#monstrum lucis

[videli-jste-tento-film]

tumblr nezná 200 filmů! aneb 30. statistika

Zlé pondělí (1960) : nezná 94 %, vidělo 0 %

Nenasytná Tiffany (2015) : nezná 91,5 %, vidělo 4,2 %

Boxer a smrť (1962) : nezná 91 %, vidělo 0 %

Kára plná bolesti (1985) : nezná 90,7 %, vidělo 0 %

Monstrum z galaxie Arkana (1981) : nezná 88,9 %, vidělo 5,6 %

Konec srpna v hotelu Ozon (1966) : nezná 88,3 %, vidělo 5 %

Ženy u benzinu (1939) : nezná 87,7 %, vidělo 5,3 % N

Ďábelské líbánky (1970) : nezná 86,8 %, vidělo 0 %

Mučedníci lásky (1966) : nezná 86,8 %, vidělo 1,9 %

Záhrada (1995) : nezná 86,1 %, vidělo 1,4 %

nenáhodné poznatky: speciální faktoidní edice

zastoupení filmů podle dekády vypadá takto:

V absolutních číslech nejméně známe 80. léta a první dekádu tohoto tisíciletí, nejméně prozkoumané jsou ale 40. léta (ten jeden film z dvacátých let nepočítaje). Nejvíce naopak známe filmy z 50. let, ale i tady nastal oproti první velké stovkové statistice posun – tehdy bylo poměrné zastoupení neznámých filmů v rámci padesátek jen 7,7 %.

prokletí roku 1966 pokračuje, v této chvíli neznáte hned 11 filmů z tohoto roku a ještě jste ani jeden film neviděli (hanba!)

14 filmů neviděl vůbec nikdo, 4 z nich jsou zároveň nejméně známé (v top 10, viz výše)

o neznámých filmech hlasuje v průměru 62,8 člověka (maximum 102, minimum [nařízeně] 50), o všech filmech dohromady je to 67,6 člověka a u viděných je to rekordního 74,8 člověka

teď něco málo o žánru:

Do tohoto o něco méně lame grafu než minule jsem zanesla hodnoty, co mi hlásí ČSFD (někdy jsou dost pochybné, ale je to to jediné, co mám). Do žánru nepočítám věci jako animovaný, loutkový nebo krátkometrážní, protože to prostě nejsou žánry, sorry jako. Tedy každopádně – nejvíce neznámých filmů se hlásí k žánru komedie, pak jsou to žánry drama, pohádka, psychologický, romantický, krimi a pak nějaké drobné. S novou stovkou se přidal jeden úplně nový žánr: road-movie se dvěma filmy. Exciting stuff.

a teď něco o režisérech, kteří si jako jediní zaslouží veškerou pozornost, neasi

má snaha zpropagovat Věru Chytilovou vedla k tomu, že žebříčku nejméně známých filmů předsedá žena (yay, vítězství feminismu!) s 11 filmy – to je o 5 filmů víc než druhý režisér v pořadí, Martin Frič

žen režisérek máme celkem 12 a dohromady natočily 25 neznámých filmů: Věra Chytilová (11), Irena Pavlásková, Věra Plívová-Šimková, Libuše Koutná (2), Lucia Klein Svoboda, Tereza Nvotová, Daria Kashcheeva, Zuzana Zemanová, Ester Krumbachová, Drahomíra Králová, Jiřina Pokorná-Makoszová, Helena Třeštíková (1)

z plodnějších režisérů neznámých filmů výběrově: Martin Frič (6), Zdeněk Podskalský, Otakar Vávra, Juraj Herz, Tomáš Votel (5), Jan Schmidt, Karel Kachyňa (4)

A to by bylo myslím dostatečně fakt a faktoidů. Pod perexem najdete zbytek seznamu (tj. mimo top 10) s označením těch nejnověji přidaných. U statistik zase jindy ♥

Tvár v okne (1963)

Poslední ples na rožňovské plovárně (1974)

O slavnosti a hostech (1966)

V žáru královské lásky (1990)

Normal (2009)

Temné slunce (1980)

Hezké chvilky bez záruky (2006)

Srpnová neděle (1960) N

Pirko (2016)

Škola otců (1957)

Anděl Exit (2000)

Dívka s mušlí (1980)

Roh Gondoru (2020)

Eva Nová (2015)

Špína (2017)

Mí Pražané mi rozumějí (1991) N

Babičky dobíjejte přesně! (1983)

Řád saténových mašlí (2000)

O kouzelném zvonu (1998)

Dvojrole (1999)

Pumpaři od Zlaté podkovy (1978)

Luk královny Dorotky (1970)

Dva týdny štěstí (1940)

Tanečnice (1943)

Pacho, hybský zbojník (1975)

Hroch (1973)

Dotek motýla (1972)

Muž z prvního století (1961)

Tichá bolest (1990)

Jak napálit advokáta (1980)

Ten, kdo tě miloval (2018)

Prach a broky (2015)

Kalamita (1980)

Mlhy na blatech (1943)

Ovoce stromů rajských jíme (1969)

Lucie (2011)

Pražská 5 (1988)

Lidé na kře (1937) N

Pohádkové počasí (2008)

Člověk proti zkáze (1989)

Kráva (1992)

Intimní osvětlení (1965)

Fantom Morrisvillu (1966)

Jaké vlasy má Zlatovláska? (1992)

Jídlo (1992)

Cena za štěstí (2019)

Paralelní světy (2001)

Labakan (1956)

Hodinu nevíš... (2009)

Prázdniny v Provence (2016)

Provdám svou ženu (1941)

Ohnivé ženy mezi námi (1987)

Kam čert nemůže (1959)

Electra (2023) N

Z města cesta (2002)

Křižáček (2017)

Všichni musí být v pyžamu (1984)

Pražské orgie (2019)

Lebensborn – Pramen života (2000)

Děvčata, nedejte se! (1937)

Křtiny (1981)

Milenci v roce jedna (1973)

Výlet (2002)

Dým bramborové natě (1976)

Všiváci (2014)

Byl jsem mladistvým intelektuálem (1999)

Stíny Kraje (2023)

Zkřížené meče (1998)

Smuteční slavnost (1969)

Operace Silver A (2007)

Hra o jablko (1976)

Městem chodí Mikuláš (1992)

Shoky & Morthy: Poslední velká akce (2021)

Vlčí bouda (1986)

Lesapán (2015)

Lízin let do nebe (1937)

Výbuch bude v pět (1984)

Extase (1932)

Pějme píseň dohola (1990)

Zločin v šantánu (1968)

Káťa a krokodýl (1966)

Klec (2019)

Pytel blech (1962)

Na vlastní nebezpečí (2007)

Srdečný pozdrav ze zeměkoule (1982)

Měsíc nad řekou (1953)

Třináctá komnata (1968)

Kočár do Vídně (1966)

Perníková věž (2002)

Jak ukrást Dagmaru (2001)

Ohnivé ženy (1984)

Smrt talentovaného ševce (1982)

Černý Petr (1963)

Hvězda zvaná Pelyněk (1964)

Pojedeme k moři (2014)

Kopytem sem, kopytem tam (1988) N

Ten svetr si nesvlíkej (1980)

Valentin Dobrotivý (1942)

Když Burian Prášil (1940)

Štěstí (2005)

Skřítek (2005)

Čas sluhů (1989)

Pepa (2018)

Invalid (2023)

Pánská jízda (2004)

Párty Hárder: Summer Massacre (2022)

Konec starých času (1989)

Kdo probudí Pindruše...? (1989)

Přišla v noci (2023)

Na střeše (2019)

Kouzelná tetička Valentýna (2008)

Erotikon (1929)

Vražda Ing. Čerta (1970)

Deváté srdce (1979)

Andělská tvář (2001)

O zakletém králi a odvážném Martinovi (2018)

Ikarie XB-1 (1963)

Roztomilý člověk (1941)

Cech panen kutnohorských (1938) N

Nikdy neříkej nikdy (2023)

Učitel tance (1994)

Slaměný klobouk (1971)

Vy nám taky, šéfe (2008)

Případ mrtvého nebožtíka (2020)

Malvína (2003) N

Panelstory aneb Jak se rodí sídliště (1979)

Božská Ema (1979)

Sedím na konári a je mi dobre (1989)

Hrdinný kapitán Korkorán (1934)

Kohout plaší smrt (1961)

Pohádka máje (1940)

Zločin v Polné (2016)

Dáma na kolejích (1966)

Poupata (2011)

Partie krásného dragouna (1970)

O svatební krajce (2003)

Chata na prodej (2018)

Svatba upírů (1992)

Úsměvy smutných mužů (2018)

Elixír a Halíbela (2001)

Lajka (2017)

Gangster Ka (2015)

O princi Bečkovi (1988)

Kočičí princ (1978)

Grand Prix (2022)

Královský slib (2001)

Morgiana (1972)

Šašek a královna (1987)

Čarodějky z předměstí (1990)

Karamazovi (2008) N

Láska je láska (2012)

Něco z Alenky (1988)

Párty Hárd (2019)

Anton Špelec, ostrostřelec (1932)

Je třeba zabít Sekala (1998)

Lelíček ve službách Sherlocka Holmesa (1932)

Mazaný Filip (2003)

Vybíjená (2015)

Colette (2013)

Dalskabáty, hříšná ves aneb Zapomenutý čert (1976)

Otesánek (2000)

Instalatér z Tuchlovic (2016)

Sestřičky (1983)

Venkovský učitel (2008)

Tisícročná včela (1983)

Přijela k nám pouť (1973)

Hodíme se k sobě, miláčku...? (1974)

Sněžný drak (2013)

Faunovo velmi pozdní odpoledne (1983)

Přítelkyně pana ministra (1940)

Knoflíkáři (1997)

Nejlepší přítel (2017)

Český sen (2004)

Nejistá sezóna (1987)

O liečivej vode (2020)

Drahé tety a já (1974)

Upír z Feratu (1982)

Jen ho nechte, ať se bojí (1977)

Tři životy (2007)

Vyšší princip (1960)

Holka na zabití (1975)

Pěnička a Paraplíčko (1970)

Metráček (1971)

Plaváček (1986) N

Kdo chce zabít Jesii? (1966)

Katka (2009)

Kouř (1990)

Anička s lískovými oříšky (1993)

Osada Havranů (1977)

V peřině (2011)

[tanoraqui]

the narrating voice of almighty god: Grog is a simple soul-

Pike: Grog is a PERFECT soul, how DARE you, he’s BEAUTIFUL and PERFECT and-

Matt, alarmed: I didn’t say he wasn’t!

[aqenn]

all of my books feature the reverse found family trope which is. probably me very strongly telling on myself 

[aaeoluss]

I love Lucy with my whole entire heart and I would happily marry her platonically

you guys would be the Most iconic qpr couple honestly. I'm Lucy's author so essentially her father and I absolutely condone this marriage

[thehorrortree]

Submission Window: February 1st - March 30th, 2023 Payment: Contributors copy and 3 cents per word Theme: All Land, Sea, and Space monsters are welcome! Open for submissions February 1 from Dragon’s Roost Press: a dark, speculative new anthology series, THE MIDNIGHT ZONE. Join featured authors Ramsey Campbell, Gemma Files, Gabino Iglesias, Gwendolyn Kiste, Joe R. Lansdale, Jonathan Maberry, Lucy A. Snyder, Jeffrey Thomas, and Gaby Triana, and the twisted editorial minds that brought you Stitched Lips, Appetites, Burnt Fur, and Harmony & Dissonance, to go to strange-and-dark new places, to plumb the depths of a Twilight Zone with sand in its teeth. For our first sojourn, editors Douglas Gwilym & Ken MacGregor will aim the submersible toward the place where the unseen monsters feed–Novus Monstrum. Send us your original story that meaningfully features a never-before-seen monster (however you define the word). Submissions will be open from Feb. 1 to March 30. Length 1k-5k, with a sweet spot of 3k. 3 cents a word plus contributor’s copy. MORE DETAILS TO COME! This is just an advance notice so that you have a chance to get started! Post will be updated with all of the details ASAP! [Full guidelines coming mid-January. Please note, ALL LAND, SEA, AND SPACE MONSTERS ARE WELCOME.]

[itsitchyfeet]

Welcome to Belfast

Hallo zusammen,

die ersten paar Tage in Belfast sind wie im Fluge vergangen, weshalb ich jetzt mal den freien Nachmittag heute nutzen werden, um euch auf den neusten Stand zu bringen. Aber von vorne:

Es ist Sonntag, 09.09.2018, zu nachtschlafender Zeit. Gegen 3:50 Uhr in der Früh reißt ein ohrenbetäubendes Geräusch, aka mein Wecker mich aus meinem Schlaf. Schlaftrunken stolpere ich die Treppen runter, wo Fine ganz verdattert aus der Wäsche schaut, um noch schnell die letzten Sachen in meinem Monstrum von Koffer zu verstauen. Gerade einmal 40 Minuten später geht es dann, mit Papa und Mama im Gepäck, Richtung Flughafen Hamburg. Dort angekommen wollen wir nach Gepäckaufgabe eigentlich noch etwas frühstücken gehen, aber leider machen die Restaurants erst um 6:30 Uhr, also in einer halben Stunde auf. Also kein Frühstück, sondern ab durch die Sicherheitskontrolle. Drinnen komme ich zum Glück doch noch an etwas Essbarem vorbei, sodass mein leerer Magen die anderen Fluggäste nicht nerven muss.

Nach einem kurzen Flug stehen dann 4 Stunden Aufenthalt in London Heathrow an. Leider waren die Verbindungen nämlich so blöd, dass man entweder nur 60, oder eben dann ganze 240 Minuten Aufenthalt hat. Ersteres wären letztendlich wirklich knapp geworden, da ich noch durch Passkontrolle und zweite Sicherheitskontrolle musste. 

Schlussendlich sind aber auch diese 4 Std wirklich schnell rum gegangen, und schon saß ich im zweiten Flieger, der mich zum Belfast City Airport bringen sollte. Meinem Schlafmangel sei Dank bin ich bereits kurz nach Start eingeratzt, und erst kurz vor Landung wieder aufgewacht. Warum kann nicht jeder Flug so schnell vergehen?

Belfast City Airport ist zum Glück ziemlich klein, so dass ich gar nicht lange laufen oder auf mein Gepäck warten musste. In der Ankunftshalle wartete dann schon schon mein Empfangskommittee: Judith und Geraldine, meine beiden Kommilitoninnen aus Rotterdam. Judith ist Deutsche und studiert zusammen mit mir Psychologie, wir kannten uns also vorher schon ein wenig, hatten aber nie sonderlich viel miteinander zu tun. Und Geraldine (gesprochen Cheraldine, mit dem NL-typischen kratzigen CH) ist Niederländerin, studiert Public Administration. Ich kannte sie noch nicht persönlich, aber wir hatten vorher schon eine WhatsApp Gruppe zu dritt. Außerdem wurden alle Neuankömmlinge von einer Truppe Queen’s Studierenden (!!) begrüßt. Da Geraldine und Judith noch zu Ikea wollten, bin ich dann alleine mit ein paar anderen in den Bus Richtung Elms Village, meinem neuen zu Hause, gesetzt worden. Auf dem Weg habe ich noch Lucie aus Frankreich kennengelernt.

Hier angekommen haben wir eingecheckt, und wurden dann von ein paar RA’s (Resident Assistants, das sind selbst Studierende, die hier auch im Dorf leben, und an die man sich mit allem wenden kann) zu unseren Unterkünften begleitet. Ich wurde im Chestnut Crescent, Haus 4, Zimmer G11 untergebracht. Wie ich schon befürchtet hatte, stellte sich dann heraus, dass mein Zimmer leider direkt neben der Eingangstür zum Gebäude liegt. Heißt also, dass nicht nur jeder rein schauen kann, sondern es auch ziemlich laut ist, wenn Leute das Gebäude betreten. Aber gut, immerhin habe ich ein eigenes Bad mit Dusche und WC.

Den Rest des Tages haben wir dann nicht mehr viel gemacht, wir waren noch einkaufen, und Pizza essen im Treehouse, welches eine Art Gemeinschaftsraum ist, mit kleiner Bar, Restaurant, Supermarkt, etc. 

Am nächsten Tag waren wir dann morgens direkt wieder einkaufen, um noch ein paar größere Sachen zu holen. Später nachmittags sind Judith, Gerry (Geraldine hat sich schnell als für einige Nationalitäten unaussprechbar herausgestellt) und ich schwimmen gegangen. Abends haben wir dann ein paar mehr Leute kennengelernt, hauptsächlich (leider) Deutsche - sie sind einfach überall- aber auch ein paar Niederländer und Franzosen. Das schöne hier ist wirklich, dass wir alle maximal 5 Minuten voneinander entfernt wohnen, und man sich keine Sorgen machen muss, wie man nachts noch nach Hause kommt. Vor allem bin ich so nicht so einsam, denn auf meiner Etage bin ich nach wie vor leider alleine. Jedes Mal, wenn ich nach Hause komme, laufe ich hoffnungsvoll in die Küche, um zu schauen, ob noch ein Regal besetzt ist, aber bisher ist leider noch niemand aufgetaucht.

Dienstag haben wir ein wenig die Stadt erkundet. Belfast ist mit 300.000 Einwohnern nur ca. halb so groß wie Rotterdam, und deshalb gut zu Fuß anzuschauen. Vom Elms Village sind es ca. 30 Minuten zu Fuß in die Stadt. Es gibt eine große Mall mit einer Kuppel, von wo aus man einen tollen Blick über Belfast hat. Und einen Fluß mitten durch die Stadt, an dem man auch schön entlanglaufen kann. Abends gab es ein kostenloses Dinner der Christian Union, wo wir ehrenamtliche Einheimische aus Belfast kennengelernt haben. 

Mittwoch morgen und heute gingen dann die Einführungsveranstaltungen los. Wir haben viele Informationen zu Belfast und dem Erasmus Programm erhalten, und immer und immer wieder viele neue Leute kennengelernt. Mittwoch Nachmittag außerdem noch ein großes Highlight: wir haben uns Fahrräder gekauft. Für 50 Pfund gab es gebrauchte Räder aus einem Charity Projekt, in welchem alte Fahrräder repariert werden, und so Arbeitsplätze für Menschen geschaffen werden, die sonst am Arbeitsmarkt wenig Chancen haben. Der Erlös durch die Räder fließt zurück in das Projekt. Unterstützenswert, fanden wir. Von nun an also zu Rad, und nicht mehr zu Fuß unterwegs. 

Das generelle Fazit bisher lautet: 

1. Es gefällt mir total gut. Ich bin zwar etwas unglücklich nach wie vor mit meinem Zimmer, aber eventuell gibt es ab Mitte Oktober die Möglichkeit, zu tauschen, oder ich gewöhne mich dran. Inzwischen sind wohl so 2-3 Leute eingezogen, von denen ich aber noch niemanden gesehen (nur gehört) habe. Da es wohl keine Erasmusstudenten sind, fürchte ich, dass es sich hauptsächlich um Erstis handeln wird, und die RA’s bisher haben uns bereits vor nächster Woche gewarnt. Da ist hier nämlich für die anderen Orientierungswoche, und es heißt dass die “Freshers” dann gut und gerne mal, das erste Mal von zu Hause weg, über die Stränge schlagen. Ich bin gespannt wie viel ich schlafen werde... :D 

2. Es gibt hier so wahnsinnig viel kostenloses Essen. Hier Frühstück, da Pizza. Abendessen, Mittagessen, Snacks, dazwischen Kaffee und Tee. Falls das so weiter geht brauche ich auf dem Rückweg zwei Sitzplätze...

3. Ich kann kein Englisch. Nein, so schlimm ist es nicht, aber mein Selbstvertrauen in Sachen Sprache hat doch einen kleinen Dämpfer bekommen. Es ist wirklich nicht so einfach, manche Nord-Iren zu verstehen. Zum Glück habe ich aber einige Muttersprachler gefragt, und sogar die haben ab und zu Probleme, den Iren zu folgen. Es liegt also (vielleicht) nicht NUR an mir.

4. Es regnet wirklich viel.

5. Mir sind hier wirklich fast ausschließlich wirklich nette Menschen begegnet. Sowohl die Mitarbeiter der Uni und des Elms Village, als auch die RA’s, und andere lokale Studenten, als auch die anderen Erasmus Leute sind freundlich, aufgeschlossen und ausgesprochen hilfsbereit bei jeglicher Frage. Zum Beispiel hatte der Bademeister im Schwimmbad Badekappen für uns, die hier Pflicht sind, was wir aber nicht wussten. Der Security Mann im Supermarkt hat bei einem klemmenden Schloss geholfen. Der Taxi Fahrer hat uns ein Foto in seinem Taxi machen lassen. Und und und. Es fühlt sich wirklich so an, als wäre man hier willkommen. Schade, dass es nicht allen Ausländern in ihren neuen Heimaten so gehen kann.

Ich versuche euch auf jeden Falls so oft es geht auf dem Laufenden zu halten. Liebste Grüße aus Belfast,

eure Lina

[prijedor24]

Banja Luka: Povjerila se drugaricama da ju je otac silovao

Banjalučki policajci tragaju za muškarcem iz grada na Vrbasu zbog sumnje da je seksualno zlostavljao 14-godišnju kćerku, s kojom je imao spolne odnose!

  Zatražila pomoć

Prema saznanjima policije, otac monstrum, prije nego što je cijeli slučaj prijavljen, otišao je u inozemstvo da radi i trenutno je nedostupan istražnim organima. Ukoliko se uskoro ne pojavi u Banjoj Luci, za njim će, vjerovatno,…

[pangeanews]

“Ha vissuto più vite messe assieme, è un mostro, pare uscito da un album della Marvel”: Gian Ruggero Manzoni eroe da romanzo raccontato da Pier Paolo Giannubilo

Da una parte mi azzanno le dita, dall’altra giubilo. La prima volta – per quello che diceva, mescolando l’alfabeto divino di Abulafia alle poesie di Scipione, le memorie di Amelia Rosselli al manuale di un monaco stilita – poi c’era quel viso, quel cranio, austero come uno scudo acheo – e la fuga e la foga del Nostromo di Joseph Conrad – vedete, la prima volta mi era sembrato di essere al cospetto di Kurtz. Quello di Cuore di tenebra. Però riletto, nella giungla guerresca, da Coppola, Apocalypse Now, dove Kurtz è un colonnello americano con il ceffo indimenticato di Marlon Brando. Gian Ruggero Manzoni. Famiglia di schiatta nobile, villa decadente nella folta provincia romagnola, a Lugo, terra di sgozzapreti, di falsari, di banditi, un po’ sciamano, un po’ pistolero. Alchimista. Pericoloso. Di albina generosità. Artista. L’incontro con Gian Ruggero Manzoni, ideatore di imprese letterarie garibaldine e banditesche, di riviste e di cenacoli – feci parte di quel gruppo di “poeti per una metavanguardia”, era il 2004, c’erano, tra gli undici accoliti accolti, Andrea Ponso e il compianto Danni Antonello – dall’impeto poundiano, ha sempre come esito un KO, uno schianto. GRM è l’emblema dell’eccesso: eccessivamente ambiguo, eccessivamente obbediente, radicale nella conversione e nella passione. Avrei dovuto farci un romanzo. Lo ha fatto un altro. Pier Paolo Giannubilo. Scrittore di pregio (Corpi estranei, 2008; Lo sguardo impuro, 2014), incrocia GRM nel 2004, gli parla nel 2008, lo rivede nel 2012, gli scatta l’indole dell’idea. Una intervista. In cui GRM confessi tutto. Vita, onori, amori, dissapori. Soprattutto. Gli anni delle missioni impossibili nei Balcani e in capo al mondo, su cui aleggiano leggende torbide. Esito di un patto contratto con le forze dell’ordine per evitare la prigione durante i Settanta, quando GRM alterna le chiacchierate con Tondelli alla lotta armata (si fa per dire: le armi sarà costretto a prenderle, per davvero, dopo). Giannubilo si chiude in casa Manzoni per giorni. Raccoglie il materiale. Roba da far rileggere ai puri di cuore trent’anni di storia patria. C’è tutto, lì dentro: assassinio e rapina del talento, amori estremi, vendette, tradimenti, il perdono, l’assioma della disciplina. Nasce così, sinuosa divagazione sul tema amore&morte, Il risolutore (Rizzoli, 2019), in cui Giannubilo racconta gli estremismi di un personaggio assoluto, senza tinte agiografiche, piuttosto – mungo la morale – dimostrando come solo chi precipita nel sottosuolo, nella tenebra umana, nel nulla, può con altrettanto slancio gettarsi nell’abbraccio del Perdonatore, può lasciarsi disintegrare nella luce bianca del Figlio dell’Uomo. L’unico appunto al romanzo, che ha un ritmo invidiabile (incipit che folgora: “Il bisonte è smandriato, confuso, incespica sugli zoccoli e ruzzola con la gobba nella polvere. Si rialza sulle zampe e si rilancia al galoppo nella prateria, seguendo la rotta obbligata che lo conduce sull’orlo del precipizio”), pare un raffinato film d’azione di Michael Mann, è che lascia alle voglie del lettore – di solito, ignoto – il gusto di affrontare il GRM artista, cioè quello che, finita la buriana della vita, resterà, il poeta che ha dissezionato dall’azione opere di superba potenza. Ho avuto il privilegio di far pubblicare uno smilzo, potente romanzo di Manzoni, Acufeni (Guaraldi, 2015), ‘GianRuggente’ sa che amo più di tutto Il morbo, romanzo dalla corrusca grandezza edito da Diabasis nel 2005. L’opera micidiale, però, è quella poetica, disseminata in diverse edizioni d’arte, raccolta nel 2003 da Il Bradipo in un libro-culto, Scritture scelte. Ecco, spero che uno degli esiti ultimi del romanzo di Giannubilo – bello di per sé, sia chiaro – sia anche quello di pubblicare e di far ripubblicare come si deve GRM, uno dei grandi scrittori del nostro tempo, assai più vasto di tanti decantati americani o francesoidi (GRM si pappa a colazione Carrère, quel fustino, per dire). Altrimenti resterà in gola il bilioso paradosso: abbiamo GRM ridotto a personaggio ‘da romanzo’, ma ci manca, ovunque, nelle librerie patrie, lo scrittore, l’artista, il genio del verbo. (Davide Brullo)

Parto citandoti. “La sua vita è la favola nera più scioccante che io abbia mai ascoltato”. In questa ‘favola nera’ – eppure, così piena di gioia creativa – si confonde l’io che narra, cioè tu: è così? Cosa hai rivisto di te in Manzoni?

Fra Manzoni e me c’è stato fin dal principio un involontario e inatteso gioco di specchi, e presto mi è stato chiaro che il racconto avrebbe preso la piega di un viaggio anche nella mia storia personale, oltre che nella sua. Come scrivo a un certo punto del romanzo, mentre lui mi rendeva partecipe dei suoi segreti nel corso dell’intervista, ne ero spaventato almeno quanto ne ero attratto. Poi, però, più scavavo nelle contraddizioni del personaggio, nel pozzo delle sue ambiguità psicologiche, più sentivo che ciò che avevamo in comune non era qualcosa di marginale. E non parlo di questioni che riguardano solo me in senso stretto, ma tanti della mia e della sua generazione. La dipendenza dal riconoscimento altrui. Una sorta di inesausta fame d’amore surrogata in certe dinamiche seduttive. L’esigenza costante si farsi percepire performanti. La volontà di lasciare un segno del proprio passaggio sulla Terra. Tornando alla questione degli specchi, è stato come prendere coscienza un po’ alla volta che Manzoni, pur col suo vissuto così radicale, non era affatto un alieno, ma un uomo fatto della stessa sostanza mia e della gente comune. Il bisogno di risarcimento, le rimostranze nei confronti della specie umana possono innescare processi spaventosi. A Manzoni, diciamo così, la situazione è decisamente sfuggita di mano.

Anni Settanta, Servizi segreti, Biennale di Venezia, mortai, pallottole, poesia. Missioni clamorose e Tondelli. Nobile genia e desiderio di perdizione. Amore e morte. Perché hai scelto proprio Gian Ruggero Manzoni, artista noto ai sapienti ma ignoto ai più, come icona per un romanzo? Che tipo di fascino e di ‘contemporaneità’ emana, al di là delle storture macchiettistiche, da fumetto?

Per il paradosso che ho introdotto prima, Manzoni ha in sé contemporaneamente i caratteri del monstrum, nel senso latino del termine, di prodigio, di essere strano, e dell’uomo qualunque, il conoscente della porta accanto. Al di là della sua vicenda umana fuori dall’ordinario, mi ha molto colpito la sua aspirazione a redimersi. Ha vissuto l’equivalente di un numero esagerato di vite messe assieme, è una miniera di esperienze e storie al limite della plausibilità, pare davvero uscito da un albo della Marvel. Una vicenda biografica così iper-romanzesca andava assolutamente raccontata, ma non solo per il fascino maledetto che promana, bensì per quanto può insegnare.

Una grande vita feconda sempre una grande contraddizione?

Direi proprio di sì. Nelle esistenze letterarie come in quelle reali. Ma parimenti, grandi contraddizioni fecondano grandi vite.

Qual è il cuore della vita di Manzoni, a tuo avviso, il momento della svolta esistenziale? E quale l’episodio che ti ha più divertito narrare? E quello che ti ha intimorito di più?

Potrei rispondere facilmente: la seconda missione bosniaca, dove è sopravvissuto per grazia ricevuta. Ma il suo percorso è stato così complesso e ingarbugliato che non ha, a mio giudizio, un solo punto di svolta, piuttosto è una serie ininterrotta di scatti in avanti, ritorni, fughe, ripensamenti e ripartenze… Più facile individuare un fil rouge, e parlo dell’amore che ha portato e porta a due persone: suo padre e sua figlia. Non credo di peccare di un eccesso di romanticismo se dico che il desiderio di strapparsi di dosso la vecchia pelle abbia avuto a che fare essenzialmente con i suoi sentimenti verso queste due persone, che sono poi il suo sangue.  Per quanto riguarda gli aspetti più leggeri, l’episodio di Manzoni nella zona a luci rosse di Bordeaux insieme al Macellaio, il camionista col quale viaggiava in giro per l’Europa, mi strappa un sorriso ogni volta che ci ripenso.  Quanto all’ultima questione, il Risolutore è un’infilata di situazioni raggelanti, alcune delle quali mi hanno tenuto col fiato sospeso giorno dopo giorno, nei primi anni di composizione del romanzo. Ma meglio non anticipare nulla al lettore, per non rovinargli il piacere della scoperta.

Alla porzione ‘in battaglia’ alterni quella dedicata alla vita privata (la vita con Ester, soprattutto). Mi pare che manchi la parte del Manzoni poeta, romanziere, ideatore di cenacoli artistici, di avventure letterarie. Ancora di più: sarebbe stato opportuno aggiungere, forse, una bibliografia in calce al libro per permettere al lettore, affascinato dal ‘personaggio’, di aggirare la vita precipitandosi nell’opera. Dimmi.

È vero, il racconto del Manzoni artista, scrittore e intellettuale è ridotto all’osso. E con mio grande rammarico, confesso. In origine avevo detto parecchio anche su questi aspetti, ma come sempre avviene molte pagine sono state tagliate – il manoscritto era oggettivamente sterminato. Ad ogni revisione ho sottratto delle grosse parti sulle quali avevo trascorso mesi e mesi di lavoro di lima. È un processo che fa male al cuore di ogni autore, come ben sa di scrive narrativa, ma si tratta in fondo di rinunce necessarie alla fruizione dell’opera. Il Manzoni en plein air è ad ogni modo accessibile a tutti, volendolo approfondire; l’obiettivo di questo libro era svelarne la parte oscura.

Quanto, a tuo dire, la vita di Manzoni ha influito sulla sua opera? A tratti, mi pare, il contemplativo decapita il guerriero – e viceversa. In pratica, ti chiedo una riflessione sui termini opposti (ma riassunti, credo, drammaticamente, in Manzoni) ‘azione’ e ‘contemplazione’.

In un passo definisco Manzoni un polytropos, affibbiandogli l’aggettivo greco “dai molti giri” riferito a Odisseo, poveramente traducibile con l’italiano “multiforme”. Un oggetto d’indagine di questo tipo confonde la visione. Ma la mia sensazione è che il contemplativo e l’uomo d’azione abbiano agito in lui uno accanto all’altro, a ore alterne, in una singolarissima, stramba dinamica di compresenza.

Quale opera di Manzoni ti ha affascinato di più? Quale opera, in assoluto, ti ha aiutato a perfezionare la strategia narrativa per raccontare Manzoni?

I teatranti perduti, una composizione di medaglioni dedicati da Manzoni ciascuno alla vita di un parente stretto (genitori, nonni, zia…) è a mio giudizio un capolavoro del genere biografico. Oltre a essere una lettura coinvolgente che consiglio a tutti, è stata la mia fonte primaria, è grazie a questo libro che ho potuto ricostruire il background di Manzoni. Ho attinto lì interi episodi, e li ho trasfusi nel mio romanzo a volte senza neanche citarli come manzoniani, tanto si integravano in modo fluido nella mia trama. Virgolettare quei passaggi mi dava l’impressione di rovinare un piccolo miracolo… Rispetto alla seconda domanda, so che non è possibile non citare in via prioritaria il Limonov di Carrere, ma aggiungerei anche un classico della storiografia, Stalin di Robert Conquest, e poi, per motivi diversi, True Story di Michael Finkel e La spada di Mishima di Christopher Ross.

*In copertina: Matteo Bosi, “Ritratto di Gian Ruggero Manzoni”, fotografia, 2016

L'articolo “Ha vissuto più vite messe assieme, è un mostro, pare uscito da un album della Marvel”: Gian Ruggero Manzoni eroe da romanzo raccontato da Pier Paolo Giannubilo proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news http://bit.ly/2RHJcfS

[videli-jste-tento-film]

tumblr nezná Monstrum z galaxie Arkana :(

V koprodukci s Jugoslávií vznikl v roce 1981 sci-fi snímek režiséra Dušana Vukotiće, pod jehož scénářem je podepsaný specialista na bláznivé komedie Miloš Macourek. Protagonistou vyprávění je mladík Robert, který pracuje jako recepční v plážovém hotelu. Spíš než o hosty a svou dívku Bibu se ovšem Robert zajímá o rozepsaný text o rodině mimozemšťanů – dokonce natolik, že se mu povede hrdiny zhmotnit v našem světě. Robert a Biba se vydávají na ostrov, kde mimozemšťané přistáli. Díky jejich aktivitám se poklidný život v přímořském letovisku od základu změní. Soupeření mezi Bibou a obyvateli planety Tugador se ovšem pro budoucnost mladého pozemského páru nevyvíjí moc dobře... Hlavní postavy v nevyváženém snímku ztvárnili Žarko Potočnjak a Lucie Žulová. Nejdůležitější atrakcí ve filmu je však titulní mimozemská příšera z dílny výtvarníka Jana Švankmajera. (filmovýpřehled)

Naprosto divoký sestřih (asi?) nejlepších scén z filmu zde, celý film je na youtube v celé své zrnité kráse z VHS, ale jen v chorvatské verzi.

[tanoraqui]

scanlan and pike, weak

[inspired by the Search for Grog cast outfits]

Scanlan adjusted the sit of his sparkling purple jacket for possibly the eleventeenth time, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “I really think I should be coordinating more with Pikey-poo on this. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she’s decided she’d rather run away to the Menagerie Coast? What if she decides to go with the armor at the last minute, and I’m just stuck looking like a flawlessly handsome, charming, not-at-all battle-ready sap?”

“Handsome and stylish,” commented Taryon, whom honestly Scanlan had almost completely come around to having around. It was his own fault that Vox Machina had had a gaping hole of flamboyant ridiculousness to fill, and if he didn’t do that as well as Scanlan himself did, well, at least he had been an incredible boon to the wedding planning.

(The wedding! Between him and Pike! Pike had agreed to marry him! He was going to marry Pike!)

“I still think you shouldn’t be wearin’ pants,” said Grog. He himself was carefully shaven for the occasion, and had - at Vex’s demand - washed his animal pelts.

“We’ve been over that. Your extremely badass man skirts don’t show off the Cube like it deserves.” Scanlan angled his hips in the mirror. The glittering purple fabric of his trousers, same as the coat, pulled taut in all the right places. That was okay, at leas.

He tilted the beret back and forth on his head. “But really - here? Here? Should I change the shade of red?” He spun away from the mirror. “I can’t do this. I have to go find Pike. Or at least Vex or Keyleth or something.”

Percival leaned on the doorframe, blocking the way with his lanky human frame - and the fist-sized metal ball he tossed casually in one hand. “You will not see the bride until the dias. I have been given express permission by the Mistress of the Grey Hunt, and incidentally of this wedding, to restrain you if that is what it takes for you to mind your, ah…marital traditions.”

Scanlan narrowed his eyes, calculating the odds. Then he threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! But you have to help me with this.” He snapped his fingers, summoning and dismissing the illusion. “Mustache? Or no mustache?”

(In the end, it didn’t matter. In the end, he was pretty sure he lost concentration on the illusion when he saw Pike at the altar, in an iridescent purple dress that brought out the blue in her eyes and the light in her smile, perfectly complimented his tuxedo and made his knees go weak.)

[tanoraqui]

Oh hell, I’m stuck on my main nano thing. Let’s just…remember this? Okay, continuing in that style; warning: you won’t get that much out of this if you haven’t both read LotR (or at least watched it) AND watched Critical Role.

So, our story begins on Wilhand Trickfoot’s eleventy-first birthday, which happens to be his neice Pike’s thirty-third, and thus coming-of-age. To the excitement of all of the Shire who are invited, and all those who aren’t but will show up anyway (that is, the rest) there is to be a party of “special magnificence”…

The camera may pan first, however, to a simple cart trundling up the rode to Hobbiton. The cart is simple, but the man who drives it is not: skin naturally dark with tan, hair darker yet, woven with beads of gold, and purple robes worthy of a king—if, perhaps, a little worn with travel. And the contents of the cart! Simple brown boxes, yes, but the clever hobbit children already growing in a crowd, trailing behind, know what they hide. For they recognize the mark: a runic G.

“G for Gigantic!” they whisper not-so-quietly. “G for Grand!”

“I prefer ‘Glorious’” the man calls over his shoulder, or so he seems.

“What you are,” says another hobbit, “is late.” [the movies were very good, okay.]

She stands in a tree by a bend in the road, dark hair streaked with blue, hands on her hips, a little older than those trailing behind the cart. Just on the cusp of adulthood. It is, in fact, her birthday.

“A wizard is never late, Pike Trickfoot,” the glorious driver of the cart says sternly. But he cannot hide the laughter in his eyes. “Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.”

Pike Trickfoot does not bother to hide the laughter. She leaps as it bubbles out, without a care that she might miss the headboard and hit the fireworks instead. She does not, of course.

“Gilmore! It is good to see you again. Wilhand’s been worrying you wouldn’t make it.”

The Party happens. There are wonderful fireworks, including a raging white dragon. There is dancing, and singing—in no small part from Pike’s friend and companion Mr. Scanlan Shorthalt, just a few years older than she. Deft of finger and defter of wit, Scanlan was regarded as a bit of a rogue among the more proper Shirefolk, but always popular among the “wild” youth. And all agreed he could play the shawm as fine as you please, and a dab hand at lute and panpipes to boot. (For all that, Pike is ever-immune to his attempts to woo her, halfway earnest though they are.)

Wilhand gives a brilliant speech, and disappeared. He and Gilmore discussed old adventures, and older treasures. Pike gave chase, s far as Bag End, and inherited a ring. And, you know, Bag End. All of it. It was quite a lot. Really, what’s a single piece of jewelry to an entire household?

(Lol.)

Ought I start the story again, some seventeen years later? When Pike has lived on in Bag End, in Hobbiton, with its rolling his and gentle wind nd sun; its happy, homely folk and their busy farms, rivaled only by their busy gossip…

The latest, I hear, is that Miss Sybil Cotton is with child, and will not tell whom the father is. Some wonder if she even knows. Others, who could be worth protecting. Hobbits, though overall kind, do love a good gossip.

Let’s skip some of the boring bits, shall we? Gilmore reappearing in the dead of night, slamming the doors and flinging Pike’s ring into the fire. Dark words in gold, twisted and burning. A danger. A doom. A plan.

So: preparation. Pike hints that Wilhand’s dragon gold is finally running out, and sells Bag End—dear Bag End, dear childhood home—to her cousin JB Trickfoot, who is by far the least troublesome of her less favorable relations. A timid lass, but not unkind, nor full of avarice (beyond, perhaps, for books, and a healthy, hobbitly affection for mushrooms.)

Scanlan accompanies her as far as her “new” home of Crickhollow, but here’s the thing: Scanlan is a bit of a rogue. At least, he is chronically curious, and nearly as clever as that, and always loves great tales and very rarely took no for an answer. So, that night Gilmore told Pike the legend of the One Ring? He my have been…listening. At the window. And the book Wilhand had been working on for years, the true story of his travels, which he never let anyone but Pike read? Scanlan may have…read that. Just a little. Just a glimpse! (He had to jump back out the window when he heard footsteps coming.)

Also, he does know Pike, and it is clear that she is not just preparing to move houses. She is too sad. And Pike does not get sad like a simple hobbit, with a good cry and some beer. She gets sad like an elf, wandering the hills and growing distant, almost ethereal when the light hits her just right. There has always been something odd about Pike Trickfoot.

Scanlan thinks of many things, as he lets his best friend lie to him (for a time.) He thinks of how he has always dreamed of being part of a story: a real one, an important one, far grander than the little tales and jokes he tells in the taverns each night. He thinks of how Pike, whom he does love, is going into danger surely too great for any lone hobbit, and that he would fain even the odds, however slightly. And he thinks, with some guilt, how he, Scanlan Shorthalt, is really very nervous of being in Hobbiton, or even the Shire at large, in…oh, nine months time. Eight, maybe. The longer the stay away, the safer, probably.

Eventually…

“I’m not staying here, Scanlan,” Pike says quietly. There is an urge to fidget with the ring on the chain round her neck, but she knows that is a bad idea, so she twists her fingers together instead. “I know I made a big to-do about moving here, but the truth is…”

“You’re going to Rivendell,” says Scanlan, and lifts a laden pack from among the luggage they’ve dumped on the floor. “Don’t worry, so am I.”

(Already they have hidden on the road from Black Riders, who left a chill in the air as they passed. But still Scanlan grins, if only because Pike looks like he has hit her with a croquet mallet.)

In the Forest, they are nearly buried alive by a curmudgeonly old willow, and get saved by a bizarre man who calls himself Matt Mercer, wears yellow galoshes and speaks only in song. His wife is the daughter of a ray of sunlight, with hair like flickering flames, and when he puts on the Ring he smiles and does not disappear. [Confession: when convincing people to read Lord of the Rings, I often give them permission to skip the Tom Bombadil chapters. Amazing worldbuilding, Tom and the barrow-wrights alike, but SO useless to the plot.]

Here is more sensical worldbuilding: he town of Bree is the only one in all Middle-Earth, so far as the writer(s) of this tale know, where hobbits and big men live side-by-side, with only as much strife as most neighbors have. The inn is bustling, and well-ready for folk of both sizes. Pike and Scanlan welcome the warm beds, and warmer company, as it was another dark, terrifying race to the ford. All nine Rides in pursuit, their voices fell, their dark hooves pounding and dark hands reaching, calling—something in Pike’s throat, or at least around it, calling back—

Now, the hobbits drink in peace, in the warmth of a fire and a crowded, happy inn. But a stranger sits in a dark corner, and Pike cannot help but glance their way from time to time.

“Oh, that’s a Ranger,” says the innkeeper, Laina, when Pike flags her down to ask (and for another mug of ale.) “Minxie, that one goes by. She’s alright.”

“’Alright’?” asks Pike.

“Well, they mostly keep to themselves, Rangers,” says Laina. “Strange folk. One time…”

Pike loses track of the innkeep’s anecdote, because Scanlan has clambered onto a table and begun to play songs many minutes ago. That is fine—they are trying to be incognito, but even the dark forces of the world could not stop Scanlan from preforming for an audience, and Pike loves him for it. What was not fine is that now he has started to tell tales, which mostly meant gossip—and that, with the event so recent, meant Wilhand’s mysterious disappearance at his own birthday party.

“Excuse me,” says Pike, and dashes over to vault onto the table beside him. She pitches her voice to carry. “Good folk of the Greyskull Keep! I must thank you for your hospitality! Rest assured, when I finish my book, Bree will be well-accounted for as a town most welcoming, and most bestowed—and bestowing!—with great food, and ale, and company!”

She raises her mug, toasting the now-cheering crowd.

“That said, I think it might be time my companion and I retired for night, for tomorrow will be another busy day of—”

Maybe someone jostles the table. Maybe a crowd of tipsy, sloppy cheers left too much ale for to slip on. Maybe Pike has had a mug too many herself, and has lost her usual balance.

Maybe darker forces conspire. As she falls, Pike’s hand goes to her pocket, and as she hits the floor (really a very little fall) her finger slips just so, and the world fills with fog. Voices and shapes all muffled, though they are all exclaiming.

Pike crawls frantically out of the crowd, to the nearest corner and secure table under which to hide, and yanks the Ring off her finger.

No sooner has she stowed it once more beneath her shirt, than a big man’s hand grabs her by the scruff of her shirt and yanks her up. A big woman’s actually—Pike finds herself staring up, in mute terror, at the mysterious Ranger. Her face is still in shadow, but Pike can see sharp eyes, and a sword at her belt.

“You are foolish, and not safe here even if you were wise,” says Minxie. “I will meet you in your room, and we will talk.”

[tanoraqui]

I Meant To Get Further In The Story: the saga of every time I write something like this, why do I even kid myself.

[Prologue, 1, 2, 3 ]

Pike collects Scanlan, quietly this time, and they return to their hobbit-sized room, to fuss at the fire and worry. They don’t have much time to do either—Minxie follows them in, unseen until they’ve cast a little more light around the room. Scanlan jumps, and draws the sword he got from the Barrow-downs, from the old kings of the hills.

Pike lays a hand on his arm, though she does not step in his way.

“Peace,” says the ranger, and draws back her hood to reveal darkly tanned skin, just a shade paler than Gilmore’s, and grey-green eyes and hair like autumn leaves. She keeps her hands raised for another moment, showing them empty, though she does not seem overly concerned.

They talk a little. The ranger explains herself, a little. They do not have time to do more—soon enough, Laina knocks briskly and bustles in, and hands Pike a letter signed with a familiar runic G.

“I do apologize for the delay,” she says, wiping flour- and ale-stained hands on her similarly colored apron. “On just it was just one thing and another, you know? Well, tell me if you need anything else before bed!”

“An urgent matter has arisen,” reads the letter, and “move sooner than planned, alas—you ought be out of the Shire by the end of July, at the VERY latest.” (It was now several days into October.) And “You may meet a Ranger on the road, a friend of mine who goes by the name of ‘Minxie.’ Take her guidance and council well.”

“Hold on a minute,” says Scanlan, still placing himself between Pike and the stranger. “How do we know you’re the real ‘Minxie’ like Gilmore said? You could’ve killed her and stolen her clothes, for all we know.”

“Trust me,” the ranger says quietly. “If I had killed the original Minxie, and I wanted the…trinket you carry, you would be dead and I would have it—now!”

The hobbits leap back as she springs to her feet, cloak flung back, revealing a sword at her hip and a presence fit for battle. Her eyes flash with the firelight, and Scanlan nearly drops the short barrow-sword he does not know how to use.

Then she sits again, with a slight smile, cloak still open to reveal the blade she draws—broken, shattered just a couple inches below the hilt.

“No, I am the original. Minxie, also known as Keyleth, daughter of Vilya. And if by life or death I can save you, I will.”

(“Be sure it is the real Minxie,” says Gilmore’s postscript. “Her true name is Keyleth. All that is gold does not glitter Not all those who wander are lost…”*)

A pony is acquired. A journey is embarked. A terrifying attack in the night sees them off, rooms changed and bedstuff torn to shreds, with the piercing, bone-chilling cry of a Nazgul robbed of their prey.

They reach Weathertop, find a stone marked with three scratches and something like a G, and set up camp as night falls. Minxie sings a tale of heroes, of love in starlight, and at their backs the campfire is warm…but the darkness is cold. Is terribly cold. It reaches into Pike’s bones and steals her breath, especially when Minxie darts away into the shadows for more wood, as they are feeding the fire fast.

No sooner is she gone than there are shapes in the dark, five now, cloaked in black and advancing with cold steel.

Scanlan still doesn’t know how to use his sword, nor Pike her Sting, not really.  The fire drops in the chill wind that accompanies the Ringwraiths, a wind that bears terror in its voice, and Pike runs before she can think. Her hand slips to her chest, toe the Ring on its chain, and she means to clutch it safe, she does, but instead her finger goes through as she yanks—

And stumbles, as the world turns pale, and colder yet. Yet there is light. Not enough to see Scanlan, a small, vague shape shouting in the distance. Quite enough to see the Black Riders, though they are not black in this moment. They are shrouded in dark grey, faceless, nearly formless, save that of ghostly armor and dark, bright eyes. And the one in the lead wears a crown upon her brow, and she reaches down for Pike with queenly grace—demanding, but welcoming, her blade for the moment lowered—

Another dark shape flings itself into the Witch-Queen’s side, far larger than Scanlan. Not Minxie either, though—that is the figure charging up the hill, red-burning torch in hand; she thrusts it like a sword at the Wraiths.

“Leave ‘er alone!” shouts a loud, rough voice. “She’s all tiny!”

The Witch-Queen shoves her assailant back with the strength of the undead, and flings her blade at Pike’s chest. Pike gathers her senses just in time, and rolls, and it hits her shoulder instead. It pierces like ice. Like the winter of legend when the wolves crossed the Brandywine, like a morning plunge into an snow-cold lake.

Pike takes off the Ring.

“Hey,” says an orc, grinning at her with tusks tipped with blood, as the Witch-Queen turns her horse and leaves. “You’re a Trickfoot, right? I been looking for Trickfoots.”

“Trickfeet,” Pike says faintly, on a very, very old reflex. She cannot feel her shoulder. Elsewhere, the other Riders retreat from Minxie’s flames, and Scanlan’s new, smaller torch. They follow their leader’s call.

The orc furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard. “Is that the same thing? The guy I know was Wilhand Trickfoot. Like, one foot. He’s the hobbit I know.”

“Wait.” Pike props herself up on the elbow that she could still feel, that doesn’t seem to be engulfed in ice. “Are you Grog?”

Cursed blades, and some explanation thereof. A very hasty, and then longer, elaboration on that oft-befuddled chapter of a previous tale, on how Wilhand Trickfoot lost his dwarves, found a young orc, and ended up escaping a mountain with him. (The simultaneous realization, on the parts of Pike, Scanlan, and Minxie, that Grog truly believes invisibility to be a natural ability of hobbits.)

Athelas. But even in the hands of a skilled healer, he ancient herb has limits. A shard of the Witch-Queen’s blade is such a limit. It is not long before Pike is being carried rather than walking, by Grog or the pony. They take turns. The Ring stays around her neck, bound once more on its chain, but the world fades anyway, in her mind’s eye. The fog seeps in, and at its heels the chill, so she thinks she will not be warm again.

When two elves ride down the road to meet them, Pike thinks she might be dreaming. For one thing, it is twilight, and the fog that is not there is thick, and she does not see them until well after Minxie gives a glad cry and races ahead. For another, one of them is riding a bear.

She is also holding an arrow nocked at Grog’s head. Pike pushes herself up from his arms to wave that no, no, he’s a friend. Tusks and all.

The Riders come, now the full Nine, their Queen at their head.

“Trinket, get her to safety!” shouts the archer—Vax? Vix? Pike is so cold she feels warm, and cannot keep their names straight. She does not fall off the bear’s back even as he lurches into motion, even as he barrels through four of the Nine who converge on them from ahead, in ambush. Even as they ford the river and it rises at Trinket’s heels, and he turns back with a wild roar at the Riders follow. Pike sees them clearly now: the queen in her crown, the lieutenant-king with his black sword, the rest, royalty all, less mighty but their laughter no less cruel. Pike brandishes her sword, swaying.

But the river is rising in waves of chargåing white horses, and behind them are shadows holding red flames, and two figures of white light, and the shrouded ones are overturned and the mists rise with the waves. Their crashing roar fills the air, fills everything…

And for a while, Pike knows no more.

* I thought, for a moment, that I should attempt to write my own poem for Keyleth. But, like, how could I possibly be better than this one. Just in general.