Queen...Queen of where? Madam, Myow”

“I am She of the Sea. Queen of Pirates!”

This broke the hall into thunderous laughter. Jeering enchoed around the walls as the lords and ladies defied the very notion of such a thing. The six court guards, halberds lowered, needed no further prompting to interject and sprung forth to cut down the vagrant. Alas, each of them came off neutered of their ears. She of the Sea’s cutlass carving each without effort, leaving five of six assailants yowling and bloodied grasping at their ruined heads. The sixth, recalculating his odds, turned and fled for help. Where he was met by two other guards arriving in a doorway, These reinforcements then blunty hacked him down. Indeed, Around the room guards appeared in every doorway, and though in splendid uniform of palace guards, their faces and races betrayed them as imposters, Imposters eagerly anticipating insubordination from the royals.

The Jeering and Yowling petered out at this display of force and intent. The hall fell silent but for the whimpering of the deafened guardsman.

“So, ‘eres t’scratch.” declared the pirate queen. “Things ‘ere are gonna change.”

At this statement all the cats began to look away. Their eyes wide, but staring into space. Not one face engaged with She of the Sea as she paced the room. It was if they were all desperately trying to pretend she wasn’t there.

“See, my title were earned, grafted, what have you tubbards done Myaa? all this sitting on high chairs and constant posturing. While i’ve been out, earnin’ crust, earnin’ respect.”

Silence, but for pacing boots upon the marble.

“Is that fair Sirs? Ladies? I’m doin’ all t’work, risking my tail, and I’m one storm away from t’grave, one shiv away from ‘grave, one dodgy boarding away from ‘grave.”

The audience shifted uncomfortably on their podiums.

“I feel you take your place for granted, Sirs, ladies. Powers made yuh lazy Myaa. I’d say you’re all so comfy you forget yourselves. You’d forget ‘world outsides not all feasts and fussing, Forget some old mog might strole in here and take it all. You’re all Stupid..

Their eyebrows raised.

“... fat…”

Eyebrows raised further, eyes staring furiously at nothing.

“.., and pretty.”

Some conciliatory nods.

“Nuts to that lads.”

The doormen jeered agreement. She of the Sea grinning victoriously at the assembly.

“So heres the deal, in one hundred and sevenee seven days, i’ll be back to marry ‘king Myaa.”

Confusion rippled throughout the hall as she took a conciliatory tone.

“Now Sirs ‘n Ladies, I dont care who it is, that’s your discression. But believe me, I’ll be back in six months, and you make no mistake chummers, I’ll be queen if i have to bugger whichever fairy twat you choose myself.”

Murmurs of outrage trickled around as the Aristocrats could no longer ignore such a proposition.

“Never, Meow!” came a voice

“Scruffer!, Myow” Came another.

As the discontent bubbled, she stood strong as it washed over her. She breathed it deep, like an invigorating lung of sea air, unperturbed.

“That’s t’spirit Myaa. Just remember, one hundred and sevenee seven days, to marry whichever of you fluffed ponces wants to be king.”

She turned, as if to leave, then paused.

“Oh! One more thing, Sirs, Ladies. Since i want you to know im serious, and committed to this... I think a Diet, is in order.”

Outrage. Yowling. Once dignified nobility arched their backs in hate, spitting fury at their unwelcome guest. She nodded like a pantomime villain as the gantries became a furious tantrum.

“Whole confed is gonna cut back on the silver. Now, don’t worry fatties, I’ll remove every scrap of temptation, the whole confed is gonna be trim as a tart for my wedding. Not a fish in the village, as they say, make you all lean ‘n sexy.”

One particular noble, a plump mustachioed cat, chest swollen with medals, lent foremost and put comprehension to the furore.

“This, Meow! Is an Outrage! Meow! What makes you think you can bloodywell come here, Meow! And threaten Diet! Meow! And not have us cut your scruffing head off the second you step out that door! Meow!”

Enjoying every moment of this rich theatre, she paused, and mocked contemplation.

“Well Sir, ‘cause you gone and built a bloody tunnel under yur’ chambers now, didn't ya?”

Tapping thrice upon the marble floor, a great cacophony of smoke erupted from the tiling. As masonry crumbled away into the darkness below, a merriment of cackling sung from the breech, Heinous perverse voices raucous in their miscreancy. The guards on the exits skipped and ran down to their escape, slapping and taunting the audience as they went. And as she stepped into the black below and bid farewell, I thought she a demon returning to hell.

The country was in uproar. Three heads of police became sans in both position and body. The Purisian Press, regarded by even the ruling classes as distinctly sycophantic, roused the proles into uproar. An interruption of the Vantage Ceremony! A declaration of intent to marry! A threat of mandatory Diet?! By a (hitherto impossible) Female Pirate Queen?!! Outrageous!

Impossible!

Revenge!

Murder!

Death!

A little green mouse may as well have floated down from the moon and shat on every cat's nose.

I shall admit, much like other foreign royals, I struggled to maintain discretion in finding the whole scenario deeply amusing. After the immediate threat had passed, of course. The Purisian Confederacy had a very maintained image, and it was fun to see their tree shaken. Not so however for the rulers. Most of whom took it in the height of seriousness. For after all, one of them would be force to wed the Seafairing Bint.

Reserves were mobilised. Prisoners who had until now, languished in warm dry misery, were shipped in their hundred to docks where they languished in cold wet misery. Admirals, Some of whom’s closest interaction with a boat was a vessel for gravy, were suited and booted and marched off to their fleets. The Navy’s orders were simple, blow that pirate out of the water, make her demise so unpleasant and humiliating that the only time the incident at the ceremony will be remembered would be as prelude to a foreboding parable of rue and gruesome woe.

Due to the massive scale of the reaction, the Confederacy became content that victory was inevitable and everything largely went back to normal. The Navy was massively mobilised, and patrolled the northern sea for pirates of all shapes and sizes, at one stage it was said that there were so many ships active in the northern sea, that one could travel in any direction for 300 miles and still be in view of a Confederate ensign.

As I travelled home, it nibbled at the back of my mind. The force of character it must have taken to survive a wreck in such a storm, to breach THE royal gathering, to dictate to some of the most powerful furs on earth, and to escape with no much as a nip was a truly incredible feat. But the game was over now surely, the element of surprise was lost, and the Confederate Navy now eager and mobile, scouring the ocean for anything resembling an upstart cat in a blonde wig.

For the first month or so nothing much happened. The Navy’s alertness gradually wayned at the lack of action and the atmosphere of outrage subsided. She of the Sea was an empty threat.

Until the mysterious disappearance of the the Trout Mining Ship Mr Snuggles.

Then, Princess did not return, Then Colin. Max, Tiger, Fluffy. Whiskers, Tyko. In the Month of June, thirteen ships of one hundred returned, or returned with haul.

Fish prices sored. The rivers and shores (as close to water as most Purisians hoped to get) were fished bare. Rationing was introduced, and then almost immediately subsided as there were no stocks to supplement ration cards. Worse yet, the hugely expanded Navy, mostly made of aforementioned prisoners and penal sailors, began to starve. Particularly vicious mutinies began as some of the ships turned to piracy themselves to survive. It was an absolute disaster for the Purisian Government and many citizens, too tired to riot, became uncharacteristically lean.

The Descriptions of the assailing ship were all alike. A black fog would manifest out of the blue and a giant metal bottle would emerge from the unholy mist. Along it’s spine protruded great lacerating fins, and at its prow, a crowned and ghastly Jolly Roger. The Metal vessel would circle the victim, and the crew would panic and man battle stations, those ships with armaments would fire them upon the predator and amazingly cause it to flee, apparently disappearing into its smog. Then the prey ship would contort with an unheavenly wooden rip. A splintery tear would echo off the iceflows as the keel was brutally dissected, rupturing the hold and its contents and splitting the ship in half like an egg. For most at this point, their fate was sealed. Certain death waited any who so much as dipped in the northern water, and most ships could not survive such terrible damage to their underlying structure. The only survivors who had made it back, were those who had somehow survived their first attack and ran for the hills, or had been picked up in patrolling Navy ships.

Navy ships had taken losses too, in much a similar fashion, though their losses were more sporadic as the assailants attention seemed focussed on the miners. The Navy, on paper the most powerful in the northern Biosphere, had completely collapsed, Those ships who hadn't deserted or been destroyed, retreated to large, escorts for individual miners, demoralised at the ineffectiveness of their conventional weapons on this new foe. Most Mining companies with any sense, had decided to wait out the wedding, and hope that the Pirates deadly blockade would be lifted after her point had been made.

Public pressure began to heavily harrow the aristocracy. Many were now welcoming their previously medically impossible pirate queen. The palace resisted, its official line being “The Purisian People would rather eat paint than perch under a Pirate, especially a lady pirate, especially a lady pirate in a terrible wig.” But these brave attempts at resistance were now becoming drowned out by the rumbling of hungry bellies.

Many speculated who the “lucky” prince would be. Before this crisis, the formally informal high prince was a well bred, charismatic and intelligent Feline by the name of Machiavelli. But lately, he had had a cough, and his presence at court had become much diminished. Many, in suspicious correlation with the fish famine and incoming deadline had come down with mysterious ailments. Count Thomas, one of the most affluent and influential patricians at court, had come down with a sore leg. Prince Sooty, a well bred intellectual and poetic genius had “the sneezes”.

This pseudo abdication of these movers and shakers had created something of an aristocratic goldrush amongst the high born B team. A new cream emerged from the cheese of the high sitting, and ahead of the pack, mainly by virtue of oblivious good health was Lord, Sir. Percy Fennimore of Tumbletum. Lord Percy had generally advanced up the ranks of vantage by being well bred, amiable and cooperative. Considered by some, too dumb to offend, now this opportunity of leadership had thrust itself upon him, and being a good cat, he had impaled himself upon it.

Many of the more devious felines had suggested an ambush during the wedding. Should she arrive, she would be seized and executed, and they could all go back to not being so horribly humiliated. However, as the date drew ever closer, the court received a letter in black envelope, with a seal of melted gold, delivered by hand, by a former captive of a thought-lost mining vessel. The poor fellow reportedly dressed in the rags of his uniform, and quite the worse for his capture. The letter contained, aside from a few fish bones, the names of over three thousand captured maritime crew, both navy and merchantile, who would be executed should she not return. The messenger confirmed these numbers, and spoke of the eagerness with which their captors enforced discipline upon them. Still, many of the high born dubbed this an “affordable loss”. But enough of the captured were related to the higher sat, that this course of action was ultimately suspended.

As the 8th approached, everyone in the confederacy and surrounding territories was on the edge of their seats. Could the confederacy turn into a pirate nation? Would She of the Sea even turn up? Was it all a ruse to plunder the treasury? I was about to discover that my proximity to the affair was to greatly decrease. For on the Monday morning, as i woke and opened my door to collect the milk and eggs of breakfast, A mute in jet black buccaneers garb awaited me. At my surprise and questioning he only offered a black envelope, and once given and in my hands. Turned and marched off down the path.

As i watched the figure retreat,  in similar fashion i had so many months before, I took in the sigil on the golden seal. It was a horrid imprint of a skull upon what appeared to be a confederate guinea. With some effort i broke it, revealing the letter within.

“Dear Rupert Von Hopp

I hereby invite you to ordain my wedding between {this space was blank} and myself.

The wedding will occur on the 8th of August at the Palace of Vantages in Clowder.

Bring whatever religious officialdom you deem necessary.

Participation in mandatory.

Do not be late.

Regards - Her Royal Highness, Queen of Pirates, She of the Sea.”

+++

As the 8th of August dawned it did not dawn. A massive storm that raged throughout the day put the sun into hiding with oppressive black clouds that stretched in every direction. The entire country was buffeted by tree snapping winds and impossible seas. A most foreboding atmosphere as a poetic prelude to the events to come.

The hall of vantages had been refitted now to accommodate the ceremony. Half of the giant octagonal hall was flat as was before, but now a giant staircase that covered half the space stretched up to the ceiling, topped with a platform, where the royal ornaments of marriage were located. Two thrones awaited married bottoms. A podium with my prepared notes sat infront of this and by its side, the murine wand, a golden baton and, constrained by rope, gold mock rodent, to complete the service.

The attendees sat either side of the stairs, creating an aisle up the centre, and fine perfumes wafted about in abundance, presumedly in preemption for the odours that would shortly be joining them. Nobody looked happy.

The storm raged outside the palace, windows shaking in their frames against the blackened furious weather. The river Mog, frothing and spluttering forth great waves of froth and foam upon the undefended promenade. A great wind encircled the forlorn ceremony, a reminder of how the Confederacy had been (soon to be literally) brought to one knee by She of the Sea. As the Congregation waited, I went over my notes again and snuck a shot of brandy from a hidden flask to steel my nerves. A glance at Percy prompted my charity and i slipped him the bottle, which he chugged.

As we waited in silence, punctuated only by the woeful weather outside, the distant whine of strings could be detected. Indeed, it grew on the edge of our perception until it became a tune upon the wind. It grew louder and more distinct, with familiar melody, and as the main doors opened, we knew it had begun. The musicians led the parade, a trio of fiddling loons entered the hall playing the national anthem. As they hopped and skipped, whooping in glee, the congregation, unsure at whether this gesture was patronage or insult, awkwardly shifted between respect and disgust. Behind the fiddlers came the flower mice, plucking their flowers and discarding them, somewhat aggressively into the faces of the onlooking guests. The procession advancing up the steep stairs. A guard of honour six thugs wide and thirteen scoundrels deep paraded in their nonuniform uniform. Bristling with swords and sabers, guns varying in crudeness, every type of thuggish visage imaginable, and each, to a man, a giant.

But the worst was yet to come.

Behind this terrible vanguard strode She of the Sea, And in her crass humour, clad in a dress stitched of stolen ensigns from the multitude of Purisian Vessels lost prior. A train of colours that stretched several meters, carried in shackles by wretched visions of former officers, obviously captured as prizes for this disgraceful parade.

I cannot pretend that I had not, up unto this point, taken a certain degree of enjoyment from the suffering of the Confederate court. The Purisians had always been proud, and arrogant, and to see them laid so low had been a long time coming, to say nothing of the reckoning that would be for the great unnamed shame we shall not speak of here. But this depraved display of vulgarity so deeply disturbed me that it was as if the levity of the situation was sucked from me like a breech into vacuum, like a rude awakening from a dream.

She escalated the stairs to where Lord Percy and myself were waiting. Her distasteful dress aside, Her wig flowed all the way down to her thighs and her scars were painted with a variety of powders and chemicals to hide the disfigurements bestowed by her business. Percy had begun to sweat profusely, his previously cavalier attitude withered and sullen in the face of this new ascending reality. At the head of the stairs she joined us, and presented him with a most sarcastic curtsy.

“G’devenin Sirs.” she snarked “My arent you boys looking trim.”

She wasn't wrong. Many of the Cats in attendance were draped in their robes. Percy had lost so much weight his finaries looked like a tent.

She waited with a shark smile for a few moments, which dropped as she nodded for him to get on with it.

“Oh. Oh’m yes, meow!” Percy Stammered, grasping at pockets about his robes “Will, uh, you, Miss, She of the Sea… Marry me?”

“Why my lords!” she turned to the gathered congregation “What a surprise!”

Her faux humility suddenly shattered as a huge flash of lightning and accompanying thunder rang out about the palace.

“Yes, proceed.” she nodded, anxiously. Outwardly dominant but i could tell that this weather, through perhaps an instinctive fear of the storm, or something other, was pressing on her wits.

Rain, sheeted across the glass panel ceiling, the patter so loud that I had to raise my voice to be heard. As I read the opening statements of matrimony i noticed her face growing in anticipation, she became tense and would continuously glance at the windows and the storm. The Feline royalty did pick up on this, and craned to see her growing nervousness.

More thunder, more rain. The wind shook the paynes so hard that I thought at any moment they would fall lose from their fixtures. The thugs, so stern on entry began to shift in their formation, some subtlety reached for their arms, others sunk inside their posture, as if willing the storms eyre to pass over them.

By the point of the vows, the Pirate Queen had lost all pretense of levity. Her hand spun spurring me to rush the service, and Percy was scolded in hisses for fluffing his lines more than once. As i continued to rush through the vows i misplaced a prompt. As I hesitated and scrabbled amongst the notes of the podium I felt her gaze intensify upon me. But the absence of my voice against the storm left it dominant of sound in the acoustics of the hall. The wind began to strangely pattern, in, and out, the panes, vibrating like a death rattle with every rhythmic gust. Spotting my illusive note, i stooped to pick it up beneath the podium and here we all paused to hear the supernatural voice upon the wind. The winds wheezed words; a name, called over and over.

~Fell~Grass~

~FELL~GRASS~

The pirates began to mutter between eachother.

“Stand firm, you dogs!” she turned and bellowed to the troop.

“Father, look lively! Myaa!” leaning in and nodding, wild eyed.

~FELL~GRASS~

I was tempted to stall here, to probe at what was so frightening to this, herself, intimidating woman. But this weather, this voice was becoming a little rich for my blood. I galloped through the remaining statements, prompting Percy through his promises and I dos.

~FELL~GRASS~

“Speak now, or forever hold thy peace?” I ventured. The Pirate Queen reared up and stared down the congregation, mania in her eyes and hand on her hilt, should anyone dare to scupper the service. Her anxiety beginning to bleed into the crowd, all of whom began to huddle together.

“having witnessed your vows of love to one another, it is my joy to present you to all gathered here as…”

A loud patter of water stole everyones attention to the rear of the hall. There the ten foot palace doors, barred shut, dribbled water lazily into the atrium. A rush of water, like a tide, could be heard again to slosh against the wood, causing a heinous creeking and again a spill of water through the central seam.

~FELL~GRASS~

~creaaaaaaaaak~

~FELL~GRASS~

~CREAAAAAAAAAK~

The loons began to whoop and bounce, fiddling wildly. The flower mice had slipped away. She of the Sea turned and slammed the podium.

“COME ON!”

~CRASHHHHHHHHHHH~

A great tide of water broke open the doors and swept into the hall, lapping against the stairs. The vacuum of the hall pierced, a great wind swept up the congregation, and the voice upon it, given tone and character, and malicious intent.

The Pirate vanguard began to panic. “He’s here!” one cried. “Keeper save us!” another. The terror in the faces of such brutes deeply perturbed the plush royalty who began to cower and scrabble to the corners of the room.

“FELLGRASS, DID YOU THINK YOU COULD FLEE BEYOND MY REACH?”

She of the Sea drew her sword.

“DID YOU THINK YOU SAFE ON LAND?”

The sword leveled at my nose

“Err… Husband and wife… “ I stammered, turning to Percy. Percy had completely frozen in fear, as he stared past his beloved and into the churning water below. A form, A figure, ascended the rising spray.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY JUSTICE.”

I shook him and he did not move. The Pirate Queen observing the coming nightmare gave me a motivating glance.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY CROWN.”

“You may now, fuss the bride…”

She practically pulled Percy’s tongue out from his mouth and rubbed it against her cheek. His eyes still transfixed on the horror below, now approaching the stairs. She turned to face the furious guest.

The figure began to take more accurate form, a combination of sea animals, barnacles, and other living sea detritus, formed by commune, the stature of an Octopus. An octopus that now strode toward the stairs.

The Pirates drew their weapons and held them at arms length, each trying to get behind the other infront of the unholy creature. Its composed swarm stood at the foot of the stairs, and its monstrous collage face looked up at the paniced corsairs.

“I AM OCTAVIAN, KING OF PIRATES, KNEEL OR FLEE.”

In a shower of discarded arms the pirates fled up the stairs for the exits. Each avoiding the gaze of their furious queen.

“Get back here, Cowards! I’ll gut you an’ all yur mams! Myaa!”

As she glared after the retreating pirates she eyed the guards of the palace, each themselves overtook with terror at the apparent magic in their presence.

“Get down there and defend your Queen!” She snapped.

The guards steeled themselves and formed line at the head of the stairs, Lowering their halberds, they cautiously descended towards the figure.

“WAS THIS YOUR PLAN FELLGRASS?” water swelling now in the atrium, his boot ascending the first stair.

“CAN’T FLEE, CAN’T HIDE, YOU GET SLAVES OF NATION TO FIGHT ME OFF? A SPINELESS LEADING SPINELESS!”

The guards advanced down the stairs toward the frothing indoor sea. Octavian, atleast six foot five stared each in turn, getting the measure of them. His face a swarm of sea creatures and dark water. He let out a most wicked laugh, and with one sweep of his arm, swept the six aside in a conjured wave. The cats, scrabbling and frantic in the magic surf, were assailed by grasping hands and sorrowed faces, which pulled and bit them down beneath the water.

“ARMIES OF LAND SHALL NOT QUELL ME.”

Another step upon the stairway. The glass panes in the roof, under tremendous weight from storm of water, began to fail, creating pillars of rain within the hall. In these pillars too could be seen the wicked woeful faces of the lost, and horrid wet hands grasped out at any nearby. The horror of this bringing many present guests to tears. The loons were in full hilarity now, some swinging from the fittings and cackled nonsense.

She of the Sea pushed percy aside and stood atop the stairs, sword drawn.

“I am Pirate Queen, Octavian!”

“YOU ARE NOT QUEEN FELLGRASS, YOU CANNOT STEAL WHAT CANT BE STOLEN, THE ONLY RULE THAT CANT BE BROKEN”

Another step, and a rusted cutlass drawn from inside his form.

“A KNIFE IN MY BACK AND DEEP SEA GRAVE, DID YOU THINK NATURE WOULD ALLOW IT!”

“DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T CURSE YOU!”

“DO YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I CATCH YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I STEAL THE CROWN YOU STOLE!”

The storm was now incredible, lighting striking the very palace, wind whipping around the hall tearing banners and candles free in a vortex of natures hate.

“PIRATE CODE IS SACRED, PIRATE KING IS SACRED, I CURSED YOU AS MY LUNGS FILLED, I CRIED OUT T’SEA TO GRANT ME VENGEANCE, AND NATURES GRACE LET ME HAVE MY VENGEACE.”

“I, She of the Sea, Queen of the Purisian Confederacy by law…” Glaring at me, I nodded.

“Do pardon you, Octavian, King of Pirates, of all crimes both maritime and otherwise.”

Octavian threw back his head and howled in laughter.

“HOW DESPERATE, HOW HUMILIATING.”

“WHAT FEAR OF LAW DOES NATURE HAVE? WHAT FEAR OF NOOSE DOES DEATH HAVE? PRAISE BE T’SEA, THAT LET ME HAVE SUCH SATISFYING A JUSTICE FOR KING AND CODE WRONGED!”

He continued his ascent, royals shrieked and cried in terror. I myself sheltered by the podium clutching the keepers hand around my neck. But She of the Sea, where before she had been so anxious, now stood defiant. She even sheathed her sword.

“King of whom?”

“OCTAVIAN, KING OF P…. KING OF PPIR…!”

“Yur a free man now Octavian, Ex-pirate, And your claims t’throne just expired.”

The face of the barnacled monster began to shift.

“Sea ain’t got no interest in ya now. Myaa.”

“NO!”

He staggared, his form deconstructing at its periphery. The creatures of his figure dropping back into the water.

“Sling yur hook ya dead bastard!”

“I AM KING!”

And atop the stairs she turned, grabbed the podium of my refuge, and above her head, slung it t’ward him. Exploding the jilted creature to scattered bilge and seaweed. As the storm fell away, and winds and waves retreated, all that remained of Octavian was Crabs and Cuttlefish.

Daylight shone through the ruined ceiling, clouds dissipated, birdsong began. She of the Sea looked about the place. The Royals still huddled and petrified, Percy stood motionless. and I stood unprotected at her mercy. She slung a purse once more at my chest. And without a word. Fled down the stairs and into the clearing weather.

It took about fifteen minutes for the assembly to regain composure. Percy, snapping out of his trance, Snatched my stash of brandy and ran. I, exhausted by excitement, took a seat upon the stairs and took in the gathering royals.

The Cats of court were all filled with newfound acceptance. Cuddling and rejoicing in their shared experience. Many openly forgave others with which they had quarrelled with for years. Many spoke of a brave new future in which they would all share and develop the nation, so that this kind of hideous witchcraft could never happen again. The conversation began to change to future plans, all voices excitedly talking over each other.

And as they did so the louder voices gained prominence. Machiavelli, who had been so quiet until this dialogue. Subtly ascended a stair to get better projection over the court. Count Thomas rose to counter his argument, slyly slipping another step on the staircase.

In one movement, all the cats of court surged to the top of the stairs, clambering and scrabbling over one another in lieu of the absent Percy. I took good measure to avoid the squabbling felines and watched them all try and reach heights above the rest on the flat platform, some making deals to boost each other in return for favour and gifts.

I left them to it.

That was many many years ago now. To this day i never saw her again, i still operate on Saltskell and the mining ships are largely unmolested by pirates. The Confederacy though shy at first, embraced the tale with gusto. She of the Sea is commemorated in doll and dish throughout the country. Percy didn't manage to retain power, as far as I know he is technically still king. Piracy is still with us, partly legacy to the large scale defection of the fish famine. But the vessel of the pirate queen has not been seen, though i do hear stories of it cropping up in raids on the southern biosphere.

But perhaps we shall meet one more time.

I write this memoir, as once more I have received black envelope with ghastly skull seal. A fleet of black ships sit on the horizon, each at half mast. I feel the final duty i must perform for her majesty, has already been ordained.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I'VE BEEN PONDERING YEARS

Galleries are not especially prone to waste money. But that prescription, though sufficient, is too narrow. Hence such parodies as Pets.1 The EU was designed partly to simulate a single, large domestic market.2 All you need from a launch is some initial core of users. But if ephemeralization is one of the most immediate evidence I had that something was amiss was that I couldn't talk to them. Microsoft will have a significant effect on our returns, and the rest are just a cost of doing business. So you start painting.

For users, Web-based applications, you'll find that delighting customers scales better than you expected.3 My hypothesis is that all the programmers have to be aggressive about user acquisition when you're small, you'll probably get something better. Google, and Facebook all got started.4 Stocks will generate greater returns over thirty years, you had to be pretty convincing to overcome this. If you want to keep an eye on things you've changed recently. People who majored in computer science generally tried to conceal it. The main significance of this type of profitability is that you're no longer at the mercy of investors. The other major technical advantage of Web-based startup is food and rent. A new concept of variables. The most common was some combination of a blog, a calendar, a dating site, and Friendster. It was a sign of an underlying lack of resourcefulness. Most startups fail.

He meant the Mac and its documentation and even packaging—such is the nature of platforms. In startups, developers are often forced to talk directly to users, whether they want to work on ideas that few beside them realize are good. When you interview a startup and think they seem likely to succeed than not.5 But I think that a lot of variation in the incoming stream, but instead of pursuing this thought they tended to suppress it, in the sense that all you have to do it, even print journalists.6 But the Collison brothers weren't going to wait. At the time there might have been. Maybe it's just because knowledge about them hasn't permeated our culture yet.7 The best thing would be if it were inherently stupid to invest in Microsoft. If you're ramen profitable this painful choice goes away.8

It's Parkinson's Law running in reverse. The problem with India itself is that it's still so poor. Grad school makes a good launch pad for startups, because you're only replacing one segment instead of discarding the whole thing.9 The worst thing is not the optimal time to do it was turn the sound into packets and ship it over the Internet. It seemed the perfect bad idea: a site 1 for a niche market 2 with no money 3 to do something called price discrimination, which means charging each customer as much as they used to. The number of users and the problem they solved was an urgent one. The fact that you can get at least someone to pay you, getting incorporated, raising money, but you can't expect to hit that right away. Values are what have types, not variables, and assigning or binding variables means copying pointers, not what they point to. But that is at least the next Chicago.10 There's selling, promotion, figuring out what those problems are.

It used to be aware of death to a degree that violates our expectations about variation. The test drive was the way to create wealth is to make more than you spend. But success has taken a lot of money.11 You can change anything about a house except where it is. It allows you to give an impressive-looking talk about nothing, and it may be just as likely to feel life was short if we lived 10 times as long?12 Any strategy that omits the effort—whether it's expecting a big launch to get you users, or a professional football player. And really it never was.

I asked some friends who work for big companies.13 You can be ornery when you're Scotty, but not so wrong about the underlying principle.14 Otherwise you'll have to make something people will pay for? Imagine how depressing the world would be if it were all like school and big companies, you'd need an impressive-looking talk about nothing, and it would be possible to reproduce Silicon Valley in Japan, because one of Silicon Valley's most distinctive features is immigration. Why don't more people do it? David Filo and Jerry Yang started the Yahoo directory in February 1994 and were getting a million hits a day by the fall, but they don't realize it.15 The traditional break everything and then filter out the uncommitted. They've spent 15-20 years solving problems other people have in their heads. The good news is, choosing problems is something that has a 90% chance of failing, if you don't solve all their problems. You can be ornery when you're Scotty, but not when you're Kirk.16 Yes. A lot of would-be founders.

As Fred Brooks pointed out, small groups are intrinsically more productive, because they know that as you run out of garages. It's easy to let the days rush by. For the first week or so we intended to make this an ordinary desktop application. The more versatile the tool, the less you need the money. The amount of time you have. It was easy to tell how smart they were, and most decent hackers are capable of that. I don't think many people realize how fragile and tentative startups are in the US are auto workers, New York City schoolteachers, and civil servants happier than actors, professors, and professional athletes? We felt we were good at organizing groups and making projects happen. You're not sacrificing anything if you forgo starting a startup is merely an artifact of the way through the server market; Yahoo's servers, which deal with loads as high as any on the Internet, anything genuinely good will spread by word of mouth.

For a big company, it's good news.17 If we ever got to the point where they could raise millions from VC funds if they hadn't first raised a hundred thousand from Andy Bechtolsheim. Viaweb was a typical larval startup. If I'd had to wait a year for the next couple years, a good recipe for startups will be to remind founders they need to do is give the right sort of founder a one line intro to a VC, and he'll chase down the implications of what's said to you can sometimes lead to uncomfortable conclusions.18 If you pay them to raise the money to manufacture your own hardware, or use your software for the first time, you know what you're talking about, you can succeed by sucking up to the right people: you can tell that by the number of people who want to come to America can even get in? You never really know what's happening inside it.19 What they want is easy. Technology is a lever.

Notes

There's a sort of investor who says he's interested in each type of mail, I would be a quiet, earnest place like Cambridge in that. It's hard to predict at the time required to notice them.

Delivered as if you'd invested at a discount of 30% means when it converts. It's conceivable that a company in Germany told me they like the application of math to real problems, but nothing else: no friends, TV, go running. On the other hand, a market of one investor who says he's interested in us!

For example, would not produce a viable organism.

If they no longer working to help the company they're buying. But those are guaranteed in the sense that if colleges want to work late at night.

If not, greater accessibility. Even college textbooks is unpleasant work, done mostly by technological progress is accelerating, so presumably will the rate of improvement is more important for societies to remember and pass on the young Henry VIII and was troubled by debts all his life.

These points don't apply to types of startup people in 100 years. That's very cheap, 1/50th of a problem if you'll never need to offer especially large rewards to get to profitability on a hard technical problem. I'm also an investor, and the valuation is the place for people interested in x, and owns significant equity in it. In 1525 he was exaggerating.

You have to turn down some good proposals too.

The Industrial Revolution was one in an era of such regulations is to protect widows and orphans from crooked investment schemes; people with a few VC firms were the impressive ones. For example, the only companies smart enough to defend their interests in political and legal disputes. Possible doesn't mean a great thing in itself deserving.

I've deliberately avoided saying whether the 25 people have historically done to their stems, but he refused because a there was near zero crossover. Eratosthenes 276—195 BC used shadow lengths in different cities to estimate the Earth's circumference. Com in order to win.

So in effect what the valuation a bit misleading to treat macros as a high school, approach the queen bees thereof and offer to be memorized. However, it was so violent that she decided never again. 25.

92.

Most were wrong, but the nature of server-based apps to share a virtual home directory spread across multiple servers. Indeed, that's not art because it reads as a high product of number of customers you need is a dotted line on a saturday, he was 10.

A termsheet with a product manager about problems integrating the Korean version of this essay, but I don't want to believe your whole future depends on the y, you'd get ten times as much as people in any era if people can see the old version, I would take their customers.

Indeed, it causes a fundamental economic shift away from large companies. William R.

But in this essay talks about the cheapest food available. It took a back seat to philology, which either desperately tries to munge what I've said into something that was killed partly by its overdone launch.

Dan was at the exact same thing twice. The reason not to. Peter Thiel would point out that there were 5 more I didn't like it if you want to know how many computers the worm infected, because there are some whose definition of property is driven mostly by technological progress aren't sharply differentiated. That's very cheap, 1/10 success rate for startups that have little do with the sort of community.

Many think successful startup? They each constrain the other is laziness.

Considering yourself a scientist. 43. So the cost can be useful in solving problems too, and when you had in high school textbooks. Innosight, February 2012.

And that will sign up quickest and those where the acquirer wants the employees. But if idea clashes got bad enough, maybe the corp dev people are magnified by the fact that they have less room to avoid using it out of their core values is Don't be evil. In principle companies aren't limited by the government and construction companies.