#may have gone a little too niche with this one lads

[nowletsfixthismess]

When I said I was going for the silliest iteration of a Malevolent cosplay I could think of, I meant it (I did take the silliness off for some pics though)

you have your hand back, let me shake it

[scrawnydutchman]

Why George Harrison Was the Best Beatle

I’m back with another essay! Since I’ve been inspired by the recent release of the ‘Get Back’ documentary on Disney+ I wanted to take this time to share the most basic opinion on planet earth.

I. LOVE. THE. BEATLES.

They are easily my favorite band to ever exist, no contest. They’re often regarded as the best band of all time and folks who say they’re overrated are just desperate to sound original (yeah I said it, come at me). No band before or since has accomplished as much for music as these four lads from Liverpool. Everything they’ve done from their music to their stage performances to their on screen personalities to their active stances to their recording techniques to their album art changed so much about the world in so little time. I’ve absorbed so much niche information about these four and, at one point, dedicated an entire day to listening to every song ever officially released under the Beatles label. Honestly, what can I say that hasn’t already been said fifty million times by everyone with a pulse?

. . . . How about George Harrison was the best one?

Most people say John or Paul because the two of them have written the grand majority of the Beatles songs together and some even say Ringo simply because he was the most fun and charismatic . . but to this day I see George get the shaft all too often. George may not have contributed nearly as much songwriting in the Beatles run as Lennon or McCartney, but that wasn’t due to lack of talent. It took a long time for his voice to be appreciated in the bands makeup and honestly, as amazing as the Beatles were, I strongly believe that they were worse off for it. George was the most skilled, the most sincere, the most interesting and frankly the most genius of the Beatles and you don’t really see it until you stop to think about it. So without further ado, let me break it down. Here’s why George is secretly the best Beatle.

1. He was the youngest

when the Beatles were first forming into the fab four we know today, Lennon was 16, McCartney was 15 . . . .and George Harrison was 14. He was often questioned for his tender age and even made fun of by his cohorts, but he immediately impressed the group with his killer guitar skills and was brought in as lead guitarist. Think about that. Despite Lennon and McCartney having a one or two year lead on George he managed to impress them so much that he took such a major position on the band’s composition. 

2. He wrote some of the best Beatles songs ever

While it’s true that George Harrison’s songwriting contributions to the band are dwarfed by the Lennon/McCartney duo, that makes it all the more impressive that many of his songs ended up being some of the most iconic Beatles songs ever. “Here Comes the Sun” is the highest played Beatles song on Spotify. Many famous artists like Frank Sinatra agree that “Something” is the greatest love song ever made. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is one of the most popular songs on the White Album by a wide margin. Both Lennon and McCartney have gone on record saying that George’s songs on Abbey Road were the best on the whole record.

I would go as far as say that many of his other contributions to the band are underrated as well. “I Me Mine” is a great song to go back to on the “Let It Be” record. “Long Long Long” is my personal favorite song from the White Album as it has such a captivating ethereal energy that’s beautifully complimented by Ringo’s carefully chosen drumming. “Blue Jay Way” is one of the Beatles more interesting and uncanny dives into the surreal and that’s saying a LOT. Both “The Inner Light” and “Within You Without You” played a huge part in introducing western audiences to Indian style music. George had a lot more interesting things going on than he ever got credit for and, to be frank, the fact that his body of work on the Beatles doesn’t compare in scope to Lennon/McCartney also means that he didn’t have as many duds.

3. He often made the best contributions to other songs

What would so many of the Beatles’ most popular songs without George’s clever contributions that tie it all together? That iconic four note hook on “And I love Her?” That was George’s idea. The spectacular guitar solo on “The End”? That was George. The Sitar backing on “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Had Flown)”? I mean . . . do I even need to say it? And then of course, George played a big part in helping Ringo develop what is easily his best songwriting contribution to the band “Octopus’ Garden” (but to be fair Ringo’s only other songwriting credit in all of the Beatles history is “Don’t Pass Me By” which . . . . . I’m gonna stop here to avoid being mean).

For as much as George is dismissed in the songwriting department in the Beatles’ longstanding history, he is often responsible for the most memorable parts in a lot of songs.

4. He had the best Solo Career of any Beatle

Before the Beatles had officially broken up, George had already debuted his solo record “All Things Must Pass”. If you want the perfect indicator for how much of a genius George was, go to that album. John, Paul and Ringo all had a bit of a rocky start post-Beatles but George came out SWINGING, and All Things Must Pass is a prime indicator on the genius Lennon and McCartney were holding back by not letting George has as many contributions to each album. 

George has plenty of bangers past that album too. “Here Comes the Moon” is a beautiful lullaby-like song that is an obvious callback to “Here Comes the Sun” and managed to be uplifting in a way that feels totally appropriate for the night time. “All Those Years Ago” is a beautiful little tribute to John Lennon after his untimely death. Give Me Love (Peace on Earth) is a beautiful and uplifting song. “When We Was Fab” is another great callback to the Beatles. “I Got My Mind Set On You” is a bop.

Also, George co wrote what is perhaps the most famous song of Ringo’s solo career, “Photograph”. Once again, George coming in to give his buddy Ringo a hand.

So yeah. George Harrison was a brilliant musician and probably my favorite ever. His contributions to the Beatles are very underrated and he has a body of work that is absolutely worth exploring.

[shy-magpie]

RQG 145

My first EA episode and I'm getting to it 4 hours after release because I'm so excited about joining the Patreon I can’t focus. Its silly but hey birthday money well spent if it makes me this happy right? Ok I think I'm centered enough to hit play.

Eee its going to be my name there someday!

Poor Cel! Poor Azu!

I'm impressed, Alex managed to summarize pretty well given  the circumstances.

Hamid: oh dear! Skraak: Skraak, pressure equalization, Skraak!

What! I was right - he has been getting clearer! Did Alex imply he has been playing up how drugged is? Smart way to get a sense of the party while he gets his feet under him if so.

Thank you Alex, we need those numbers. Oh poor Hamid is confident on a 3.

Skraak is helping! Hamid is listening to him!

~~~Party time~~~

Alarms!

Blast doors? Yes! They won't drown!

Azu! Cel! Zolf!

Point Cel, Shoin seems actively against being useful

Nice, Salt Beard coming up properly after all this time! Scary sounds! Bubbles! Thats got to be a good sign right? Loving the bit with Zolf's thumb!

Not clear what happened plot wise, but Ben did some nice work showing Zolf’s emotions in ways I can’t put into works. Healing time! It is a very Cel, TBF, to quantify their health

Speaker time! Oh thank goodness everyone is healed up. Yeah the food's poisoned we got that with the brunch Hamid was dragged from.

Sweet, torches in the bags of holding are fine.

Loving the character interactions, especially Zolf and Cel bonding over Shoin’s bad design.

Bryn! Alex! That is an actual crime! Conspiracy to commit angst!

I love Zolf's growth!

I will need a transcription of this scene!

Cel was in war zones?

Speakers again

~~~

Hamid is humming opera music (Carmen?)

Scratch? Skraak has been marking the path when Hamid didn't think of it. I love Skraak! Hamid dear, when you get a moment, I know there's a lot on your mind: double check on Skraak's name and pronouns would ya? Also Hamid is doing awesome with the changes. I had faith in him but its great hearing him cheerfully ask Skraak for input as a local expert; instead of trying to force the pattern that worked before even as Skraak gets less kid like. Love to see how this shakes out, even though I confess Hamid having a new younger sibling was a treat. OK enough tangent let's open a hatch!

Oh pressure gauge! I wonder if that helps with more than flooding.

Wrench! I love a call back.

That's one way to refer to Hamid's abilities. Also I am aware of Zolf and Hamid's dwindling spell slots; I am just convincing myself they will be able to camp for the night in a safe hallway before Alex Shoin happens.

Oh good something is maintained around here.

Green light? Alex, did you come up with the hidden doors purely to mess with theoretical maps? Because Babs has been doing pretty well so far but I'll be her second if she challenges Alex to a fight in the parking lot after this episode.

~~~Break time, no ad is surprisingly weird, on edit listen is an ad with Mike that proves once again that I am so far gone on RQ that I even find the ads charming~~~

Oh more Hamid time!

That was a lot of dice, no numbers that I caught. Oh dear! (Was that Ben teasing him?)

In the rafters of a very large room. Huge domed ceiling, sounds pretty. Have I gone 20 minutes without saying how much I love Alex's set design? Thank you Ben, I will google it, *sticks out tongue*. Seriously as long as you enunciate and don't get into stuff so niche you lose people in England too, then don't worry about us from the US. Honestly you guys worry about everything, the occasional missed reference isn't worth the brainspace.

Still not happy about the lack of maintenance, especially given that's what stands between the party and drowning

Skraak sounds worried: it is his first time down this far and sounding more himself by the second. Still no hint of second guessing throwing in with Hamid! As good as Bryn is at avoiding spoilers, I thought he wouldn't have brought up Cohort on the discord if Skraak took it really badly as they sobered up, but is still a relief. Not that I would blame Skraak for much short of turning out to be the secret Big Bad: the circumstances were pretty messed up; even if I stand by saying you can't leave someone who pledged to you and isn't in a position to cover that up if their old boss catches them. Yes I know a conversation about spiders not being the most dangerous thing the party used on Kobolds is coming but with Skraak not turning out to be a kid, it might be more tense but cut my concerns in half. Hell the Kobolds might well be able to fend for themselves post Shoin if they loot the place in compensation.

"I still think that might be an exaggeration"

Oh Hamid has the Elven cloak too. How do you wear two cloaks at once? And don't say you don't, Hamid is not losing 4 levels of dragon awesome (or however Pathfinder put it) in the middle of a dungeon.

Skraak remembers the health potion and doesn't mind being asked to hang back. Hamid arms Skraak with a injection spear. Has the canisters for it too. I may have underestimated him (or on the Doylist level this falls under reasonable retcon; then again I might just have missed Bryn saying he was pocketing this stuff because I thought he would run it by Zolf). *Shrugs* please keep a sample for testing, I have a pet theory I'd love to see tested.

Alex, just...thanks for using a tone of voice that made it completely clear you were joking

Skraak: Skraak avenger, death from above etc! Hamid: Remember, General Skraak Avenger! Hamid remembers what he said to Skraak whether they do or not! OK like I said I loved Hamid adopting Skraak as a new little brother but this new phase is a lot of fun if harder to quantify.

Oh the sleeves! The cloaks don't have to have much physical presence, do they? That makes sense. Sleeves and prestidigitation? Right after being so charming with Skraak? Hamid is in fine form

Alex is just feeling mischievous tonight, I like it.

An enormous pipe organ? I love Alex's set design. (also one day my brain will pull up the right person the first time when someone references Bill Nye or Bill Nighy but even with the Pirates context today is not that day)

I know, Ben, cosmetic or not its fricken awesome.

I don't like the pipes, I don't get the pipes, but I don't like them (that fine mesh better not imply there is something airborne in the complex)

Is it wrong that other than the more obviously ominous bits this sounds like a great place to live?

Chaise longue

Is this seriously set up for the party -wait... Did Hamid skip to the end of the maze with only Skraak for back up and no sleep!?! No reunion or camping scene first? Not even a spell restoring nap?!

Human IOD? ALEX, WHAT IS UP WITH THIS FIGURE? ITS SHOIN RIGHT? ITS GOTTA BE.

Don't listen to Ben, Alex will get you if you jump to conclusions. That's my dragon! Sneaky lad learned from Sasha!

~~~Of course he is switching to the party. Man has a sense of timing.

More party favors, daggers make my heart twinge

Azu takes Cel’s hand to guide them

Gonna light a torch? Or is Zolf keeping up his anti light thing.

Alex is simplifying things No Zolf is not throwing open the door. Oh thank hope, Zolf is lighting a torch. Pathfinder jokes

We like it too Alex!

I like the zone thing.

Cel, I adore you! Zolf just promised backstory! Get that down! And a miner/minor pun, these people are the best! Oh tin miner!

Lights! Golden bulkhead! Seriously where is this guy getting his money?

Azu spots a trap! Yes Alex, we respect your craft. Trip wire!

I love the boots

Oh Cel is clumsy, I hadn't actually noticed that.

Genre savvy Cel hulks out with bat wings! Claws! Fangs! HP goes up thank all the gods! (Azu lets go of their hand)

Ben needs to look up spells but Zolf is prepared Azu puts on the iron beard

They throw open the door!

~~~

Poor Bryn, stuck waiting for the next episode like us listeners to find out the results.

I've been re listening to some early episodes and I really missed the "byes". It's a silly sign off but I think that comfort with silly might be part of why I like it?

Re: the bloopers, it would have been a little funny if they did a “detect traps” and got knocked out like when Hamid tried detect magic in, was it Rome?

OK bottom line: Skraak is awesome; I still miss Sasha but at least Lydia can be a bat even if it isn’t cloak of the bat; Zolf came back better than ever and actually wants to have at least 2 real conversations; and Azu is a champ for doing so well despite her phobias (which are still taken seriously because Helen and RQ are friggen awesome). Fun and pulpy, that's how ya do it! Stakes from the sea floor to the stratosphere! Character moments! Sets that make Hollywood weep in jealousy!

Okay okay some people may be stressed out after that even though everyone ended up fighting fit, which is fair, ok? but physical peril? Just a roller coaster to me, I'll take it any day of the week and twice on Sundays!

[written-rebellion]

The Bone Crush

for the OL Prompt Exchange

Prompt #35: Harry Potter AU: Jamie and Claire as students in Hogwarts. Jamie in Gryffindor, Claire in Ravenclaw? Or both in Gryffindor. Maybe post-canon? (submitted by @thistlekat777 ) 

A/N: It’s starting to seem like in-school meet-cutes are becoming my personal niche LOL Here’s a little one-shot for @thelallybrochlibrary OL Prompt Exchange event this month! I was so excited for this prompt I legit ignored my 2k word paper to write 2k words of this in a one-night flurry instead. Please let me know what you think! :D

As far as days went, it could’ve been worse.

He could have been expelled, instead of just sitting in an empty detention hall. He could have lost 50 house points, instead of just 15. He could’ve gotten far worse than a broken arm, and he was lucky enough to have it in whatever muggle strap Hugh was able to produce at a moment’s notice.

And above all, he could have wasted his afternoon staring at a stone wall, instead of gaping blankly at Claire Beauchamp as she strolled into the room.

Yes, as far as days went, this certainly wasn’t bad.

“Um, can I help you?” she said quickly, whisky daring blue to look away.

“W-what are you doing here?”

Her nose wrinkled at that. She brushed her dark curls off her shoulder and crossed her arms.

“This is detention, isn’t it? I thought that was obvious.”

“Aye, but—” She raised an eyebrow. “But ye’re a prefect, are ye no?”

Her lips curved into something just less than a smile.

“My, how very observant of you.”

He sat up in his chair, catching her tone.

“So the rumour about ye stealin’ Madame Pomfrey’s bone-growing juice is true then?”

Whatever smile had been forming fell open and her cheeks pinked.

“It most definitely is not!”

Jamie tried his best to stifle the laugh trembling deep in his belly lest her cheeks get any redder, as tempting as the sight may be.

“Aha, I didna mean to offend ye, Beauchamp,” he said, shoulders still shaking.

“Hmph, Fraser.” She narrowed her eyes at him but pulled the seat from a desk and sat facing him regardless.

“What’s that on your arm?”

“Oh this?” He’d almost completely forgotten the dull throbbing in his broken bone when she walked in. At its mention, the ache rushed back in like blood to an open wound.

He winced as he turned in the desk to face her. “Some muggle cloth my mate Hugh had on him.”

“It’s a sling,” she said, brows drawing together.

“Aye, that’s what he called it. Keeps my arm all still until I can get the bone healed.”

“But—” Her eyes darted from his arm to his face and back. “But then, why are you here? You should’ve gone straight to Madame Pomfrey.”

“Well what good would she do me, lass, since ye stole her bone potion?”

She gave him a dead glare and he laughed until his arm ached again.

“Ach, it wasna really my choice, aye? The prefect who sent me didna leave much room for negotiation, especially considering he’s the one who did it to me.”

Claire sat bolt upright.

“Who the hell was it?”

Jamie ran his free hand through his hair.

“Ye ken Jack Randall, the Slyther—? Ah, I see ye do.”

Her face had contorted in the way so uniquely attributed to Randall by everyone he knew in the Gryffindor common room. Evidently the Ravenclaws felt the same.

“We’ve met, yes.”

“Aye well, he was picking on Hugh – Hufflepuff lad, around this tall, ye know him? – and one thing led to another…”

“And what? You two beat the shit out of each other?”

“Mmrmph, more like I brought my fists to a wand fight.” He squirmed as best he could in his chair, trying not to jostle his arm. “Damn prick doesna fight verra fair.”

“And he sent you straight here? After he started the fight and did that to you?”

“Madame Hooch was the one who caught us brawling. Randall wasted no time giving her his side and offering to escort me right to detention.”

She frowned, and Jamie felt a small surge of pride at her genuine concern for his well-being. The surge stopped roughly around his arm though, as it throbbed with pain yet again.

He repositioned the sling on the desk between them, trying to get more comfortable in his seat.

“What about you, lass? What trouble has the darling Ravenclaw prefect gotten herself into?”

She looked up from his arm to meet his eyes again but said nothing.

“Och c’mon Beauchamp, fair’s fair, aye? It’s no’ like we’ve got something better to do.”

She gave it a moment’s thought before her shoulders slumped.

“Oh alright,” she said, resting her elbows on the edge of Jamie’s desk. “I got caught trying to steal—no, not that. I was trying to take a mandrake root back to my dorm.”

“A mandrake—? Those things from second year that look like tree bairns and screech like the devil? Why on earth would ye want one of those in yer room?”

“If you actually paid attention in Herbology, you’d know they’re a base ingredient in most antidotes and potions.” She huffed, her cheeks puffing out indignantly.

His heart thudded against his chest.

Christ, had she always been this cute?

“They’ve got all sorts of medicinal qualities…” He took another look at her, enjoying the way her face practically glowed, even as she listed off something as mundane as the uses of a mandrake root.

“…they use them for just about everything at St. Mungo’s. I only wanted to do a few tests of my own, but the damn stupid little bugger started fussing in its pot and it slipped right out of my hands.”

“Hang on—” Jamie snapped back into the present. “—aren’t mandrake shrieks fatal? That’s wicked careless of ye, lass.”

She smiled.

God. Damn.

“So you were paying attention in class, I’m impressed.”

“I’d do well to remember things that might kill me, especially at this school,” he added wryly.

“Well, I’m not stupid, I brought earplugs just in case,” she said. “Plus, the baby ones can’t kill you.” Her cheek fell into her palm, and she rolled her eyes. “All they can do is cry loud enough to call Professor Sprout back from her office apparently.”

“Not bad at all, Beauchamp.” He chuckled, but had to stop short as a dart of pain came rushing down from his shoulder. His eyes squeezed shut.

“Is your arm bothering you?”

“Nay Sassenach,” he said through gritted teeth. “I just like makin’ the odd wee grunt of pain every once and awhile, aye?”

“Well, if you weren’t such an arse about it, I could probably help you.”

He regarded her with one eye.

“Help me? So ye’ve got that potion after all?”

“Or I could just let you suffer in pain—”

“What help is it then, Beauchamp?” he said, looking her dead on.

She sat straight, edging the end of her chair as she leaned in, visibly bristling with the same excitement he’d seen on countless first-years as they entered the great hall for the first time.

“There’s a spell used by combat healers in the last Wizarding War. It helps alleviate pain temporarily so that aurors and other soldiers can last longer before getting properly treated.”

“I dinna remember hearing this in class. What spell is it?”

“It’s not really—well, it’s a nonverbal spell, actually.”

“Nonverbal magic?” He raised his brows at her. “Where did ye learn that?”

“From a book,” she answered, suddenly not able to meet his eye as she began to mumble hastily. “A book… from the restricted section of the library.”

“Christ Jesus,” he laughed, “and what else do ye do in yer spare time, Beauchamp, plan to rob Gringotts?”

“Fine. Suffer then.”

Her pout was back, full reddened cheeks and all. Jamie stopped himself, opting for as warm a smile he could muster in spite of the pain.

“Ach, I’m sorry, lass. I just—It feels like I’m only just meeting ye for the first time is all. Please, by all means, I trust ye.”

They locked eyes then, hers looking almost incredulous at the notion. Surely this wasn’t the first time someone’s said that to her. And yet…

“You’re… you’re sure?” Her hand slowly reached down to her boot, drawing out her wand.

“Aye.” Jamie said, feeling quite like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

Her face flushed again, but it seemed decidedly different from the last time. He tried not to read into it, even as she leaned over the desk towards him, close enough for him to feel her breath against his throat.

Her left hand gently pressed into his shoulder as she aimed her wand with her right. He hissed at the contact and she peered up at him.

A nod. Trust me.

He nodded back.

And with a practiced twist and flick of her wrist, Jamie felt a warm glow coil around the break in his arm and then dissolve, taking the pain with it.

“Gast' air fad!”

“It worked?”

“Aye, I dinna feel a thing.” He wiggled his fingers, opened and closed his fist. “Thank ye lass, truly.”

She looked up, absolutely beaming and, though the pain was in fact gone, Jamie felt his heart thundering like it had when the bone had just broken.

Something arced between their eyes. Her smile was slowly fading as she started to notice too.

“T-thank you, Cla—”

“Well, if it isn’t Claire.”

Her expression turned venomous in a millisecond as she swiveled her head toward the doorway, rising out of her seat to return her wand to her boot.

“Hello Jack.”

“And what might you be doing here in detention?”

What was a wide smile not three seconds ago was now a tight thin line across her mouth as Claire looked from Randall to Jamie and back again.

Then she smirked.

“Leaving, actually. Jamie and I were just about to go.” She motioned for him to stand and he did.

“Go?” Randall said as Claire strode to the door.

“Yes, go,” she replied, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Jamie wasn’t supposed to be here anyway, and I have to take him to Madame Pomfrey’s straight away.”

He sneered, looking from her to Jamie, who simply kept his mouth shut. Claire meanwhile, was not-so-gently pushing against Randall’s shoulder until they were facing each other head on.

“Oh, and Jack?” Jamie could see her nails digging into Randall’s robes even as she smiled at him, dangerously sweet just like the tone of her voice.

“If I ever hear about you picking fights, injuring other students, and sending them to detention without a second thought—” Her pretense dropped, as did her curve of her lips. “—I’m sure Jamie, his friend Hugh and I will have plenty of interesting things to say to Headmistress McGonagall.”

Randall sniffed, his lips tightening together as Claire’s smirk returned.

“A pleasure as always.” She patted his robes, neatly sweeping him aside as she marched off.

Jamie, unable to hold his own smirk back, nodded in greeting with little more than a curt “Randall” before following Claire out the door.

He waited until they turned into a far enough corridor to break.

“Jesus, lass, that was incredible!” he said, grinning even wider when he saw her cheeks flush again. “Guess I have to thank ye for saving my hide twice today.”

“No, I have to thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve been waiting for a good reason to put that git in his place for ages.”

“Well, happy to oblige ye then.”

The two laughed, letting the sound echo through the halls, hoping that it would somehow make its way back to Randall.

“Well,” Claire said finally, “let’s get you to Madame Pomfrey’s, shall we?” She gave his arm a nudge.

“Och, ye dinna have to go out of yer way, lass.” He shrugged. “I ken where it is.”

He was loathe to leave her though, and just maybe – possibly, hopefully – she felt the same.

“Well, yes but…” He tilted his head at her as she paused, weighing some invisible scale in her mind before heaving a great sigh.

“I suppose I should probably return this,” she mumbled, reaching deep into her robe’s pocket and procuring none other than one large bottle of Skele-gro.

Jamie’s barking laughter most assuredly made it back to Randall, wherever he was.

“Ye truly are a wonder, Beauchamp.” He ran his hand through his hair.

“Tell no one about this, Fraser, or I’ll just as easily un-fix that arm of yours,” she said, only half-joking.

“Do ye mind letting Madame Pomfrey heal me properly before ye set her off in a rage?”

“Fair’s fair.” She returned his grin, sliding the bottle back into her pocket.

“Verra well, Beauchamp, shall we?”

He offered his good arm to her and she, with a smile impossibly wider than his, looped hers through without a second thought.

[dingoat]

The Right Way | Part Four

[ previous | the beginning | next ]

In the timeline where Crow followed the wolf and turned right, he hadn’t even taken on the surname that he’d come to be known by yet. Little Mar’an sat restlessly at the diner, a place oddly well kept despite the grubby neighbourhood it was in. It wasn’t where they usually met but… well, after that close shave with local enforcement the other day, he’d decided to keep to some other blocks for the time being. He swung his spindly legs in the air, staring out at the middle-aged spacer who handed over some credits at the counter, and then turned back toward him now carrying a tray laden with a swathe of deep fried food.

“Well, get into it! Y’know you don’t ‘ave to hide your appetite from me.” Artur Crow settled down with a clacking of armour plates, unable to help but grin affectionately at the lad.

The kid set into the food with gusto; he never ate as well as he did when Artur was in town. He relished the man’s visits, always excited to earn some coin and decent food in exchange for the latest news on the streets. There was a different mood about this visit, though. Artur hadn’t gone straight to business, and seemed far more thoughtful than usual.

“Mar’an,” he finally said, smirking a little as the kid sat there licking hot sauce from his fingers.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been thinking. And I’ve hit the conclusion that you… really shouldn’t have t’ be living like this the rest of your life. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll make my rounds here and… something will have happened. That you wouldn’t be here any more. And, stars, I’m not sure I’d forgive myself if I knew I could’ve helped you out of a dodgy life but never did.”

Mar’an paused his intent finger-cleaning to squint up at the man. “What d’you mean? I ain’t got anywhere else to go…”

Artur huffed a breath of a laugh. “I think what I’m saying, is that if you want to leave Coruscant, you can come with me. Leave these dirty streets and come get to know the stars. I know one man isn’t much of a clan, but, heck. I think I can learn how to be a proper buir, if you’d have me.”

“Buir…?”

Artur hesitated. He almost looked shy, as his cheeks grew slightly redder; it was a terribly endearing look on the otherwise rugged man. “’t means father. Well, ‘parent’, t’ be more correct about it. Mandalorians don’t make the distinction between mum and dad…”

Mar’an continued eating, stuffing more food into that ever present grin.

Artur, twiddled his thumbs together, silent, growing increasingly anxious as the kid failed to give any overt response. He had no idea he’d wind up feeling so nervous about making this offer, and finally his nerves pressed him to ask aloud; “…so? Uh. Would you… like to?”

Mar’an paused, giving him a look that he suggested he thought the man was a complete idiot.

Artur winced and started to look away.

“Duhh,” the kid snorted, grinning and rolling his eyes some, unable to comprehend that it was a question that needed some sort of answer. “’course I do!”

***

Some months down the track, Artur and Mar’an chanced upon an unusual vessel as they dropped out of hyperspace to avoid a patch of space recently disrupted by meteor activity, having been warned that the usual route no longer applied.

It was, of all things, a Csillan cruiser, far from their homeworld, and likely avoiding the same rubble that they were. Artur adjusted his ship’s course, taking it in a wide sweep around the cruiser, humming thoughtfully to himself. A ship like that, without an escort. Not something you ran into every day, and quite the prize, if he could claim it. He entered the thought of engaging it in combat, tried to guess at what sort of a match the ship may be against his own.

“Got the course re-plotted!” Little Mar’an Crow beamed from the co-pilot’s seat, waving a hand over the console and clearly proud of his work.

Artur grinned back, equally proud, and gave the kid a pat on the back. “Nice work,” he commented, preparing for the jump back into hyperspace.

Maybe if he’d still been on his own, Artur would have taken the risk, and had a go at the Csillan vessel. But he was responsible for another life now. He had something to live for. And so they merely carried on their way, without firing a shot.

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

In the timeline where Crow turned left, Artur eyed off the Csillan vessel, considering his odds. He knew it was one hell of a risk, but if he could pull it off, the payoff would be more than worth it. He knew a handful of folk right off the bat who’d be more than interested in paying top credits for an Ascendency ship, and that was without even asking around and haggling.

He clicked his tongue and adjusted his steering, his ship lilting gently as it changed course and swept back around.

The cruiser, too, changed course, dropping a little and powering forward, clearly aiming to pass him by.

“Ahh, to hell with it…” he muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes with a hard grin. “Y’ only live once…”

And with a few flicks of the switches on his dashboard and a shifting of gears, he swung his ship hard, gave the auto-target a few moments to lock in, and fired.

The Csillan ship rocked and a panel burst free, and Artur whooped in triumph. He made another sharp turn, readying for another shot-

That was to be his final thought. The Ascendency ship retaliated hard and fast, with firepower he simply had not anticipated. The missile was merciless. In the timeline where Crow turned left, Artur, the man who could have been his father, was no more.

***

Commander Merrik’al’ebbens grunted with satisfaction as the offending ship disintegrated, then turned and barked out to the crew for a damages report. “Have we been disabled at all…? That cocky bastard gave us a right thump.”

“Only minor damages, sir,” one of the crewmen swiftly returned with. “Mostly superficial, but we’d best wait for the ‘mechs to replace the outer paneling before we jump again, or we risk tearing more and-“

“SIR,” another crew member called urgently from one of the ship’s corridors. “Commander Kaleb..!”

The Commander noted the direction from which the voice called, read the tone immediately, and whipped his head about, sudden panic in his hard red eyes. “What is it-“ he called, leaving the bridge and hastening toward his own quarters. “What is-“

“Sir, sir…” the young officer met him at the doorway, shaking visibly.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY,” Kaleb snarled, hefting her aside and storming in. “…Kassi? Kass, Kass, little Kassi…” his voice was stricken, tender, desperate. “My girl, my little girl, come on Kas, open those beautiful eyes of yours…”

“Th- the missile, when it shook the ship, it must have-“

“SHUT UP!” The Commander spun and roared at the officer, before collapsing to the ground into harsh, grating sobs.

***

Mar’an never took on the name ‘Crow’. But he absolutely thrived under the direction of the modest clan that took him in. They were a motley collection; two sets of parents with kids of various ages, and a handful of vagabonds, individuals who’d left their own clans for the chance of earning new reputations for themselves, seeing a different sort of action, or those who, like Mar’an, had been won over and inducted into the Mandalorian lifestyle out of a lonelier existence.

He was quick to win over the hearts of all his new family, his cocksure attitude hitting all the right notes amongst the brash and carefree group. Concord Dawn became his home; the Coruscant apartment was just one of the handful of properties the clan collectively owned throughout the galaxy, giving them places to stay in various sectors. He grew fit and strong, a capable fighter and top notch pilot, finding a solid niche amongst the loose discipline of the clan that favoured ingenuity and guts over precision and polish. The first time he joined them in frontline fighting, he laughed the whole way through.

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

Whee! Starting to get into the meat of it, now. Mar’an Crow used, as always, with gracious permission from @humanrevolt !! Hope I did well by the kid. :D

[theviewfromthebooth]

Unbearable

Hey everyone. I've not written anything in a while, or had much motivation to, but everything is all over the shop right now, and a couple of weeks ago, something just came out of me. Back in those quaint times when we all still hoped this wouldn't be as bad as it is now (roughly three weeks ago), I made a joke in The Anfield Wrap office about making a disaster movie involving the Coronavirus and Liverpool's title party - the two biggest things in all of our worlds at the time. 

Well, I did it. It's a short story, but I've dreamt it as a movie, and hopefully the words will turn into images for you too. It was meant to be funny, but halfway through I realised that it isn't. It's also a bit too niche for most football or literary fiction sites (apparently), so I'm putting it up here. In the absence of any kind of appetite for the usual April Fools shenanigans, this is a good time to drop it. 

 It became a way for my mind to deal with everything – by laying out the worst case scenario, our situation becomes more bearable by comparison. Also worth noting that this was written before the government backed away (publicly at least) from herd immunity.... 

 Dedicated to my two biggest creative inspirations – Matt Groening & John Gibbons. 

                                                           -x-

UNBEARABLE:

A short story from the brain of a trying-not-to-panic Liverpool fan "For years Evertonians have been saying that the world will end if Liverpool ever win the league again......what if they were right?”

Ronnie has been planning his title party for years.  In the pub, in bed, at work, on the toilet. While his beloved Liverpool drifted nearer, then further from their holy grail, he has never wavered from what he calls his life's work. Torture is what Jan calls it. He still doesn't know how close she came to leaving after the open top bus fiasco in 2014,  but he knows he never wants to see that look in her eyes again.  She'll come around once she sees it, and feels it.

That day in 1990, when he was the same age as little Dirk is now.....the street party. The last time he remembers his parents happy. All he wants is that same unlimited joy for Dirk... and to keep him in Red. Kev was  a stubborn little so-and-so, but that won't happen again.

Back then he only had Roy Evans and his sporadically brilliant Spice Boys as ammo – now he's got Jurgen Klopp and his mentality monsters. Even Jan is changing her tune.  Ronnie couldn't believe his luck when she agreed to let him dress Dirk up as the Premier League trophy, complete with silver paint & ribbons. They won't need a bus – Adam down the road will bring his flat-bed truck. What better memory for the lad than to be paraded through the streets of Anfield, held aloft by thousands of jubilant Kopites? Just 2 wins away. He can almost taste it. Nothing can stop them now....

“It has been confirmed....all football in Britain is suspended until at least April 30th, as a result of the coronavirus. BBC Sport understands FA chairman Greg Clarke expressed his fear at Friday's emergency meeting that the season may have to be abandoned....”

The blood drains from Ronnie's face as he stares through the TV screen. The phone buzzing in his pocket snaps him back to reality, as news reaches the Whatsapp group:

Within the  walls of Whitehall, Clarke almost slips as he gets up from his chair. His head is so scrambled he offers Hancock his sweaty hand, before quickly whipping it away much to the amusement of Hancock and Johnson, and eventually Scudamore. Their laughter sends a chill through his bones. They think they've cracked it, but he KNOWS football fans. Closed doors aren't enough to keep away fans who've been waiting 30 years. And Liverpool have a LOT of fans.

As the chauffeur moves away, he takes out his phone to Google 'Herd immunity'.........

Ronnie's phone is red hot. Plans are moving at pace. Everton have been squashed and Operation Palace is full steam ahead. Dirk is bouncing off the walls in excitement and it's not even 10 am. Luckily a cuddle from cousin Danny always calms him down. Danny's dad is no such help. Kev has always been the bitterest of Blues, but claiming Dirk's life is at risk feels pretty low, even for him.

Ronnie plants a kiss just above the paint line, before pulling the woolly crown tight over the boy's ears, and hoisting him onto his shoulders. Dirk's laughter vibrates through his back as he shouts “You better get in that bunker of yours if you're that worried”, turning his snarl to a smile.  Jan takes a picture of her glassy eyed husband with the Premier league trophy, which goes down a treat in the Whatsapp group, followed by the obligatory joke about 'going viral'.

Only this time it's no joke. By the time they get to Adam's garage the streets are packed. Half of Liverpool have descended onto the estate. And they've all come to lift the trophy.

Johnson's brow furrows ever deeper as his aide lays out the situation - hiding his eyes from the mess he's created. Liverpool Council can't control the crowds. Reports suggesting as many as 3 million people are on the streets. Budget cuts sanctioned by his hand have left emergency services at breaking point, even before the 600% increase in population. Suspending public transport has caused queues of 10 miles and counting in every direction. Vaccines are running out fast, with nowhere near enough immune patients to protect the vulnerable.

His hands tighten on each other, as if the answer can be wrung from them. With the pleading eyes of his aide boring through his thinning scalp, the spell is broken. A menacing silence hangs between them.  He knows the whole country hangs on what he says next.

He knows he needs a miracle.

As the clock hits 90 minutes, so do Crystal Palace. Liverpool have roared back from an early setback to lead by 4 goals to 1. From the swaying throng in the garden of  Hotel TIA, Ronnie can feel himself let go of 30 year's worth of tension. 30 years of balls hitting posts and staying out. 30 years of penalties not given. 30 years of “should've saved that”. 30 years of “should've been us”.  All gone.

The final whistle is met with a guttural roar.  A roar 3 million strong, a roar so full of electricity that it creates a mushroom cloud over Anfield skies. Dirk reaches for his father, who doesn't miss a beat with his mock trophy lift, complete with the Henderson stutter step. Silver tears stain his face as he watches his son surfing the sea of hands.

A moment like no other.

It's only the thought of sharing the moment with Jan that causes Ronnie to reach for his phone. 34 missed calls. 55 unread on Whatsapp. “The Reds are still massive!” he thinks to himself as he opens Jan's most recent message:

“It's too late. I'm sorry. Good luck. I love you both.”

“With their country now stabilised, this new Chinese study into the Coronavirus will become the template for the rest of the world to follow. There has been some surprise at the results.  It appears children under 8 are the biggest carriers, while the fatal age threshold is only 40 years old, and could be even lower for those with a higher than normal blood alcohol level. The bad news for us here in Britain is the government's controversial 'Herd Immunity' strategy has been completely discredited”.

“FOR GOD'S SAKE TURN IT OFF!”

Anxious limbs fumble at the remote for what feels like hours, before finally, silence. Three pairs of eyes dart from George Alagaih's worried face to that of the Prime Minister.  Hancock musters the courage to meet his glare.

“At the current rate of infection, Liverpool will be at 90% by 7pm this evening. Considering what we now know about their vaccine levels, and....alcohol consumption....”

“HOW ON EARTH HAVE YOU FUCKED THIS UP? YOU TOLD ME THE SCIENCE WAS WATERTIGHT!”

“It was as watertight as could be in such an unprecedented scenario. The goalposts kept moving...” “I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING GOALPOSTS! ALL I NEED TO HEAR FROM YOU IS HOW WE STOP IT SPREADING!”

“W-we do have a plan”.

Hancock hands over the proposal, and takes three deliberate steps back. He allows himself to exhale once he sees Johnson's eyebrows rise, and then settle, from behind the folder.

“I've run the numbers, with Sunny & Wallace. It's tight, but we can afford it.”

The Chancellor  nods slowly as Johnson looks in his direction.  A nervous head appears through the crack in the door, like a tortoise unsure of Spring.

“We need a decision, sir.”

Ronnie pants hard, darting for space like Mo Salah in a forest of defenders. He can't bring himself to believe it. Not yet. Not like this. No time. Just keep running. Half a mile from home. She'll come around once she sees us.

Dirk lets out a yelp as they're brought to an abrupt halt by Breck road traffic. Ronnie looks deeper into the faces around him. What was once drunken ecstasy is now something very different. All he sees is agony, smudged with silver. Doors have been bolted, windows shut. Songs are now screams. Visible waves of panic ripple through the crowds, as infection and information sow their seeds in real time. It takes him a while to recognize the hard thudding against his spine isn't his own heartbeat – it's his son coughing. He whips Dirk off his back and holds him in front of his face.

“Don't cry mate, it's gonna be okay” he croaks, barely able to say it let alone believe it.  Suddenly a cheer rises up ahead.  Ronnie instinctively moves towards the sound. That sound he thought he would feast on forever. Before he can pinpoint it, a larger sound fills the space. Less a sound than a NOISE. A long, buzzing noise, that prickles the neck and causes everyone to look up.

Bright white foam boxes with big red crosses fall from the sky.  More and more. Hundreds. Thousands. Cheers break out all over as boxes are ripped open, and the hugging of strangers resumes.  Ronnie releases Dirk's hand as he catches the box thrown at him, and pulls off the top.  He takes out the tablets and the bottle of water, and rubs his boy's back as he swallows them down. Overcome with relief he takes the trophy for one last spin, before placing him back on his shoulders. Home time.

“We shall not, we shall not be moved! We shall not we shall not be moved! Just like the team, that won, the football league...”

“WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED!”

Dirk waves to the little planes in the sky that saved the day.  He continues waving at the much bigger planes looming, and the giant glass bowl they're carrying.

[olivereliott]

Custom Bikes Of The Week: 18 February, 2018

A millimeter-perfect W650 from Wreckless, a barnstorming Kawasaki Zephyr from Australia, a Triumph Thruxton with the Barbour touch, and a killer Ducati Sport 1000 from WalzWerk. It’s all about craft and style this week.

Kawasaki Zephyr by DNA and RB Racing It’s pretty amazing what can happen on a project once the ball begins rolling. Bryan had originally turned his 500-buck Zephyr into a Wrenchmonkees inspired brat cafe, but when it needed mechanical TLC, an overhaul of epic proportions began.

Bryan wanted his Z(ephyr) to pay homage to the Z1 racers of yore: like those tuned by Mamoru Moriwaki, but with a bit of Bol d’Or sprinkled in for good measure. A project manager by trade, he also knew he’d need to outsource some of the trickier bits. So to get things just right, he tapped the lads at DNA Custom Cycles and a friend at RB Racing.

DNA tackled the bodywork and many of the more intricate details on the build, with Bryan researching and sourcing the parts and pieces he wanted. The headlights alone became a topic of obsession, but we’d say the stress was worth it.

The engine was completely rebuilt and overbored, and cranks out 90 healthy ponies. Much of the running gear arrived via cannibalization: the rear end, including the wheel, brake and swingarm are from a ZRX1200, the forks were poached from a ZXR750, and the front twin discs used to clamp down on a Gixxer. We figure the package would have Mamoru-san smiling—and apparently it’s a riot to ride too. [More]

Kawasaki W650 by Wreckless Carving out a niche in the custom world is no easy feat. Especially when you’d rather stand out than merely blend in. That was the drive that fueled Rick Geal and his spanner-spinning partner when they snagged a Kwaka W650 out of a friend’s nearby shop to begin their first build.

Rather than go off-the-wall, the lads from Wreckless decided to focus on fit, finish and quality details, which is never a bad idea in our books. The engine has been torn down, cleaned up and buttoned up tighter than ever before. The finish on the casing is clean enough to eat off, thanks to a vapor blast and fresh lacquer. And behind the slatted side pods, the refreshed motor now breathes through a set of rebuilt CV carbs and howls into the custom 2-into-1 exhaust.

The braking has been upgraded in the front with a Beringer Aerotec caliper, while the rear drum has had a thorough rebuild. The stock forks have been rebuilt too, and the factory shocks have been replaced with a set of Öhlins’ Black Series. Continental TKC 80 rubber has been fitted to new wheels and, in revelatory fashion, a proper set of fenders has been fabricated to keep the mud from flinging all over that impeccable paint. [More]

Honda TLR200 Reflex by Ask If your eyes are growing weary of tried-and-tested, old school lines this weekend, then this Honda TLR from Rad Yamamoto of Ask Motorcycle should dilate pupils. One of two bikes that Rad prepared for the 2017 Mooneyes show in Tokyo, this former trials bike showcases expert levels of fabrication and craftsmanship.

Barely 40% of the Reflex’s original frame remains. The single tube spine is gone, because Rad has welded up a twin flanked unit that now holds a custom fuel cell. The rear subframe is new as well, but is much, much more than your standard chop-and-hoop job. The rear suspension has been swapped over to a monoshock set-up and the front end is a road-ready kit that’s also leveled the bike’s stance.

The party-piece here is the flowing, hinged bodywork. It’s a raw alloy unibody unit that lifts to expose the reworked frame, and Rad undoubtedly pinched a finger or two while rolling the aluminum for hours on his English wheel. The futuristic vibe may not be for everyone, but you cannot deny the skill required for such a flawless finished. [More]

Triumph Thruxton R by Untitled Chances are, if you have a Triumph in your garage there’s a Barbour jacket in your closet. The two British marques are so intertwined, it made perfect sense to combine them on a cafe racer build. Dubbed ‘the ultimate gentleman’s motorcycle,’ this reworked Thruxton R was commissioned by GQ in the UK to win the ‘Best Custom Motorbike We Built Ourselves’ prize at the 2018 GQ Car Awards.

Self-congratulatory humor aside, there’s a lot to like about this mash up of heritage and speed. Taking just over a month to build, Adam Kay and his team at Untitled created plenty of tasteful details. Take the top yoke, for instance. The one that Hinckley built was already a stunner, but this newly machined unit with integrated tach is even prettier. And the rider will no doubt get up close and personal with it, as the new clip-ons sit extra low. They’re adorned with a fresh set of grips and bar-end signals from Motogadget.

On the performance side, there’s little to improve upon with the 1200cc twin. Except, of course, creating a more raucous exhaust. To that end a custom set of drag pipes now heats the rear rubber and announces arrival. On the Barbour side of things, no gentleman racer would be complete without a set of bespoke, leather saddlebags: the ones attached to this Thruxton double as briefcases and detach in a pinch, when you roll up to the office. [More]

Nolan Ducati Sport 1000 by WalzWerk Although not usually his go-to donor marque, Marcus Walz is no stranger to having a Ducati on his bench. And let’s face it, the man is an icon in this community, with enough skill and vision to make anything work. Which is exactly why helmet makers Nolan dialed Herr Walz’s number when they were looking for a showpiece build.

A Ducati Sport 1000 is the base for this tasteful British Racing Green cafe racer, but much of the Bologna-built original is long gone. The suspension is now top shelf stuff from Öhlins, both front and back, and the rear subframe has been reworked—not only to look good, but also to function with the single piggyback shock.

The rearsets are from Ducati specialists Ducabike, and LSL bits now feature prominently at the controls. The exhaust is a completely handmade unit from the experts at SC Project, and super sticky Pirelli Supercorsa rubber glues the racer to the road.

But the real showpiece is the bodywork. Hand beaten two-millimeter sheets of aluminum received the loving touch from Mr. Walz, who delivered a beautiful, flowing, go-fast aesthetic. Everything, from the height of the humped tail to the deeply scalloped tank and the tiny flares that give the seat extra girth, is spot on. [More]

[rucbarthatbowtiesarecooldw]

December 18th Christmas Devotional

3 Nephi 1:13

Lift up your head and be of good cheer; for behold, the time is at hand, and on this night shall the sign be given, and on the morrow come I into the world, to show unto the world that I will fulfil all that which I have caused to be spoken by the mouth of my holy prophets.

When Christ Was Born In Bethlehem

1. When Christ was born in Bethlehem, Fair peace on earth to bring, In lowly state of love He came To be the children’s King.

2. And round Him, then, a holy band Of children blest was born, Fair guardians of His throne to stand Attendant night and morn.

3. And unto them this grace was giv’n A Savior’s name to own, And die for Him Who out of heav’n Had found on earth a throne.

4. O blessèd babes of Bethlehem, Who died to save our King, Ye share the martyrs’ diadem, And in their anthem sing!

5. Your lips, on earth that never spake, Now sound th’ eternal word; And in the courts of love ye make Your childrens voices heard.

6. Lord Jesus Christ, eternal Child, Make Thou our childhood Thine; That we with Thee the meek and mild May share the love divine.

Rudolf—That Amazing Reindeer

On a December night in Chicago several years ago, a little girl climbed onto her father’s lap and asked a question. It was a simple question asked in a child’s curiosity, yet it had a heart-rending effect on Robert May.

“Daddy,” four-year-old Barbara asked, “Why isn’t my mommy just like everybody else’s mommy?”

Bob May stole a glance across his shabby two-room apartment. On a couch lay his young wife, Evelyn, racked with cancer. For two years she had been bed ridden; for two years all Bob’s income and smaller savings had gone to pay for treatments and medicines.

The terrible ordeal had shattered two adult lives. Now Bob suddenly realized the happiness of his growing daughter was also in jeopardy. As he ran his fingers through Barbara’s hair, he prayed for some satisfactory answer to her question.

Bob May knew only too well what it meant to be “different.” As a child he had been weak and delicate. With the innocent cruelty of children, his playmates had continually goaded the stunted, skinny lad to tears. Later, at Dartmouth from which he was graduated in 1926, Bob May was so small that he was always being mistaken for someone’s little brother.

Nor was his adult life much happier. Unlike many of his classmates who floated from college into plush jobs, Bob became a lowly copywriter for Montgomery Ward, the big Chicago mail-order house. Now at 33 Bob was deep in debt, depressed, and sad.

Although Bob didn’t know it at the time, the answer he gave the tousled haired child on his lap was to bring him to fame and fortune. It was also to bring joy to countless thousands of children like his own Barbara. On that December night in the shabby Chicago apartment, Bob cradled his little girl’s head against his shoulder and began to tell a story:

Once upon a time there was a reindeer named Rudolph, the only reindeer in the world that had a big red nose. Naturally, people called him Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” As Bob went on to tell about Rudolph, he tried desperately to communicate to Barbara the knowledge that even though some creatures of God are strange and different they often enjoy the miraculous power to make others happy.

“Rudolph,” Bob explained, “Was terribly embarrassed by his unique nose. Other reindeer laughed at him; his mother, father and sister were mortified, too. Even Rudolph wallowed in self-pity.”

“Why was I born with such a terrible nose?” he cried.

“Well,” continued Bob, “One Christmas Eve Santa Claus got his team of husky reindeer—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixon—ready for their yearly trip around the world. The entire reindeer community assembled to cheer these great heroes on their way. But a terrible fog engulfed the earth that evening, and Santa knew that the mist was so thick he wouldn’t be able to find the chimneys.

“Suddenly, Rudolph appeared—his red nose glowing brighter than ever. Santa sensed at once that here was the answer to his perplexing problem. He led Rudolph to the front of the sleigh, fastened the harness, and climbed in. They were off! Rudolph guided Santa to every chimney that night. Rain and fog, snow and sleet, nothing bothered Rudolph for his bright nose penetrated the mist like a beacon.

“And so it was that Rudolph became the most famous and beloved of all the reindeer. The huge red nose he once hid in shame was now the envy of every buck and doe in the reindeer world. Santa Claus told everyone that Rudolph had saved the day; and from that Christmas, Rudolph has been living serenely happy.”

Little Barbara laughed with glee when her father finished. Every night she begged him to repeat the tale until finally Bob could rattle it off in his sleep. Then at Christmas time he decided to make the story into a poem like “The Night Before Christmas” and prepared it in book form with crude pictures for Barbara’s personal gift.

Night after night Bob worked on the verses after Barbara had gone to bed for he was determined his daughter should have a worthwhile gift, even though he could not afford to buy one.

Then as Bob was about to put the finishing touches on Rudolph, tragedy struck. Evelyn May died. Bob, his hopes crushed, turned to Barbara as his chief comfort. Yet, despite his grief, he sat at his desk in the quiet, now lonely, apartment and worked on Rudolph with tears in his eyes.

Shortly after Barbara had cried with joy over his handmade gift on Christmas morning, Bob was asked to an employee’s holiday party at Montgomery Ward. He didn’t want to go, but his office associates insisted. When Bob finally agreed, he took with him the poem and read it to the crowd. At first the noisy throng listened in laughter and gaiety. Then they became silent and at the end broke into spontaneous applause. That was in 1938.

By Christmas 1947, some 6,000,000 copies of the booklet had been given away or sold, making Rudolph, one of the most widely distributed books in the world. The demand of Rudolph—sponsored products increased so much in variety and number that educators and historians predicted Rudolph would come to occupy a permanent niche in the Christmas legend.

Through the years of unhappiness, the tragedy of his wife’s death, and his ultimate success with Rudolph, Bob May has captured a sense of serenity. As each Christmas rolls around, he recalls with thankfulness the night when his daughter Barbara’s question inspired him to write the story.