#my own soul a complete and splendid object

[sprawa-przybyszewskiej]

I cannot claim to know about this play more than some others (Ewa Graczyk, Jagoda Hernik-Spalińska, Kazimiera Ingdahl and Maria Janion, in alphabetical order, are the official Horsewomen of the Apocalypse in this topic), with a lot to bring to the table, and so I will sometimes discuss parts of it which are - at the very least at the first glance - absolutely and doubtlessly simple; but  by discussing them I hope to be able to bring into the discussion some new material, new evidence, perhaps - for the contrary of the popular belief.

I remember when I first read the scene between Danton and Robespierre, I was completely mystified, just as Maxime. To somebody who at that point knew nothing about the historical events, the exchange between them was very logical (and everyone knows how hard it is to obtain, especially in a piece of media where the author blatantly favours one of the characters over another). I am very glad then, to be able to say that while Przybyszewska did everything she could to humiliate and belittle Danton in the more visual aspects of the scene - his gestures, movements, actions, mimicry, even the sound of his voice etc.  - she didn't bother making him out to be a complete clown. His arguments are populistic, but that's not necessarily a bad thing when you're n politician aspiring to be even more than that. Perhaps she thought that painting him out to be a weakling would somehow diminish Robespierre's awesomeness, which is a valid concern. For Robepsierre has little left to do in this scene - it is made out to ba a confrontation between them, of sorts, but is it one, really? I don't think so, not for the large part of it. Robespierre comes in, dishes out few sarcastic lines, looks at Danton with disgust and contempt and then crushes him in a yet another sarcastic line and then leaves. There isn't that much he can do not only to participate in the exchange, but to be visually and audially appealing to the audience as a character in a play. And even though we all know staging The Danton Case is a secondary affair, the main thing you can do with it is to read it and ponder over it, when you do stage it, a lot of responsibility rests on the actors recreating the part. Which is why choosing a good actor can, potentially, make all the difference, sometimes going as far as completely changing the way you view the very same scene you read earlier.

I have always assumed by "the same man" they meant Robespierre. It makes some sense in the light of the conversation, altough I have to admit it makes little sense in the light of Robespierre's reaction. The question thus presented to us is: do we go by what is written, do we percieve a play as a piece of fiction in a real world, OR do we immerse ourselves in the fictional world, suspend our disbelief and for a moment treat it as an alternate reality of sorts?

Polish director Jan Klata has managed to put on stage a compelling retelling of The Danton Case and I would like to present to you a scene from his version, which we're lucky enough to have on YT, with translation courtesy of @that-one-revolutionary​. I've seen the play in its entirety: some metaphors were heavy-handed to say the least, some aspects I wish he'd done differently, but all in all, when choosing the main protagonist, the director casted in the role a truly splendid actor (please note that Marcin Czarnik was young. Young! It made all of the difference and it's worth watching if only for that), who brought home some of the points of character of Robespierre's which could have easily been brushed aside in order to highlight some other aspects of the conversation (the most famous example of this would be the very same scene from Wajda's movie, where the appealing and in all aspects imposing Gerard Depardieu dominantes the scene, thus presentign it in a very different ligt). While it can be read as a political statement, or a match of two great personalities, or a display of cunning on either part, Klata (or Czarnik; it's hard for me to say what the director tried to do with it, a lot of Robespierre's quirks, mimicry, gestures etc. seemed to come directly from the actor, which I can only say because I've seen him in other things and that's sort of his style of acting; all in all, I'll try to treat this not as a discussion over this particular staging, because for that I lack needed data, but it's unavoidable in the long run at least at some points, so please bear that in mind) treats the conversation itself as a minor thing in comparision to what is going on in Maxime's mind at the moment.  Just look at this: there is no significance brought into their meeting, no change of the scenery, nothing indicates this meeting is special in any way. The logical conclusion is, then:  it's not special. Both Danton and Robespierre seem to treat this as a step which cannot be avoided, but which bears no great weight either. The only reason they agreed to make this step altogether is - for "the same man". For Camille.

I do think Przybyszewska's intention was actually to disguise Maxime under this vague title. If this is a play about love - as I will always state it is - she wanted to underline the fact some people will be hatefully loved by those who are beneath them, who have nothing whatsoever in common with the object of their affection simply because the loved one is so great, so genius, so shining and bright it is impossible not to love them. I think this is the relationship between Danton and Robespierre (that is, on Danton's part) up until this point in the play. Danton idolizes Robespierre against his will (against both of their wills, really), because Robespierre is truly made out to be a demi-god at the very least. If you could team up with a hero like this, you should. So Danton goes through a humiliating process of trying to reconcile with Maxime, because humiliation, if everything paid off in the end, would be worth it. That Robespierre doesn't reciprocate the affection is simply a further proof that he is above Danton in every way.

Klata-Czarnik duo seems to have gone into another, subtler direction though. The man that both politicians make an exception for seems to be Camille, moreso because Robespierre loves him than because Danton has any special feelings for him. What is his relationship with Camille, anyway? They are cordial enough, but always a bit on the edge, and we know that Danton doesn't know everything that Camille thinks and feels in regards to Robespierre, mostly because he doesn't care that much, but also because he is characterised as a brute, and this simply goes above his head, it's too subtle, too delicate of a feeling for him to know it. It is also clear he knows Camille pretty well, but he doesn't know his soul, so to say. Therefore, he cannot actually love him, not to the point to make him the one and only excpetion from his otherwise coldly and precisley calculated plans.

Is there, however, a scenario in which Camille could be Danton's exception? Yes, when it becomes more about Robepierre than about Camille. When Camille is sort of offered as a mean to lure Robepierre in. Danton could make this exception only if it meant getting what he wanted (which is later mirrored by his blatant admission that the only reason he lets Camille take the fall with him is to deny Robespierre any joy in life after this point).

Robespierre, however, doesn't see it this way. He actually makes the exception for Camille and I think Danton's words – whatever he means by them, whichever interpretation we think is correct – put him on alert, for the fear of having his secret discovered. In the video linked above it is even more than that – once Robespierre hears Danton indirectly name "the same man", he gets aggressively defensive. For him to have someone like Danton talk almost openly about what he treats as his personal secret (a secret that Danton, being in great familiarity with Camille, could potentially know for certain) is equal with defiling it. I have violated your secret. Do you know what he says in the original? I have raped your secret. It really brings into the focus how much “the secret” needs to be protected, and how much it will hurt Maxime once it’s uncovered and destroyed.This is what he fears pretty much for the entirety of the conversation, his suspiscion somewhat confirmed when Danton says: No catchphrases, Robespierre. I know you.

As I mentioned earlier, the shift in my reading of the scene was prompted by the video. It is worth observing what exactly does Robespierre do when mentioing Camille by surname – he gets visibly more upset, he ponders for a split second for the best way to talk about him. His choice of words is interesting as well:

Both translations here are poor and I quite like what that-one-revolutionary did with it. "Katarynka" is a music-box, so "an instrument" fits much better (not to mention the obvious English connection to the phrase "play like a fiddle", which is adequate here). A parrots is after all a living being, something with a will of its own, if steered by more powerful handlers. But admitting that Camille, from his own free will decided to go against Maxime and everything that Maxime believes in is much harder for Robespierre than calling him an inanimate object, which can be unwittingly used by people with their own agenda. That leaves Camille almost blameless, perhaps careless and foolish, but not responsible fo anything that has transpired.Calling him names serves another purpose as well, which is to steer away the suspiscion that Robespierre protects Camille becuase he cares about him in a special way. He knows there are Danton's accomplices turning ears by the door, so he doesn't want to give himself away with his care and concern.

Ultimately, what do you believe, whom do you think they were referring to I think says a lot about what you think about Maxime's state of mind at the time. Danton's too, though, it can be used as a litmus test whater or not you believe he was honest in idolising Robespierre and offering him his adoration and obedience. In some stagings it will be presented as true, in some as a lie, and that's the beauty of adapting a piece of literature, there are so many options, all blooming from the same roots.

[sunflowers-heart]

October 31st – Ghost Stories

13 Days of Spooky Writing Event

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

Word count: 2,379

Warnings: None

Author’s note: Modern!AU. My last story for the event is also the longest, I hope you enjoy it! Participating was a lot of fun, thank you so much for running it, Jessica, I look forward doing more events in the future! <3

You were never particularly fond of the centuries-old manor you used to live in with your fiancé. No amount of splendid decorations nor modern architectural solutions could stop the overwhelming feeling of being constantly watched, of every single of your steps being followed, of the shadows disappearing in the corner of your eyes whenever you were trying to catch them.

It was odd, considering the fact that Thranduil seemed to not notice any of those things, no ill energy, no suspicious rustles in the middle of the night coming from the floor below your bedroom, nothing strange. He was never the man you would consider as insensitive, on the contrary, under the cold mask of calculation there was a compassionate soul, the one you fell in love in many years ago. It did not took a lot of time for him to ask you to live in his house together—the great, luxurious mansion appearing to you like some kind of untouchable dream. And yet, there you were, sleeping in the soft embrace of the man you loved, in the place people could only dream of.

With the invisible eyes watching your every step.

“Is something bothering you, my love?” Thranduil asked one day, stroking your hair in a caring manner as your cheek rested upon his chest, the book still open in his hand. “You seem tense.”

At first you said nothing. It was the beginning of a wonderful, sunny day, the leaves of a maple tree behind your bedroom’s window shining brightly in gold and orange, the smell of tea and coffee prepared by the cook downstairs reaching your senses and causing your stomach to grumble in need. It was supposed to be your Saturday, the day where none of you were supposed to work and simply enjoy your time together.

If only not for the dreadful feeling that something was terribly wrong.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered and played with a long strand of his platinum hair, twirling it over your finger. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“I understand.” You felt his chest throb when he spoke and then the Adam’s apple to move when he swallowed. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Bad feeling rather.”

“About?”

You frowned. Clarification of your worries was way harder than it seemed and immediately you thought that maybe getting into this subject was not the wisest idea. Supporting your weight on one elbow, you rose up and looked him in the eyes. There was a genuine concern, a will to help, and you wondered how people around you could be so blind to still consider him as ruthless.

“It’s just a stress,” you explained vaguely and kissed the corner of his lips. “No need to worry about, let’s go get breakfast, shall we?”

Whether he did not want to push you or respected your opinion, Thranduil did not ask any more questions. Still, he managed to successfully occupy your mind with kisses and delicious breakfast.

Walking up the stairs, you greeted the maid and headed forward to the dressing room to grab a coat before joining Thranduil on a stroll through the gardens. Although the weather seemed appealing from behind the windows, you quickly found out that it was rather cold once you stepped outside. Blowing wind tossed the fallen leaves all over the estate, giving the gardener a plenty of additional job.

Thankfully, spending the peaceful, completely normal morning with your fiancé was enough to make you lighten up a little, forgetting about the unpleasant incident. Perhaps you truly were overreacting; it was not the first time when your empathy gave you a wrong impression of what was going on around you and if you could only focus on something else, you could quickly realize that there was nothing to be afraid of. You were safe and there was a bright future ahead of you, full of wonderful surprises, marvellous adventures and never-ending love.

Smiling to yourself, you turned right on the first floor and went through the corridor, taking a mental note to take a pair of gloves and a scarf for Thranduil also, before you stopped abruptly and held your breath.

Cold sweat rolled down your spine as your mind was desperately trying to understand what you have just witnessed—to no avail. Frozen in place, you could only stare blankly at the portrait hanging on the wall, the one which has been there since the times of Thranduil’s grandparents. It was all the same as you remembered it; golden frame, heavy movements of brush against the canvas, mostly brown and copper colours used, green armchair appearing as soft and comfortable, roses blooming from the corners, however, now there was one detail missing.

The armchair was now empty.

“I swear to you, I’ve seen it,” you confessed, your trembling hand hidden in Thranduil’s, warmed up by his natural heat, as you led him to the first floor. “She was not there, the lady from the portrait disappeared as if she just casually stood up and went out of her painting. I know it sounds crazy but it’s true.”

Thranduil remained quiet, following you with the long steps until you finally reached the said portrait. Unexpectedly, you felt a wave of relief washing down on you as you realized that the lady was still not present, since you were afraid that once you will go and get your fiancé here, she might come back and therefore make you appear as a lunatic. You were not convinced if he would believe you in the story only.

His answer, however, was as stoic as he always was.

“I see…”

For a long moment, you were staring at the painting. With him by your side, there was new courage in your heart and eventually, you took a step forward, looking at the canvas from a different angle, hoping to maybe see her hiding behind the painted armchair. Naturally, she was not there and the painting was as flat as you could expect.

You peeked over the shoulder when you heard Thranduil walking away and quickly followed him.

“What are we going to do about it?” you asked hesitantly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You blinked in confusion. “There’s a living portrait in the house and we’re supposed to just ignore it?”

“What else should we do?” He raised an eyebrow and this question shushed you successfully.

Indeed, what should you do? Look for her? Where, on the on the other paintings, like in Harry Potter? Put the portrait down, so she would not have a place to come back to? Burn it? Every idea seemed to be more ridiculous than the previous one so you only shook your head in resignation.

You would gladly take a walk in the garden now, but first, you had to add few drops of bourbon to your coffee.

The lady came back on her painting next morning. She was sitting on her armchair in the same position, with the same, soft smile on her lips and you started to wonder whether yesterday happened at all. Thranduil confirmed your inquires to be true and although you still felt like in a dream, the life was going on. This time, however, everytime you passed the painting by, you were eyeing the portrait carefully, looking for any signs of movement, any proof that you were not crazy.

You and your fiancé equally.

She did not move for the next week but it was getting harder and harder to be glad about it, since various objects from the home started to disappear and appear in the same places some time later. First, your favourite mug, then Thranduil’s tie, a shoe, a key to the basement, porcelain figurine, 5th volume of the book series, a vinyl record and a single candle from the candelabra. None of the staff knew what happened and surprisingly, they were as shocked to discover the things reappearing as you were previously.

“Did that happen before?” you asked Thranduil one evening, while sitting by his side in the enormous living room by the fireplace. “Before I moved in, I mean.”

You did not have to explain the details to him, so he would know what were you talking about in an instant.

“Sometimes,” he sighed, still looking at the screen but now paying no attention to the film’s plot.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Why should I?” Corners of his lips turned up in a weak smile. “To scare you off with the ghost stories about my house being haunted?”

Fair point.

“Have you ever tried to… talk to it?”

He sent you a curious gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean trying to communicate. I’m no expert but things like that usually happen when they want something. When they’re lost or scared or lonely. Maybe that’s the way of getting our attention so we can do something about it, while we’re still here.”

Thranduil did not answer for a long time, staring blankly at the screen, completely lost in his own thoughts. When you started to wonder whether he will talk about it with you anymore tonight, he finally spoke again, his voice slow and quiet, barely a tone above a whisper.

“My wife died many years ago. This place changed so much since she left, no current staff remember her and with every passing year, I’m remembering her less and less myself.” Rising a glass, Thranduil took a big sip of the wine but you decided to not interrupt him. It was the first time he has ever started to speak about her so elaborately.

You were aware that he was a widower, he has informed you about that at the beginning of your relationship, just in case you had anything against it. Still, he never spoke about her again as if he was avoiding this topic as much as possible, and you knew better than to start it. She was the love of his life and although at first it unsettled you, seeing the painful, tired expression on his face when he finally brought the subject proved you that there was nothing to be afraid of. His love for her was eternal but it did not lessen the depth of affection he had toward you.

Love was not a pool to divide between the people in certain parts, it was always different and always whole to give.

“She loved this house,” he continued. “She loved her son and she loved me. This place was filled with her love, completely. And truth be told, once she was gone, the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced was waking up one day and realizing that she’s not here anymore. As if she never existed, as if she was just a projection, a fleeting dream, a whisper on the wind… I could no longer touch her, feel her, hear her voice. She was as far away as the stars upon the sky, unreachable, unimaginable.

Then, things like that started to happen, sudden disappearances but nothing harmful, just a simple jokes. Silly games. At first I couldn’t believe my own sight either but it was true and it was not evil. Moreover, it was as if she was still there, a soft reminder that I wasn’t mad, dreaming about her love, and the memories we shared were real.

I missed her every day and please, don’t hate me for that, but I believe I’ll miss her forever, too.”

It was rare to see the tears in his eyes and the sight was enough to make you feel your eyes burning also. Gently, you hugged him, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and stroking his hair, the bittersweet grief squeezing your heart harder than ever before. You loved him more than anything; you were willing to leave your homeland for him, to withstand his difficult, distant personality and eccentric behaviour and to devote the rest of your life for him knowing, that he will never be truly yours.

Holding him in your arms, weeping the tears of sorrow, you loved him more than ever before.

The last thing which mysteriously disappeared in the house was never found.

You were sitting with Thranduil by the long table and enjoying the delicious dinner, listening to the music playing and making plans about your upcoming wedding. Before the meal, you were looking through the album featuring variations of cakes, the one which included so many propositions that it was hard to pick at least five better than the others. You had a feeling that the preparations will take much longer than you previously thought, but the vision of marrying your fiancé was more than appealing.

“I’m afraid to even start a conversation about the decorations,” Thranduil added. “Perhaps it’d be wiser to simply hire someone to take care of it.”

“We’ll see. I don’t want anything to be missing on our special day.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll personally supervise the preparations.”

“That’s a relief.” You sighed dramatically. “Speaking of which, I have some good news for you. The earring, the one I was supposed to wear on the wedding, was found.”

Thranduil tilted his head to the side.

“Was it?”

“Yes. It was in the casket, just where I left it.”

“I’m glad then.” He smiled genuinely. “It would be a shame if I had to buy you multiple new pairs, just in case they got lost also.”

You giggled at that statement, knowing that he was capable of doing this just to make sure that nothing could interrupt your special day. Sometimes, you were starting to think that it was him who was more nervous about the whole act than you, even though he managed to hide it well most of the time.

Taking a sip of your tea, you eventually decided to not tell him about the last thing which seemed to be missing. There was no need to worry him, especially since you were certain that this one will not be found anytime soon. Your insecurity was, after all, the last thing which you wanted back, and the gentle smile of the lady in portrait ensured you that there was nothing to be uncertain about, not in the house, nor about the love of your future husband.

[mattchase82]

Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, Confessor from the Liturgical Year (1904)

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"Oh! how exceeding great is the glory of Aloysius, Son of Ignatius! Never could I have believed it, had not my Jesus shown it to me. Never could I have believed that such glory as that, was to be seen in heaven!" Thus cries out Saint Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, whose memory we were celebrating a month ago: she is speaking in ecstasy. From the heights of Carmel, whence her ken may reach beyond the heavens, she reveals to earth the splendour wherewith the youthful hero of this day shines amidst the celestial phalanxes.

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Yet short was the life of Aloysius, and it had offered nothing to the superficial gaze of a vast majority, save the preliminaries, so to say, of a career broken off in its flower, before bearing fruit of any kind. Ah! God does not account of things as men do; of very slight weight are their appreciations, in His judgment! Even in the case of the saints themselves, the mere fractional number of years, or brilliant deeds, goes far less to the filling up of a life-time, in His view, than does love. The usefulness of a human existence ought surely to be measured, as a matter of fact, by the amount produced in it, of what is lasting. Now beyond this present time charity remains alone, fixed for ever at that precise degree of growth attained during this life of passage. Little matters it, therefore, if without any long duration or any apparent works, one of God's Elect have developed in himself a love as great or greater than some others have done, in the midst of many toils, be they never so holy, and throughout a long career admired of men.

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The illustrious Society that gave Aloysius Gonzaga to holy Church owes the sanctity of her members and the benedictions poured upon their works to the fidelity she has ever professed to this important truth, which throws so much light on the Christian life. From the very first age of her history, it would seem that our Lord Jesus, not content to allow her to assume his own blessed Name, has been lovingly determined so to arrange circumstances in her regard that she may never forget wherein it is her real strength lies, in the midst of the actively militant career which He has especially opened before her. The brilliant works of Saint Ignatius her founder, of Saint Francis Xavier, the apostle of the Indies, of Saint Francis Borgia, the noble conquest of Christ's humility, manifested truly wondrous holiness in them, and to the eyes of all; but these works of theirs had no other spring nor basis than the hidden virtues of that other glorious triumvirate, in which, under the eye of God alone, by the sole strength of contemplative prayer, Saints Stanislaus Kostka, Aloysius Gonzaga, and John Berchmans, rose to such a degree of love, and consequently to the sanctity of their heroic fathers.

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Again, it is by Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, the depositary of the secrets of the Spouse, that this mystery is revealed to us. In the rapture during which the glory of Aloysius was displayed before her eyes, she thus continues, whilst still under the influence of the Holy Ghost: "Who could ever explain the value and the power of interior acts? The glory of Aloysius is so great, simply because he acted thus, interiorly. Between an interior act and that which is seen, there is no comparison possible. Aloysius, as long as he dwelt on earth, kept his eye attentively fixed on the Word; and this is just why he is so splendid. Aloysius was a hidden martyr; whosoever loveth Thee, my God, knoweth Thee to be so great, so infinitely amiable, that keen indeed is the martyrdom of such an one, to see clearly that he loves Thee not so much as he desireth to love Thee, and that Thou art not loved by Thy creatures, but art offended!.... Thus he became a martyrdom unto himself. Oh! he did love, whilst on earth! Wherefore, now in heaven, he possesses God in a sovereign plenitude of love. Whilst still mortal, he discharged his bow at the Heart of the Word; and now that he is in heaven, his arrows are all lodged in his own heart. For this communication of the Divinity which he merited by the arrows of his acts of love and of union with God, he now verily and indeed possesses and clasps forever."

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To love God, to allow His grace to turn our heart towards Infinite Beauty, which alone can fill it, such is then the true secret of highest perfection. Who can fail to see how this teaching of today's feast answers to the end pursued by the Holy Ghost ever since His coming down, at our glorious Pentecost? This sweet and silent teaching was given by Aloysius, wheresoever he turned his steps, during his short career. Born to heaven, in holy baptism, almost before he was born to earth, he was a very angel from his cradle; grace seemed to gush from him into those who bore him in their arms, filling them with heavenly sentiments. At four years of age, he followed the marquess his father into the camps; and thus, some unconscious faults, which had not so much as tarnished his innocence, became for the rest of his life the object of a penitence that one would have thought rather beseemed some grievous sinner. He was but nine years old when, being taken to Florence, there to be perfected in the Italian language, he became the edification of the Court of duke Francis; but though the most brilliant in Italy it failed to have any attraction for him, and rather served to detach him more decisively than ever from the world. During this period, likewise, at the feet of the miraculous picture of the Annunziata, he consecrated his virginity to Our Lady.

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The Church herself, in the Breviary Lessons, will relate the other details of this sweet life, in which, as is ever the case with souls fully docile to the Holy Ghost, heavenly piety never marred what was of duty in earthly things. It is just because he really was a model for all youth engaged in study, that Aloysius has been proclaimed Protector thereof. Of a singularly quick intelligence, as faithful to work as to prayer in the midst of the gay turmoil of city life, he mastered all the sciences then exacted of one of his rank. Very intricate and ticklish negotiations of worldly interest were more than once confided to his management: and thus was opportunity afforded of realizing to what a high degree he might have excelled in government affairs. Here, again, he comes forward as an example to such as have friends and relatives who would lain hold them back, when on the threshold of the religious state, under pretence of the " great good they may do in the world, and how much evil they may prevent." Just as though the Most High must be contented with useless non-entities in that select portion of men He reserves to Himself amidst nations; or, as though the aptitudes of the richest and most gifted natures may not be turned all the better, and all the more completely to God their very principle, precisely because they are the most perfect. On the other hand, neither State, nor Church, ever really loses anything by this fleeing to God, this apparent throwing away of the best subjects! If, in the old law, Jehovah showed Himself jealous in having the very best of all kinds of goods offered at His altar, His intention was not to impoverish his people. Whether admitted or not, it is a certain fact, that the chief strength of society, the fountain head of benediction and protection to the world, is always to be found in holocausts well pleasing to the Lord.

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Prayer:

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Venerable old age is not that of long time, nor counted by the number of years: but the understanding of man is grey hairs; and a spotless life is old age (Wisd. iv. 8, 9). And therefore, Aloysius, thou dost hold a place of honour, amidst the ancients of thy people! Glory be to the holy Society, in the midst whereof, thou didst, in so short a space, fulfill a long course; obtain that she may ever continue to treasure, both for herself and others, the teaching that flows from thy life of innocency and love. Holiness is the one only thing when one's career is ended, that can be called true again; and holiness is acquired from within. External works count with God, only in as far as the interior breath that inspires them is pure; if occasion for exercising works be wanting, man can always supply that deficiency, by drawing nigh unto the Lord, in the secret of his soul, as much and even more than he could have done by their means. Thus didst thou see and understand the question; and therefore, prayer, which held thee absorbed in its ineffable delights, succeeded in making thee equal to the very martyrs. What a priceless treasure was not prayer in thine eyes, what a heaven-lent boon, and one that is indeed in our reach too, just as it was in thine! But in order to find therein, as thou didst express it, "the short cut to perfection," perseverance is needed and a careful elimination from the soul, by a generous self-repression, of every emotion which is not of God. For, how could muddy or troubled waters mirror forth the image of Him Who stands on their brink? Even so, a soul that is sullied, or a soul that without being quite a slave of passion, is not yet mistress of every earthly perturbation, can never reach the object of prayer, which is to reproduce within her the tranquil image of her God.

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The reproduction of the one great Model was perfect in thee; and hence it can be seen how nature (as regards what she has of good), far from losing or suffering aught, rather gains by this process of recasting in the divine crucible. Even in what touches the most legitimate affections, thou didst look at things no longer from the earthly point of view; but beholding all in God, far were the things of sense transcended, with all their deceptive feebleness, and wondrously did thy love grow in consequence! For instance, what could be more touching than thy sweet attentions, not only upon earth, but even from thy throne in heaven, for that admirable woman given thee by our Lord to be thine earthly mother? Where may tenderness be found equal to the affectionate effusions written to her by thee in that letter of a Saint to the mother of a Saint, which thou didst address to her shortly before thy quitting thine earthly pilgrimage? And still more, what exquisite delicacy thou didst evince, in making her the recipient of thy first miracle, worked after thine entrance into glory! Furthermore, the Holy Ghost, by setting thee on fire with the flame of divine charity, developed also within thee immense love for thy neighbour: necessarily so, because charity is essentially one; and well was this proved, when thou wast seen sacrificing thy life so blithely for the sick and the pestiferous.

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Cease not, O dearest Saint, to aid us in the midst of so many miseries; lend a kindly hand to each and all. Christian youth has a special claim upon thy patronage, for it is by the sovereign pontiff himself, that this precious portion of the flock is gathered around thy throne. Direct their feeble steps along the right path, so often enticed as they are to turn into dangerous by-roads; be prayer and earnest toil, for God's dear sake, their stay and safeguard; be they illumined in the serious matter before them of the choosing a state of life. We beseech thee, dearest Saint, exert strong influence over them during this most critical period of their opening years, so that they may truly experience all the potency of that fair privilege which is ever thine, of preserving in thy devout clients, the angelical virtue! Yea, furthermore, Aloysius, look compassionately on those who have not imitated thine innocence, and obtain that they may yet follow thee in the example of thy penance; such is the petition of Holy Church this day!

[the-disgruntled-vc]

Claudia’s diary entries

**This post contains spoilers for Merrick****

Louis is precious and must be protected. 😭💔 

Anne stop torturing this character please! Lol

After reading this chapter I was like "fuck Claudia!” I just lost all my sympathy for her. Kids are evil.

Merrick allowed for a small interval, and then, letting the doll rest in her lap, she offered Louis the diary once more. 

 "There are several entries," she said. "Two are of no importance [...] But there is another telling one, and that you must read before we go on."

[...]Take any page of the diary, it doesn't matter, use it as you will, only don't ask that I read a word." 

 "No, you must read it," Merrick said with exquisite gentleness. "Read it to me and to David. I know what is written there, and you must know, and David is here to help both of us. Please, the last entry: read it aloud." 

 He stared hard at her, and now there came the faint film of red tears to his eyes, but he gave a tiny, near imperceptible, shake of his head, and then he took the diary from her outstretched hand.

He looked at her for a long moment, and then down at the page. His voice came tenderly in a whisper, but I knew that she could hear it as well as I.

September 21, 1859

“[..]Tonight, I confide with pen and paper because I know which direction my hatred will take me. And I fear for those who have aroused my wrath. By those I mean, of course, my evil parents, my splendid fathers, those who have led me from a long forgotten mortality into this questionable state of timeless 'bliss.' To do away with Louis would be foolish, as he is without question the more malleable of the pair.”

Louis paused as though he couldn't continue. 

I saw Merrick's fingers tighten on his knee. "Read it, please, I beg you," she said gently. "You must go on." 

 Louis began again, his voice soft as before, and quite deliberately smooth.

“Louis will do as I wish, even unto the very destruction of Lestat, which I plan in every detail. Whereas Lestat would never cooperate with my designs upon Louis. So there my loyalty lies, under the guise of love even in my own heart.[...] Perhaps in the court of my heart, I hold Louis far more accountable for my present state than ever I could blame my impulsive and simple Lestat. The fact is, one must die for this or the pain in me will never be scaled off, and immortality is but a monstrous measurement of what I shall suffer till the world revolves to its ultimate end. One must die so that the other will become ever more dependent upon me, ever more completely my slave. [...] Such a fate seems made for my melancholy Louis...”

“[...] When I shall strike and how, I know not, only that it gives me supreme delight to watch Lestat in his unguarded gaiety, knowing that I shall humiliate him utterly in destroying him, and in so doing bring down the lofty useless conscience of my Louis, so that his soul, if not his body, is the same size at last as my own."

It was finished. 

 I could tell this merely by the blank expression of pain on his face, the way that his eyebrows quivered for one moment, and then the way he drew back in the chair, and closed the little book, and held it idly as if he'd forgotten it altogether, in his left hand. He looked neither to me nor to Merrick. 

 "Do you still want to communicate with this spirit?" Merrick asked reverently. She reached for the small diary, and he gave it over without objection. 

 "Oh, yes," he said in a long sigh. "I want it above anything else." 

 I wanted so to comfort him, but there were no words to touch such a private pain. 

 "I can't blame her for what she expressed," he resumed in a frail voice. "It always goes so tragically wrong with us." His eyes moved feverishly to Merrick. "The Dark Gift, imagine calling it that, when it goes so very wrong in the end."  -- from chapter 17 of Merrick

[osmw1]

Poison-Wielding Fugitive   Chapter 63

“…”

Celes had been brooding about who knows what the whole trip, but we’ve finally made it back to Lif’el. “We’re finally home…”

The haggard knight grumbles after knocking on Wayne’s door. Rurika cheerfully answers the door but her expression sours after seeing Celes in her sorry state.

“She’s been like that ever since stopped by a village and lifted a curse.”

“Huh… more importantly right now though, go take a look at your grandpa.” “What’s wrong?!”

Did his condition worsen?! Sensing something amiss, Celes perks up and rushes inside. In his room was the scene of Wayne striking a pose at us; his muscles glistening.

“Oh, welcome home! Somethin’ the matter?”

That’s our line! We were worried something happened to you, you old fart!

“Mu!”

Muu flexes too and begins imitating Wayne.

“… umm…”

We all turn our eyes toward Rurika.

“Since he hasn’t been able to work for so long, all of his pent-up energy is being unleashed all at once. Please, do something about him…”

That’s what it was? Jeez…

“So? What’d y’all bring home? I’ve come up with a few plans of my own too. I can work all night!”

… ugh. I wouldn’t have guessed that Wayne and Arleaf are related. He’s more like the proprietress—they’re both monsters brimming with energy.

“Uhh… in that case…” We hand over all the minerals we got from slaying the ore monsters and from mining.

“Whoa! That’s quite the biggun you bagged!” “Yeah, we couldn’t have taken down Safkrym without Celes, so save the best parts for her.” “You got it. Now, stand back and watch my hammer sing, boy.”

After giving the mats a once-over, Wayne starts the work on our equipment. Rurika—though exhausted from dealing with him—watches on with a tender smile. Still, better to be too full of energy rather than how he had been before. We head on over to the forge.

  While Celes already had an idea what she wanted to get made, Wayne planned something good for us. Everything’s been paid for already and our armor is finished too.

Elba Leather Coat (Toxic) Quality: Legendary Required level: 45 Bonus effects: Extreme Toxicity, Low Chance of Contracting Bloodflower or Dorimsvoyta, Magic Proficiency Increase (Medium), Water Resistance (Greater), Self-Regeneration, Cloaking, Camouflaging Skills Increase, Footstep Noise Reduction, Sensing, Curse Resistance (Medium) The hides of Elbatoxin—whose toxins are still imbued within— Crocgator, and King Boss Rat are stitched together to form this formidable piece of armor. Drains Mana while toxins poison the user. In exchange, all poison damage is maxed when this armor is equipped. Tougher than the average metallic armor and grants user Self-Regeneration at the cost of Mana. This magnificent work protects the user while granting the user deadly powers.

It’s called a coat, but it’s more like leather armor. The collar kinda looks like the frill on Elbatoxin’s neck. Maybe he chose leather armor for me because my skills are quite Ranger-like. It’s a huge leap from what we’ve been using up till now, eh? At least it’s leagues ahead of my old Smoke Armor.

‘The toxic nature of the armor would not normally allow any other human equip it. But for thee, ‘tis nothing but a boon.’

It’s so toxic, it could transmit deadly diseases. That said though, I haven’t caught either of them yet. Plus, I could use the Extreme Toxicity effect with my Poison Absorption to send my stats sky high. I tried it on and I could feel the warmth of Self-Regeneration slowly seeping into my body. And, it also slowly replenishes my stock of poison.

The only downside is that my natural recovery rate would be reduced. Still, it’s way better than my previous equipment all in all. I feel quicker on my feet than ever before. It’s just like the times where I had been in the poisonous swamp. Of course, they drilled into me the fact that no one else must put equip this Elba Leather Coat. The average joe would no doubt drop dead from putting this on.

I’m not sure exactly what it’s made of, but Arleaf received a beautiful set of robes. If I were to hazard a guess, it’s probably of a combination of Elbatoxin, wolf, and rat hides. From a cursory glance, it doesn’t look that much different from what she had been wearing before though. Wayne’s a blacksmith, right? All this sewing and stitching must be Rurika’s handiwork then.

Elba King Leather Vestment Quality: Superior Required level: 55 Bonus effects: Poison Resistance (Medium), Miasma Resistance (Medium), Magic Proficiency Increase (Greater), Magic Correction, Casting Time Reduction (Lesser), Voice of the Soul (Miniscule) The hides of Elbatoxin—whose toxins have been thoroughly removed—and other monsters have been cut incredibly thin and sewn together for this combat-ready dress. Drains Mana to repel poison and miasma, making gas masks redundant in light miasma. However, the voice of the dead would be ever so slightly perceivable to the user. In exchange, it grants the user resistant to dark magics. Allows user to slightly drain Mana from the souls of the departing.

The description is giving me real bad vibes. Will Arleaf really be okay equipping this? She said that after trying on the dress, these… triangular things would swarm onto her. That’s probably images of the King Boss Rat’s last moments, I’m guessing. Completing her set is a new staff. It’s a simple staff with a crystalline object affixed to the top of it.

Elba Lens Rod Quality: Superior Required level: Base level 50 Bonus effects: Magic Proficiency Increase (Medium), Dark Magic Proficiency Increase (Medium), Magic Attack Increase (Greater), Magical Accuracy Increase (Medium), Familiar Proficiency Increase (Medium) Low chance of bacterial magic activation under normal attacks. This staff uses the lens of Elbatoxin’s eyes as a catalyst.

Elbatoxin is really making himself useful after his death. It was a huge pain in the ass, but I guess the useful mats redeems it.

‘This is proof of the blacksmith’s skills… but never had I thought his work would be this splendid. Even in my hoard, I have nothing that can hold a candle to these treasures.’

Such high compliments from a connoisseur like you, Veno? Well… the Smoke Armor you gave me was pretty good too, wasn’t it? Not to forget, the stuff you gave me in the beginning was for easy to use for novices; of course, it’s going to be a huge difference.

Oh, and since Muu is a Warrior, it got a helmet and a cuirass made of metal. It must’ve been tough making armor to fit them. But it’s not like we haven’t tried stuffing him in regular armor though.

‘Forget not that Muu is a Myconid. In the past, I have seen before a Myconid in the shape of a particularly muscular human.’

Will Muu evolve into that? Despite sounding selfish, I would much rather Muu stay the way they are now.

‘Thou art being difficult for Muu… ‘tis not such a bad thing to become muscular, is it?’

Isn’t it? And suppose that Muu will naturally evolve, will it really become like that?

‘Let us worry about it when it happens.’

Right. He grew out of some mold on my robe. I think Muu still has that robe. I remember seeing it use it as a mat to sleep on top of. In any case, Wayne seemed to have made all of that while we were out on our trip.

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[yogaadvise]

10 Meditation Tips for Ambitious People

Ambition is a splendid trait to have! Ambitious individuals can spruce up an area with their resolution and also excitement. They are normally the ones who motivate others to remain on job and also see completion objective as a certainty. Here's the important things that go-getters typically neglect though: their individual down time and self-care when it pertains to health and wellness, relaxation, and sleep.

It's easy for goal-driven individuals to get swallowed up in the project at hand. This is easy to understand and much of the factor they so usually do well. There is a specific loosen up time that is not just great for you, however likewise good for your objectives: meditation.

You might be assuming you do not have time to sit around as well as meditate or you can't turn off your ideas. The truth is, you do have time-- if you select to make the moment. A reflection technique doesn't need to take a lot of time. Actually, there are some easy means for you to include it right into your active life, no zen room needed.

1. Desk Time

More than likely, you spend a considerable quantity of time at a workdesk. Whether researching, emailing, or invoicing, today's world of work calls for a great deal of tech time. Resting for extended periods can be harsh on your body-- all the tabs as well as jobs can bewilder the mind. Taking a psychological break for five to 10 minutes for a brief reflection can really be productive to the present goal. You will reboot with a more kicked back mind, less tension in the body, and potentially a surprise toward the mission.

Here's how to do it:

Put your computer on rest mode.

Set a timer for five to 10 minutes.

Find your most comfortable placement in the chair.

Allow your arms to loosen up and revolve your neck down as well as about, rolling the anxiety away.

Think quietly to yourself affirmations such as "I achieve success", "I am effective", "I am healthy", "I am a leader." Choose any kind of sentence you would certainly such as and repeat it gradually. After each rep, boost the moment prior to starting the sentence again. If another thought enters your mind, simply observe it, and begin your picked affirmation again.

As you duplicate the affirmations, spend some time to extend in or out of your chair. You can see some chair yoga positions here. Do not concentrate on a complete chair yoga exercise routine, simply a pair suggestions each day.

2. Road Warrior

You're called a warrior for a factor. You have actually combated web traffic, roadway rage, weather condition, lengthy hrs, punctures, and also break downs. The concern is: Were you educated for this? Possibly not. You were educated the fundamentals of driving, yet there is a whole lot more to deal with that how well you handle the wheel. Meditation can be a tremendous aid in battling everything:

Pull off the road.

Turn off the radio.

Hear that? That's your breath that you may not have heard for a few hours now.

Take a couple of mins to breath in and also out your mouth gradually, with objective of filling your lungs. Listen to the sounds of your personal life force.

Before taking off once more, remind yourself that no issue the situation, you are secure. Frequently you end up being quick-tempered with the length of time it can require to obtain from factor A to B. Relax and also remember the amount of more goals can be met when you're unhurt.

3. Team Time

Introducing as well as urging your coworkers to practice meditation as well is effective for every person. Reflection is crucial to the manifestation procedure. If you are all meditating, think of just how much faster and also smoother it will be to reach each objective marker. Your team will certainly be much more patient with themselves, each various other, as well as clients. They will certainly construct an user-friendly process that can aid lower mistakes, rise efficiency, and also provide a much deeper understanding to challenges. This is certainly a win-win for each individual and the team.

Provide them with this write-up, show to them how it is affecting your life, and be a "pointer system" once in a while too. If a coworker states, "hey, did you meditate yesterday?" it aids maintain each other on track.

4.  Visualizing

What is the end goal? Can you see it? Many ambitious people have fantastic vision. Take that into your meditation method. This will certainly aid you manifest the result while you do something fantastic for your health and wellness. This action is extremely simple:

Sit in silence or with songs on a reduced volume.

Close your eyes.

Build the vision in your mind like an art piece, one item at a time.

Enjoy the sight for a couple of minutes. If arbitrary thoughts develop, you may repeat among the affirmations covered above.

If you like to draw, take this step to one more degree as well as draw your vision, which is additionally a form of meditation.

5.  Lunch on the Lawn

Any possibility that you have on your lunch break to obtain outside, take it! Did you know you can practice meditation with your eyes open? After your meal, rest for five mins-- this benefits the digestive tract as well as your mind:

Set your eyes on something in sight: a bird, a tree, or a couple delighting in a date.

Look with intent, making use of the exact same precision you utilize when reading each word thoroughly on a crucial email or spreadsheet. Other than currently, you are in the moment-- your mind is really where you are instead of back at the workplace or running via the manuscript of the next conference. What is occurring right in front of you?

Notice your breath and also the peace of your body as you appreciate this real-life, present moment.

6.  Indoor Elements

All humans enjoy the components. Fire, water, planet, space, and wind just make your soul pleased. Which one is your fave? Beginning there and also bring it right into the office! Do you love fire? You don't need to wait to enjoy it until you most likely to your friend's bonfire evening. There are several, low-cost methods to have a fire, flowing water, or visions of room in your office.

Choose your favorite element to produce inside.

Stop for five to 10 minutes a few times a week to just observe your production. Enjoy each flicker of light or stream of water.

Use different affirmations for each component as you see. Fire may be an improvement declaration as water may be nurturing or cleansing.

7.  Chakra Power

Goals call for greater than just difficult job. Energy behind the work can be more crucial than the quantity of hrs. Our intents and daily techniques of maintaining a greater resonance is the real work. Once this becomes a day-to-day routine, you will certainly observe objectives showing up with even more efficiency.

If you are not accustomed to what a chakra is, read about it here. When overcoming all chakras, begin near the bottom and also function your method up. You might likewise target specific chakras if you're aiming to obtain the take advantage of that area or increase its activity. There are numerous aspects to chakras, but this short article will certainly remain focused on using them for objectives:

Root (Muladhara) Chakra lies at the base of the spine. This chakra is your foundation. You can not construct an empire without a solid structure? This power facility is in charge of your sense of sensation secure, grounded, and stable. When out of balance, you might attempt to manifest from a survival setting subconsciously. A reflection for this area can be done by regarding to the very lower of your spinal column with eyes closed. Picture the shade red as well as imagine your spine connecting to the earth like tree origins. A concept for this location can be, "I am a survivor" or "I am secure."

Sacral (Svadhisthana) Chakra lies 2 inches below your stubborn belly switch. Below is where your creativity comes from, an essential facet while aiming for destination. Maybe you need some innovative brand-new advertising ideas-- this would be your go-to chakra. Shade right here is orange. You will do the exact same meditation technique just like the origin, but utilize the concept of affirmation of something like, "My suggestions are special as well as acquire the interest that is required."

Solar Plexus (Manipura) Chakra lies two inches above the stubborn belly switch. Right here is where your personal power, confidence and real sense of self-respect emerges. If this chakra runs out balance, you tend to second-guess yourself, hold your head a little less high, as well as overthink the small points. The shade is yellow as well as a great rule would certainly be, "I am powerful by the divine method" "Nerve is my nature" or "Toughness concerns me easily."

Heart (Anahata) Chakra is located in the facility of the breast and the color is environment-friendly. Normally, this chakra is in fee of love, feelings, as well as feelings-- something that is usually rejected as well as castaway in the organisation world. As previous generations were told, it's weak to show feeling. The world may be transforming, yet the programming can still exist. You may feel it is much better to have a "more challenging" exterior at work. This can take its toll on your mind, body, spirit, goal outcomes, physical health and wellness, and also connection to other humans as a whole. Remember, you can be solid, yet caring, reasonable, yet mild. Utilize this mantra: "Real love is constantly the ideal path."

Throat (Vishuddha) Chakra is located in the throat with the shade blue. As an individual with an enthusiastic drive, communication of what you require, desire, and also picture are important aspects of that you are. It's essential to keep in mind that everyone refines words as well as life from their very own perspective. Your sentence may indicate one thing to you, but something totally various to an employee. Focusing in this field will assist with communication to make sure that all recognize plainly, allowing the world to talk via you. A great mantra for below is something like, "All ears hear me with comprehension."

Third Eye (Ajna) Chakra is situated in between the eyebrows with a color of indigo. This chakra is your intuition-- that suspicion is first processed in this field of the mind. If you do not give this location interest on a regular basis, you may begin to permit your questions as well as subconscious to move in, thinking they recognize far better. The intuition is constantly appropriate. This is your personal GPS system to any kind of and also all indications, security, as well as alignment. An excellent rule for the ajna is "I obtain messages clearly, with a reasonable difference of my thoughts versus the presents of my higher self."

Crown (Manipura) Chakra is located above the head with a color purple, often additionally shown as just intense light. This chakra is not only a link to your greater self, but likewise the feeling as well as awareness that you are linked to all things. When you procedure from this location, you aim to develop a globe better for all things on this planet. From people, plants, animals, water, air, and also area, you understand that what you do to one, you do to all. Your objectives and also passions, regardless of how excellent or little, automatically supply a greater vibration for every single creature now as well as to come. In some cases it may really feel as though your dedication to whatever it is you do goes unappreciated. Via regarding to this chakra, you can feel that those around you do not require to see or recognize your initiatives because you can notice numerous that do.

8. Becoming a Vessel

You may have listened to the claiming, "you can not pour from an empty vessel." Numerous enthusiastic people focus so extremely on the goal before them they neglect to refill. This can be dealt with a basic reflection. Whatever it is you feel you need even more of, allow deep space to supply:

Close your eyes and also envision the top of your head like a battery and also a battery charger. Use an aesthetic overview of when you plug in your phone and see the juice begin climbing to the top.

The universe is your power, healing, and also resource of "juice" for all you need.

Repeat a rule right here like "I am ______" (whatever you are wanting to get).

9. Phone Games

Phone games can give a kind of meditation. They need your attention, the rating is unimportant, and also fear or stress and anxiety appear to escape with all the fun. Allow on your own to play a game in times of long term waiting-- at a medical professional's consultation, waiting on the bus, or while children go to soccer practice. Bear in mind having enjoyable is being efficient, too.

10. Guided Meditation

Guided meditations are enjoyable, unique as well as provide endless opportunities. Examine your area for real-time directed meditation occasions or utilize the many possibilities on the internet with apps, YouTube, and also SoundCloud. Several wonderful reflection instructors are available to assist be your voice to make sure that you can simply pay attention and also choose the flow.

As you begin this journey, remember to take your time, experiment with each technique, and see what you like one of the most. Maintain your fave for your basic method as well as miss around when various locations need your focus and also objective. This is all regarding what you desire, there are no regulations to the number of variations you can develop. The top idea is do a minimum of one meditation each day. If you intend to enhance to more times each day later on, that's wonderful, too.

As a person that aspires, it is essential to maintain your focus as well as health intact. If you feel you don't have time, ask yourself: Would certainly I rather take a couple of mins a day to meditate or take weeks dealing with a mistake or recovering from a disease? Meditation has actually been proven time after time to give so much of what we want. Beginning the trip today and also gain the benefits.

Learn how to allow go of battle and also locate minutes of peace within your active life at I am Infinite Possibilities, our unique event led by Deepak Chopra. Learn More.

[pixiedurango]

Day 5 - 30 days of John Standring - Writing challenge

Hosted by the magnificent @deepestfirefun I still need to catch up a bit and this clearly went a bit out of hand. But I’m stubbornly keep going to have all the prompts tackled in time. Another episode of the love story between John x Meg (Who still has no family name and I am sorry but what do you mean by *doing air quotes* ‘building a backstory for your OCs’????)  Have some fluff instead that turns a bit angsty in the middle. Je ne regret rien!

The prompt sentences were: ‘You laugh, I laugh. You cry, I cry. You take my coffee, let God have mercy on your soul.’ ‘I never joke about my morning coffee, I take it very seriously.’ ‘I want to marry you! That’s what I’m trying to say!’ ‘Look at all the candles… is there something on your mind, sweet heart?’ 

 Enjoy!

Two weeks were, realistically and put into prospective in the great big scheme of things, a very short time span. But for John Standring the past two weeks had been close to eternity. Meg had spent two weeks of her summer vacation with one of her friends from university. She had visited her in Barcelona for a lot of sight seeing and girl talk. Though she had offered him to come along he had decided that she deserved some time undivided between the things she so much longed to do and probably missed since she was now stranded in the English province – and nursing her lummox of a boyfriend. It had taken a full week of constant back and forth until she finally had taken the invitation and finally believed him that he really would not mind her taking a trip without him.

Today was the day she would return and actually he had been using the time alone to think over many things. And when he finally got into his truck to drive the roundabout 300 kilometers to London in the middle of the night to pick her up from the airport, he never had been so sure about anything before in his life. ~   ~   ~

Saving money was per se not a bad thing but Meg eventually came to the conclusion that probably this time she went a bit overboard by booking a flight back to England that would have her landing in the dead of night and not even remotely close to home but at Heathrow. She would have to take the train for the last part of the trip and be home probably for breakfast. Anyway, taking a nightly flight had given her the chance to have a last splendid evening with her friend Luisa before heading home. Home. That was not longer London but Hebden up in the north. Even more it was John. Her John, the man she loved and who was the reason that said Hebden in the English province was no longer just a career station but the place she wanted to live in as long as he was there with her. There was basically nor reason to be reminded on that fact but when she now came through the gates with her luggage and he was there, awkwardly grinning, even with the typical sign that read her name as if he was a mere chauffeur to take her from the airport to her important whatever she was so full of love she barely could fathom it. Meg dropped everything she was carrying and just jumped into his arms, glad she had him back and he just held her close, kissing her breathless.

“Surprise!” He grinned, his forehead resting against hers, still holding her up as she had wrapped her arms and legs around him, slightly embarrassed that he was touching a woman’s butt in public but it was actually the only way to hold her secure. “You're crazy!” She was somewhere between laughing and crying happy tears. “But I love it. Love you! Missed you so bad!”

She loved him! Of course he knew it. She said it often and meant it. But still after all this time it left him in awe and disbelieve every single time he heard it. And he returned this love in this pure and innocent but at the same time so fiercely stubborn way only John Standring was capable of. “Missed you, too, darling. You're even more beautiful than I remember you. And look at all that tan... Curious to discover those famous tan lines everyone's talking about...” As always when he tried to be cheeky his ear tips became pink and there rose a giggle which he tried to hide but couldn't.

Meg giggled along with him as he eventually carefully let her back down to stand on her own two feet. “How do you know there will be a tan line at all?” She winked at him and see him even more blush.

But he boldly replied: “All the better!” while he grabbed for her luggage and they finally were on their way back to his truck that would bring them home.

~   ~   ~ The drive itself went smooth and giddy, singing along silly songs from the radio to chase away the sleepiness that was inevitably creeping up no matter how happy and excited they both were to have each other back.

It was close to dawn when he finally pulled into their street and only a few moments later he had parked his truck and they pulled out her luggage. John was tensed like a bowstring but he tried to not let it show. He was bad at it and he knew that, only hoping she would not insist on walking through her door instead of his. John came up with a plan and before he went to pick her up it had seemed like a glorious idea. Now he was not so sure anymore. But he was stubborn enough to push away all doubts and actually ushering her to his door. “C'mon. I'll make you sit in the parlour and get you some coffee.” Meg had nothing to object and actually gladly flopped into one of his old cozy armchairs while he hurried to the kitchen and there were the typical sounds of preparing coffee. Then some distant music was to hear and a moment later he was calling from the kitchen. “Meg, Love? Join me? Gotta show you somethin'.”

She actually groaned a little as she pushed herself up from her cozy resting place but she knew he would not bother her for nothing. When she eventually stood in the kitchen, one unintelligible sound fell from her lips and her hand snapped to cover her mouth.

The electric kitchen light was shut down even though dawn was barely there but the candles he had put onto the table in a heart shape gave enough light. He gently shoved her to her usual seat and placed a pot of steaming coffee in front of her. Still not sure whether this was a good or a very bad idea. Almost choking on his own anxiety he sat down at his usual chair, opposite to hers desperately wishing to have something to grasp so he could soothe his nerves and stop fidgeting with his fingers.

“Look at all the candles…” She nervously looked at him, feeling pretty strange all in a sudden. Was he trying to pull a proposal? Or was this just his awkward way to show her that he was glad to have her back? Once more declaring how much he loved her? She had no idea how she felt. No matter what it was that he was doing here. “Is there something on your mind, sweet heart?”

“Yes... nooooo...” To be honest, John was completely lost. The little box in his pocket suddenly felt impossibly heavy and he was almost sure she would laugh at him, reject and then leave for ever. What had he been thinking... He sighed and with no little effort he eventually pulled the box out. Needed to try more than once to open it to finally be able to place it on the table in the middle of the candle heart. “I want to marry you! That’s what I’m trying to say! But I'm flayed I totally fucked up. Don't know even what I've been thinkin... Nowt probably. Why would you wanna marry me to begin with...” He realized he was rambling but could not stop either and he was sure that all happiness would just end here and now and he was the only one ever to be blamed for that.

“Oh my God, John...” Her hands reached across the table, carefully avoiding to catch fire from the still burning candles. Covering his much larger ones which were actually trembling. His ear tips bright red and burning in blatant contrast to the ice cold of his hands. “Yes... yes of course. I want to marry you, too... but...” She stared at their hands, fingers entwined into each other, holding tight and she felt him tensing on her objection immediately and saw his shoulders drop.

“Don't you say yes just you feel pity for me... I understand. You'd probably had another life in mind than being stuck in’t province with’t village idiot...”

“Shut up, before I come to think you hit a point with the last thing.” Meg tried to joke but gloriously failed. She rose from her chair and hurried around the table, never letting go of his hands. John had been doing so well. Had found so much joy and confidence over the time they had been together, it all seemed to have vanished within a second. Hunched in his chair, staring at the ground clearly feeling small and uncomfortable but still not able to pull his hands back from hers.

She went down to sit on her knees just to be able to look at up into his face from below as he was refusing to look at her. “John, listen.” She knew her voice could intimidate people at times and so she tried carefully to sound calm, soft and reasonable. Good thing was, he had not been running so far, fleeing the situation as he often tend to do in case of arguments he couldn't handle. Meg decided to take that as a good sign. “A but does not mean I accept your proposal out of pity. Would you please, please listen to me. And carefully? I love you. And I want to be your wife with all my heart. There's a but only  because we should think of several matters before we tie the knot in a haste.”

“Matters? What matters I wonder...” He muttered but at least he was talking. And reluctantly looking down on her, barely able to meet her eyes but trying. What could be complicated in a marriage for love?

“The... houses. We might want to... decide what to do with them.” She got up, nudging him softly to give her space to sit on his lap. He needed just as much comfort as she right now.

At least she did not run yet, he kept telling himself. She was not angry, yelling at him or throwing things. She wanted to stay close but still, John had a bit difficulties to follow where she was going with her objection. Money, property it all had mattered once when Carol had proposed to him once when she needed him to save Sparkhouse. He had rejected for good reasons. Because hers were all the wrong ones and he had been lucky enough to see that before he could make the biggest mistake of his life. “What about the houses?” They both owned theirs and it was a great comfort to know. They were not wealthy but better off than most. He had no idea where her thoughts went and his words came out a bit more gruff than technically necessary.

Meg softly caressed his  face, gentle fingers attempting to smooth out his frown and the upset arch of his eyebrows. “Maybe we should think of actually living together first. Like really together, not in two houses practically just visiting each other.”

“But we're together all't time anyway. Sleepin’, eatin’... everythin’” He gently objected, taking the opportunity to catch her hand to place a kiss on her palm. “Where'd be't difference?” He knew there was one. Every once in a while there were days they just ended up in each their own houses. Sometimes after a little argument, sometimes just because their schedules and working times made it more convenient to sleep alone or one was just so busy doing their own thing that each one stuck to their own place.

“We can never know until we've really tried it. Also, we could think about finally breaking through a few walls, making it one house instead of two. More rooms, one main door, things like that. We'd have to take up a credit probably and need a proper plan.” She saw his face brighten and it gave her the courage to carry on with her second suggestion. “And then there's still your... dream.”

“Dream, what dream?” Indeed right now he could not think of any other dream of spending the rest of his life with her as a wedded couple happily ever after. And he actually liked the idea of one big house. With enough space that thinking about becoming a real family became actually a very real and pleasant vision which made him almost glow from the inside. So far he liked very much what she was suggesting.

“Sparkhouse.” She only replied with a soft smile. “Selling the houses to buy it and rebuild so you can get back into farming.”

It was getting better and better and John was glad he had been strong and patient enough to not desperately run at the first sign of (falsely predicted) rejection. The look he gave her was so full of love she just knew she had been right to never forget about that dream of his as he always had secretly nursed it but rarely spoken of it ever again. “You'd really do that for me? Farm work is hard and dirty and we'd be away from't town.”

“That's what I mean. We shall take our time to make a reliable plan of what we want and be able to do before we go to get married. Now... Is that acceptable?” She was giving him an ensuring, borderline mischievously little grin he just could not help but return and wrap her closer and kiss her fiercely.

“More than acceptable, love.” He replied huskily and utterly relieved once their lips had parted and he grabbed over the table to wiggle the ring out of its box with one hand. The least he could do was offering to put it on her finger. He chuckled a bit conscious. “I probably should go down on bended knee but I cannot for a cute little imp is sitting on my lap.”

“It's perfect.” She assured him, finally holding out her hand so he could place the ring. “We do it our way.”

“Our way!” He repeated as if it was a holy oath. Then, after a sweet moment of mutual looking at the newly placed ring on her finger, he finally got up in a strong move, taking her with him, to hold her and swing around in the kitchen, just happy that everything went well. They laughed and kissed and never stopped holding onto each other even after he had put her back to the ground onto her own to feet. She was his fiancee now. His soon to be wife. Mrs. Standring. John felt like he was the luckiest bastard in the whole wide world.

“Now... I think I remember I was promised a morning coffee.” She was smirking up to him and he could not help but chuckle.

“You be jokin'. You just got yourself engaged and all you think about is your coffee?”

“I never joke about my morning coffee, I take it very seriously.” She replied with a deadpan expression and he could not help bursting out into a rumbling laughter as he went over to the coffee maker to keep his promise while she was giggling. “You laugh, I laugh. You cry, I cry. You take my coffee, let God have mercy on your soul.”

“Will keep that in mind.” He joined the laughter and unapologetically stole another deep kiss before handing over the mug to his fiancee.

[ghosthunthq]

The Ghost Child

Ghost Hunt Fanworks Exchange 2018

By: @misskiku

For: @sprghosthunter

Words: 5,540

Genre: Angst, Supernatural

It was supposed to be a typical run-of-the-mill case but then, the cases they took were always anything but typical. With that thought in mind, Mai took in the quiet street behind her, a short glance down the empty road, and straightened. It wasn’t like her to be intimidated by a fancy neighbourhood like this yet her scuffed and worn trainers looked glaringly old on her feet as she followed Naru and Lin towards the house up the long, spacious driveway. The modern three-storey house loomed above them. Mai couldn’t help but peer through the wide glass windows, seeing only a wedge of darkness beyond.

“You won’t be able to see anything inside,” Naru said pointedly. “The windows are designed to stop nosy people like you from looking in.” He hadn’t even glanced at Mai and he knew what she was doing. Mai pouted, gave him a mock glare, and stopped leaning over the garden. She couldn’t help but be curious at a house like this, an overly spacious grandiose display of wealth that made her feel small.

Lin rang the doorbell and they waited in a pensive silence. Mai swallowed and adjusted the hem of her shirt, tried to smooth her hair into something respectable as the wind tried to make a mess of it again. A cool wisp of air brushed over the back of her neck and she shivered instinctively, feeling cold even beneath the hot sun. A door slammed down the street and Mai jumped. She whirled, seeking out the noise, finding a man walking up his driveway. No spirit. No strange activity. Only a man minding his own business. Great. They weren’t even inside and she was already on edge.

The front door clicked open, revealing a modestly dressed woman in her mid-to-late thirties with short cropped dark hair. Her gaze drifted over the three of them, studiously lingering on each of them in turn, before she smiled. A gentle, amicable-yet-stiff smile that made her appear more nervous than friendly.

“You must be the… uh, ghost hunters?” Her smile became strained, obviously not used to the idea of ghost hunters or even ghosts themselves. She turned her dark eyes to Lin and her gentle smile returned. “You must be Mr. Shibuya, correct? We spoke on the phone.” She held out her hand to greet him.

“That would be me.” Naru stepped forward, offering her a full-wattage smile, perfectly disguising the edge to his voice. 

Mai held back a snort of laughter.

Their client’s eyes widened, hand frozen mid-air, before she nodded and composed herself. The smile returned once more. “Oh, of course. My mistake. It’s nice to finally meet you. You may call me Chiyoko.” Her voice was light and airy; brushing off that mistake as one would flick off a speck of dust from their shoulder. “I assumed you would be older… you’re quite young to be doing this sort of thing, aren’t you?”

Naru’s smile didn’t fracture the slightest, to Mai’s continued amusement. “Age has nothing to do with it, I assure you.”

Chiyoko’s smile was as perfect as Naru’s. “Of course.”

Mai took that moment to end the war of perfect smiles between them to introduce herself and Lin quickly. It was as she finished that three young girls peeked out from behind Chiyoko.

Chiyoko glanced behind her, following Mai’s gaze, and chuckled. “Oh, these are my three girls.” Her smile faded as she introduced them as Naoko, eleven years old, Hanako, eight years old, and Setsuko, six years old. “As you can see, this… situation has been hardest on them.”

The girls stepped out from behind their mother and Mai gasped. The sight was so sudden, so shocking, she couldn’t stifle herself in time. All three of them had bruises dotting their skin in a wash of colours from dark purple and blues to fading yellows and greens. The bruises spread up their arms and down their legs. Mai’s heart rose into her throat at the botch of purple across Setsuko’s neck.

It looked like a hand print.

“Your daughter’s arm is from when she was pushed down the stairs?” Naru asked matter-of-factly, drawing Mai’s attention to Naoko and her right arm securely held in a cast. She’d been so focused on the bruises that it had completely slipped her attention.

Chiyoko swallowed. “Yes. That’s right. It’s because of that that I called you.”

Pushed down the stairs.

Mai remembered vaguely reading that in the case notes earlier but seeing the end result, right here in front of her, made her feel sick. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. This case was going to be anything but typical.

With the introductions out of the way, Mai, Naru and Lin were ushered inside. The second Mai walked through that door she felt something was off. And it wasn’t the overpowering scent of lavender in the air that was causing it, nor the polished marble floors beneath her feet that practically sparkled. It wasn’t the towering ceiling, the majestic paintings hanging on the walls with exquisitely detailed wooden frames. It wasn’t the biting chill the wind had adopted, rushing in after them before the door slammed shut.

It was the laughter that chimed in her ears, a sweet, child-like giggle, that made Mai’s skin crawl.

None of the girls had laughed.

“Is there someone else here?” Mai asked, a slow feeling of dread creeping down her back. She glanced down the hall, half expecting another girl appear. Another, younger girl.

“No… why do you ask?” Chiyoko slowed to a stop, giving Mai a worried frown.

Naru sent her a scathing look and Mai shrunk, realising quickly that her comment wasn’t helping. The last thing she wanted to do was frighten their client. Mai and her big mouth. Already off to a great start, making a splendid first impression. Great.

“It’s nothing, never mind,” Mai quickly amended. From the quizzical look on Chiyoko’s face, Mai thought she was going to press further and was surprised when she didn’t, nodding instead.

It was easy to brush off that shaky start as they got to work and fell into routine. After what Chiyoko called a brief tour of the house – as if a tour of a house that big could ever be brief – and they were shown a decent room to begin their operations, it felt like a normal case once again.

Even Naru’s expectant glare felt normal. He stared at her, pointedly, waiting for her to explain herself.

Mai plonked herself down on the leather lounge suite with a sigh. It was a delightfully comfy couch, Mai sinking into it as she leant back. “I heard laughter,” she said, glancing to the door to make sure it was closed fully.

Naru seated himself opposite her, his glare warming into curiosity. The cogs were already turning behind his eyes. “What kind of laugh?”

Mai thought back, remembering the trickle of laughter. It had sounded close. Inside the house, right in front of her. Right into her ears. Mai rubbed her hands up and down her arms at the cold feeling that draped over her.

“Like a child’s laugh. A young child. And it wasn’t… happy, exactly. More… mischievous? It didn’t sound malicious to me, at least.” Mai shrugged, frustrated at herself, frustrated that all she’d heard was a laugh. Nothing more. There wasn’t much to go on.

Naru nodded. “How young? Younger than Setsuko?”

“Yes, like… two or three years old. Really young.”

At least Naru seemed to be onto something. He looked to Lin, who flicked through his notes.

“Chiyoko only has three children. There was no mention of any others,” Lin said.  

Naru nodded, his gaze wandering as he thought. As silence descended over them, Mai decided it was time to make tea. Soon they each had a cup and Mai could finally relax. The warmth and familiarity of drinking a cup of tea settled her nerves. She was just being jumpy, she told herself. Skittish. A classic example of first-day-on-a-new-case nerves. A mixture of excitement and apprehension churned in her stomach.

With a cup of tea warming Mai’s body and soul, she skimmed over the facts of the case. It was a recent haunting, six months old, if Chiyoko and her children’s accounts were correct. In fact, it had started right before they moved into this house. The haunting had followed them here.

Mai blew gently on her tea before giving it a tentative sip, making sure not to scald her tongue, and continued reading. It was a classic haunting. Objects moving by themselves – though not seen by anyone – things going missing, lights flickering, doors shutting… Mai felt like she’d read this list a thousand times before.     

And then it became serious.

A feeling of being watched. Movement out of the corner of their eyes. Windows and lights shattering, objects being tossed, things thrown across the room and breaking. All three children had been dragged out of bed. They’d been tripped, seemingly on nothing. Setsuko had been choked, although it had stopped before it turned serious. Naoko, the oldest, had been pushed down the stairs, resulting in a broken arm and a nasty concussion.

Something was missing.

Mai stared at the notes, neatly typed by Lin, and flipped it over. The reverse side was blank. There was no note of the laughter she had heard.

Downing the rest of her tea in one last gulp, Mai stood and gathered her note book and pen. They’d decided early on that she would take care of interviewing the three girls, leaving Naru and Lin to interrogate Chiyoko. That was completely fine with Mai, and it meant they’d fast track the first stage of their investigation before things got any more serious.

Mai exited the base and paused. She already felt turned around, disorientated in the sprawling house, and really didn’t want to get lost this early on. At least there were only three floors. Sending a quick glance down the hall, Mai let out a sigh. Houses like this should’ve be easy to navigate after that labyrinth of a mansion they’d worked in and yet, here she was, as confused as ever.

It was a relief when Mai stepped into the living room and found the stairs. Her instinct to turn left down the hall had been right. She made for the staircase with a spring in her step when movement outside caught her eyes. She turned, staring through the glass doors into the garden, to find the clothesline spinning. Mai’s shoulders slumped. It was just a stupid clothesline. Spinning around and around aimlessly… except there was no wind to push it. None of the trees, none of the bushes or plants were swaying in the garden.

And yet the clothesline span. Almost as if…

Mai slid open the back door and stepped out into the spacious garden, scanning the area. It was lush and well maintained, bushes neatly trimmed and roses blooming beautifully. A gorgeous ceramic bowl overflowing with succulents adorned the table.

The garden was empty and silent. There was no one out there.

Mai was inside and halfway up the staircase in a heartbeat.

-

Mai found the girls where they said they’d be, in the games room on the second floor, and gave them an amicable smile and a gentle wave when they glanced at her. It was time to get to work.

The three girls exchanged glances as Mai sat down, making her pause. “Is something wrong?”

Naoko shook her head slowly. “No… it’s just… we’ve heard it too.”

“Heard ‘it’ too… meaning?”

“The laughing,” Hanako said. “We’ve all heard it.”

Mai’s eyes widened. She glanced down to her notes, the bullet-points she’d taken on the events that had occurred. There had been no mention of laughter.

“Mum didn’t want us to mention it,” Naoko said. She sat down, careful of her arm in the sling. “Or any of the things we’ve seen.”

Now that got Mai’s attention. Her eyebrows rose at Naoko’s admission. “What have you seen?”

Naoko looked to Hanako, who frowned. “What?” Hanako grumbled.

“You’re the one who saw it properly,” Naoko said.

“Setsuko did too!”

Setsuko shook her head quickly, her black hair swishing across her face. “It’s scary!”

“See? She’s scared. Just tell Mai what you saw,” Naoko huffed.

“Fine!” Defeated, Hanako folded her arms and dropped into a chair, slumping. “I’m scared too,” she muttered under her breath.

Mai gave Hanako a sympathetic smile. “Did you all see the same thing?”

Hanako, still folding her arms and pouting, nodded.

“Then you can all tell me what you saw,” Mai said. “It’s very important. Even the tiniest detail.”

Hanako glanced up at Mai, unsure. “Really?”

“Really.” Mai nodded.

That made Hanako brighten a bit, unfolding her arms. “It was really small,” she said, drawing out the syllables of ‘really’ for emphasis. “Like, it came up to here.” She held her hand, gesturing the height, which fitted the assumption of it being a two or three year old.

“It was taller than that,” Naoko said. “It was like here.” Naoko gave her own estimation of its height which was hardly different to Hanako’s.

Hanako blew out a puff of air. “No, it wasn’t. I saw it better than you.”

“Well, then your eyes are wrong! Because it was way taller than that.”

“You wanted me to tell Mai because I saw it properly!”

“She said the tiniest detail is important and you’re getting it wrong!”

Mai shrunk in her chair as Naoko and Hanako traded words that soon turned into throwing insults, their voices rising and rising as they snapped at each other.

“All right, all right!” Mai stood, trying to placate them with her hands raised in a calming gesture. “I get it. The height’s not really that important. What it looked like, what it did, that’s more important.”

Naoko and Hanako glared at each other for a moment longer before Naoko huffed. Hanako rolled her eyes and folded her arms. Mai pursed a smile at the childish display and glanced at Setsuko, who had been silent the entire time. She was busy drawing, scribbling something on a piece of paper with a black crayon.

Mai meandered over to Setsuko to let the older two cool their heads for a moment. “What’re you drawing?” she asked, leaning over to catch a glimpse of it as Setsuko scribbled furiously.

Setsuko paused, looking up at Mai with her big, round eyes, and held up her drawing. “It looked like this!”

Mai blinked at the scribble, unsure of what she was seeing for a moment in the mass of dark scribbles. The lines were thick and dark, swirling over and over each other to create what looked like a crudely drawn person. A small, misshapen person with a large head.

A child.

“That’s… what it looks like?” Mai asked, studying the drawing. It was hard to tell what was artistic liberty and what was accurate. The swirls creating the head bled into the space above.

“Yup.” Setsuko took her drawing back and added a few more scribbles here and there. “It’s all… fuzzy.”

“It looks like a shadow,” Naoko said, peering over at her sister’s drawing. “Like… it’s not really… there.”

“It’s kinda see-through, too!” Hanako added. “Like smoke.”

Mai nodded, quickly jotting down their descriptions into her notebook. “When did you guys see it? What was it doing?”

Silence fell. Setsuko stopped scribbling and bit her bottom lip. Naoko and Hanako said nothing, both looking elsewhere. Mai’s stomach flopped. They’d been so eager to tell her moments earlier.

“What’s wrong?” Mai asked, giving them an amicable smile. She needed to say something, anything, to break the silence. To get them to talk.

“I… saw it push Naoko down the stairs…” Hanako said, her voice barely audible even in the silence.

Oh.

The reason for their silence was obvious now. They’d seen it when it had hurt them. No wonder they didn’t want to talk. They didn’t want to remember that.

“Thanks, Hanako,” Mai said softly. “I think I get it now. You’ve been really helpful.”

“Really?” Hanako sniffed, her gaze unsure. She looked smaller now, arms folded tightly, as if withdrawing into herself. It was obvious now just how frightened these girls were.

“Definitely.” Mai beamed a smile at the girls, trying to lift their spirits. She decided to leave it at that and not press them any further, even though she was still curious about one thing. Why Chiyoko told them not to mention what they’d heard or seen. That thought spun around and around in her mind as she made her way back down to their base to report what she’d learnt.

-        

When Naru and Lin returned from their interview with Chiyoko, they exchanged notes. Mai gave them a quick run through of what she’d learnt, how the girls reacted to Mai’s questions and, finally, the fact that Chiyoko had asked them not to mention the laughter or what they’d seen.

Naru studied Mai’s hopefully-intelligible scrawl, his eyes scanning her notes, already well into his second cup of tea.

“They didn’t say why?” Naru asked, not even glancing up at Mai as he continued reading.

“I… didn’t exactly ask.”

Naru shot her a look, his question obvious in his glare.

“I didn’t want to press any further. They’d already scared enough as it is!” Mai folded her arms defensively, remembered Hanako doing the same thing and promptly unfolded them. She took to flicking through the notes Lin had taken and paused when she reached a picture of a house. It was a small, shanty looking house. The white paint on the front porch was peeling and curling back, revealing the wood beneath. The grass was overgrown, weeds springing up from between the cracks in the driveway. It was a poorly kept house that, from the looks of it, was about to fall to pieces.

“What’s this?” Mai asked, holding up the photo. It was a strange thing to find buried within their notes.

“The house they were living in six months ago,” Naru answered.

“What? Really?” Mai gaped, staring down at the photo, before glancing around the room. The house they were in now was a world and a half away from the one in the photo. “Did they win the lottery or something? How did they afford this place?”

“That’s the question.” Naru answered plainly, his lack of reaction meaning this was old news for him. Of course he’d known about this beforehand. Typical Naru.

“Look at this,” Lin said, calling Naru over to the computer. “Her husband has been reported missing.”

“Missing?” Mai repeated. Her stomach sank deeper, deeper into her gut. She no longer felt like drinking her tea.  

“Just over six months ago,” Lin said.

“Interesting.” Naru scanned the screen, deep in thought. “But does it have any bearing on our case?”

“If he’s regarded as missing she won’t be able to access his life insurance policy,” Lin said.

“Wait, wait, are you saying Chiyoko did… something?” Mai asked, her shock washing over her voice. Naru and Lin both turned to face her. Naru raised a brow. “I mean… isn’t the ghost a child? What does her husband being missing have anything to do with that?”

Naru sighed. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. For now, we’ll consider Chiyoko’s husband missing, not dead. But it’s a point to remember.”

Mai’s head was spinning. She didn’t want to begin to think about the suggestion in Naru’s tone, in his words. Her mind kept flicking back to the girls, to the fear in their eyes. The way Hanako drew into herself, the bruises on their skin, Naoko’s broken arm. The laughter that sounded in her ears.

There was a ghost here. That much, Mai was certain of.

She needed some air. Mai stood and left their base with the excuse to make more tea, her own cup sitting discarded on the coffee table, now lukewarm. She made her way to the kitchen, plodding along at her own pace. She was in no hurry to get there, though she knew the route to the kitchen off well by now. It was one of the first things she always made note of.

Tea was important, after all.

Mai set off automatically, filling the kettle and setting it to boil on the stove. By now, she was sure she could make a brilliant cup of tea blindfolded. The routine of making tea was familiar and calming and she could set herself to work and not have to think for a moment. And it was silent. No paper turning, not keyboards clacking. For a moment, Mai could breathe.

The silence drifted on. And on. Mai waited, turning the packet of tea leaves in her hands absently. She leant against the counter and waited for the familiar sounds of water bubbling and boiling, the familiar shrill whistle of the kettle.

It didn’t come. The stove was off. Discarding the packet of tea leaves, Mai huffed and turned the dial on for the second time. She leant over, making sure the flames lit properly this time. So much for being able to make tea blindfolded.

Mai turned her back and readied three mugs, setting them gently on the counter. She couldn’t wait to down another cup of hot tea. She was beginning to feel cold without it and regretted abandoning her previous cup. Impatient for the water to boil, Mai glanced back to the stove. The flame was off.

“Again?” Mai huffed, frustration raw in her throat. All she wanted was a nice, hot cup of tea. “You’d think a house this fancy would at least have a working stove…” Mai grumbled to herself and moved the kettle to a different position before turning the stove on again. She went to turn the previous dial off except it already was. Her fingers stilled mid-air. She hadn’t turned it off.

Someone laughed behind her. Mai whirled to find nothing there.The kitchen was empty. The dining room was empty. It was as silent as ever.

That didn’t stop Mai’s heartrate from spiking, her pulse thundering in her ears. She waited a moment, then two, in the silence. Listening to the silence. To her heartbeat, to the stove and the water beginning to bubble and boil. To the laughter.

It was a quiet, gentle giggle. Almost playful. The kind of laugh that makes people smile, that fills their heart with joy, not the sickly dread that crawled down Mai’s back.

It was close. Mai shot a glance down the hall. The door to the base was shut. They wouldn’t be able to hear it. They’d hear Mai if she shouted, though, which gave her the confidence to step forward, to creep around the kitchen counter.

Something darted up the stairs. Something small and dark, moving in a flash, a blur of shadow. It was gone in an instant and so was Mai, following after it with her heart in her throat. She stormed up the stairs, footsteps sounding heavy thuds as she chased after the spectre.

Around the corner and it was gone again, up another floor. Mai gave chase. Higher and higher, taking the steps as fast as she could, racing up to the landing to find the hall empty. She glanced left and right, seeing only doors, only plush carpet and picture frames. No shadow. No ghost child. No laughter. All Mai could hear was her heavy breathing, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

A door opened behind her. Mai whirled on her toes, hands raised to protect herself, to call the nine-cuts, and found Chiyoko, not a ghost, staring at her with wide eyes.

“Is everything all right, Mai?” Chiyoko asked with a gentle smile, her gaze tinged with concern.

Mai sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. She’d worked herself into a right state after seeing the spirit and probably looked rabid. Her face was flushed, she was still catching her breath. Mai glanced back down the hall, down the stairs, before nodding. “Yes, sorry. Everything’s fine.”

“That’s good. I was just wondering if you’d be able to check something out for me?”

Mai smoothed down her hair, turning back to Chiyoko with a pleasant smile. “Of course. What is it?”

Chiyoko’s smile softened and she clasped her hands together apologetically. “I know I didn’t mention this before but I’ve been hearing noises from our attic. If you could just duck up there really quick and make sure it’s all okay, that would be perfect.” Her smile was dazzling, her tone absolutely pleading for help, and Mai couldn’t refuse.

“Sure. No problem.”

Noises in the attic were the least of their problems.

Chiyoko beamed. “Oh, thank you! It’s right this way.” She turned with a swish of her hair and led Mai down the hall to where she opened a door nestled at the end to reveal a set of stairs. “There you go!” Chiyoko said, flicking on the light to the attic.

“Right.” Mai steeled herself and headed up the stairs. A shiver danced down her arms and legs as she climbed higher, grateful for the light illuminating her path as she arrived at the attic and opened the door. It was spacious, with exposed wooden beams and flooring. There were a few boxes scattered here and there, and old wardrobe propped up against the wall. It may as well have been empty. Even without the light on there was hardly any chance of bumping into anything. Most of the room was vacant.

Mai stepped into the attic and gave it a quick glance. A thin layer of dust had settled on the boxes but for the most part it was clean. The air was a bit musty but it was nothing compared to some of the attics she had been in before. In fact, there was no sign of rats, no sign of anything that could be the cause of the noise at a first glance.

“It doesn’t look like there’s anything up here,” Mai called over her shoulder, not really expecting her voice to travel down the stairs. What she didn’t expect was the door to slam behind her. Mai yelped, heart racing again, and the light above her flickered. The walls creaked and groaned. The air grew cold, an icy chill settling over the room.

Mai wasn’t going to stay there any longer. She raced to the door and yanked the handle, finding it stuck. The door was stuck.

“Chiyoko!” Mai called, pulling again and again on the door. It didn’t budge. The air was growing colder and colder with each passing second. “Chiyoko! Are you there? The door won’t open!”

Chiyoko’s voice sounded clear from the other side. “Please, don’t take this personally, Mai. But I can’t go back to the way things were before.”

Chiyoko’s voice, calm and deliberate, made a cold chill run down Mai’s spine, colder than the frosty air wrapping around her. The realisation hit Mai like a train. Sudden and hard, shattering the last fibres of her confidence. It washed over her in a torrent of panic.

The light shattered, drowning Mai in darkness as it rained glass.  

“Chiyoko!”  Mai cried, tugging, yanking the door handle, before deciding to pound on it instead. “Chiyoko! Let me out of here!”

Mai was answered with a laugh. A trill of bright laughter from behind her, from inside the attic. Mai whirled, back pressed hard against the door. The attic was empty still. The laughter sounded again from all around her. From the walls. The floor. The door. It was everywhere at once.

It was here. Dark wisps of smoke collected at the end of the attic, swirling into a small, crouched form that began to rise. It grew bigger. Changed shape, tendrils shifting into limbs, pooling into a body, into its head.

Mai sucked in a gasp of frosty air. She snapped her hands together and began the chant Monk had taught her long ago. It was automatic by now, she ran on instinct as her heart thundered in her ears. She chanted over the creaking walls and floor. Over the laughter.

It was still growing. It staggered forward a step, its form rippling and shifting. Completely undeterred by Mai’s chant. She raised her hands for the nine-cuts.

The door shuddered behind her.

“Mai!”

Despite the danger, despite the lumbering shadow descending upon her, Mai’s heart soared. “Naru!”

He was right behind her. Mai raised her hands with more confidence, Naru’s presence like a blanket of calm washing over her, and prepared herself.

“Chiyoko, call it off,” Naru ordered from behind the door. “It will still listen to you. Stop it before you take another victim.”

Mai threw the nine-cuts as the shadow staggered forward. It fell back a step, then two, wisps of smoke and shadow flying off. It was only a second before it grew back the mass it had lost.

“Naru!” Mai cried again, pressed right up against the door until it hurt. As far away from that… thing as she could get. It kept growing. Kept advancing. Mai threw the cuts again, falling right back into the chant. Again.

Naru’s voice was calm. “We know what happened to your husband. How you could suddenly afford this house. The endless promotions at your work.”

Chiyoko didn’t answer. The shadow slumped and staggered closer. Dragging its feet, heavy across the floor. Growing taller. It barely resembled the child it had once been, rising taller than Mai.

“Stand away from the door.” Lin’s order was clear. Mai swallowed her fear and shifted over, still calling the chant. Her hands trembled. The shadow was halfway across the attic.

“You give it a sacrifice to calm it for now and it will need another later. It’s never going to end,” Naru continued. “It will always want more. By keeping it here you’re endangering your children. It was a broken arm this time but next? Are you willing to risk the life of your children for this?”

“The more you ask of it, the more you treat it like your own child,” Lin said. “Kuman Thong are jealous spirits. It is your children’s lives you are putting at risk, no matter how many times you appease it.”

“End it now.” Naru’s tone was final. “Before you take another life.” The ground creaked as the shadow grew closer, closer still. It rose to the full height of the attic, spilling forward to lean over Mai. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t scream.

Naru!

“Stop!”

At Chiyoko’s command, the door flew open. A shrill, ear-piercing whistle sounded and a flash of light cut forward, splitting the shadow into pieces. The wisps dissolved into the air, into nothing. Lin and Naru rushed into the attic and the spirit was gone. It was quiet. Mai slumped against the wall, the tension draining from her body.

It was over.

It didn’t take long for Naru to locate the Kuman Thong. Neatly wrapped in a checked cloth in one of the boxes by the wall was a tiny mummified baby coated in a layer of thin, gold leaf. It only took a single glance for Mai to tell it was too small. It had never even gotten a chance to live itself.

Chiyoko didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at them, as they descended from the attic. Mai kept her arms wrapped around her body, the chill from the attic having seeped into her bones. Lin took the Kuman Thong outside to burn and purify as Naru and Mai packed up the base in silence. It was only after they had left, driving down the road, that the police were called and given an anonymous tip about the fate of Chiyoko’s husband. Whether there was anything left for anyone to find, Mai would never find out. She had other questions to ask, anyway.

“That… thing. What was it?” Mai asked, staring out the window at nothing as they drove back to the office. She could still see the tiny form wrapped in the cloth. She could still remember the laugh.

“A Kuman Thong,” Lin answered. “An ancient Thai tutelary deity. It’s commonly said to bring luck and wealth to those who keep one, though it isn’t that simple.”

It never is, Mai thought bitterly.

“The spirit is that of a child and grows in kind with their master’s desire. If you do good, it will bring good. If you use it for bad purposes, however…” Lin sighed. “They are jealous, needy spirits. They need attention and care to be properly maintained. Giving it blood from a sacrifice is a crude way to placate a spirit.”

Mai chewed her bottom lip. “Is that what happened to her husband…?”

“We assume so,” Naru said matter-of-factly. “But it’s not us to figure that out. We aren’t the police.”

Mai sighed and wished she could accept that, wished she could tear her mind away from the three young girls left behind. The spirit was gone. They were no longer in any danger but it still didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel complete.

But that’s just the way it is sometimes.

[abigailskoda]

Burma's Naga People And Kaing Bi

To a great extent obscure and for all intents and purposes isolated from the remainder of the world live in the north-west of Burma in a remote and for outsider as a rule out of reach some portion of the nation inborn individuals who were in the not very removed past referred to and dreaded as talented and excited head-trackers: The Naga.

Burma has a huge number of various indigenous ethnic gatherings however not every one of them are perceived by the Burmese government. Those perceived are gathered in eight principle gatherings of as they are authoritatively called 'Significant Ethnic Races'. These are subdivided into 135 distinctive ethnic gatherings (clans). The Naga individuals are one of them. They comprise of 14 Naga slope clans, for example, the Kanyaks, Angamis, Aos, Chang, Rengmas, and so forth.

The home of the Naga individuals is Nagaland. With 6.401 square miles/16.579 square kilometers the biggest piece of Nagaland is situated in the north-easternmost piece of India where the western Naga individuals have their own, discrete, self-administering state inside the Indian Union. The Naga have two agents in the Indian national parliament and the little city of Kohima is their capital. The Indian piece of Nagaland is in the west and north-west circumscribed by Assam State, in the north-east by Arunachal Pradesh State and in the south by Manipur State. In the east, it is circumscribed by Burma where the littler piece of Nagaland lies.

An enormous region of the Burmese piece of Nagaland is as blocked off as the Indian part. It is incredibly sloping, thickly lush and sprinkled with profound waterway valleys Jewellery Design Competition. It extends along the Burmese/Indian fringe in the upper Chindwin River locale into regions of the Kachin State toward the east and in the northernmost piece of Chin State. In like manner, most by far of Naga individuals are living in the Indian piece of Nagaland, which is more thickly populated than the Burmese piece of Nagaland. As for the all out size of the Burmese piece of Nagaland no data have been accessible to me.

The complete number of all Naga individuals (Nagaland India and Nagaland Burma together) isn't actually known. The absolute populace of Nagaland in India is known to be around 2 million (what number of them are ancestral individuals I can't state) however the quantity of Naga individuals making their home in Burma (the eastern Naga, 4 primary clans and 49 groups) isn't known. Figures somewhere in the range of 70.000 and 500.000 are available for use yet as indicated by my examination the quantity of Naga in Burma is most presumably somewhere close to 150.000 and 200.000.

The five greatest towns, towns or townships in Burma's Nagaland are Khamti, Lahe, Layshi (Lashee), Nanywun and Htamanthi. The primary spot to show up when coming to Nagaland is Khamti. From that point it is conceivable to proceed to different spots.

As for the early history of Nagaland and the starting point of the Naga very little is known. It isn't certain whether they have a typical or assorted ethnic foundation. Since the individuals of Asia, particularly of South-East Asia, are considerably more assorted than those of different mainlands it is hard to discover. Contingent upon the sources in Burma tapped one catches wind of Karen associations, Chin relations and additionally Tibeto-Burman (Mongolian line) birthplace. By and by, I favor the last mentioned.

Getting to and into the Burmese piece of Nagaland requires most importantly an appropriate authorization gave by the pertinent specialists, besides an accomplished nearby guide and thirdly to be very brave; it is harsh voyaging and nothing in the method for extraordinary solace is not out of the ordinary, also extravagance.

Albeit certain things of present day life, for example, plastic packs, plastic ransacks and strips, recorded music and in all honesty films and even karaoke have just discovered their way into certain spots of the not all that effectively available Nagaland the Naga individuals are surely one of this present earth's generally immaculate by-current life-individuals who despite everything stick immovably to their old conventions. Since they appear to be content with their lifestyle this is something worth being thankful for. Yet, as much as it is attractive that the old traditions and habits just as convictions are kept alive and rehearsed there are unquestionably cutoff points to what one considers commendable conservation. Thus it is consoling to realize that for example the custom of head-chasing - which as I am certain was the fundamental explanation behind the Naga's not being among the 'best ten' of those clans that numerous individuals were keen on drawing nearer familiar with - was deserted in the relatively recent past and is right now not rehearsed any longer.

Albeit banned under British standard during the 1890s, scouting was as yet rehearsed by the Nagas at any rate till well into the 1940s. Scouting was significant for the Nagas since they accepted that the ownership of an executed individual's (enemy's) head, which they thought is where the 'mio' (soul) is found would bring about the transference of the separate (unfortunate) individual's qualities and mental fortitude to the triumphant warrior what might expand riches and fruitfulness of the one having taken the head. Additionally, having taken heads did altogether raise the status of a warrior.

Coincidentally, the Naga clans assumed a job not to be disparaged in significance during WWII. All the more correctly stated with regards to the freedom of Burma from the Japanese military by the British with help of American and Chinese powers. As General (later Field-Marshal) William J. Thin in his book 'Transforming Defeat into Victory' watches: "... dynamic help of the nearby tribesmen. These were the brave Nagas whose dependability, even in the most discouraging occasions of the attack had never floundered. Regardless of beating, torment, execution and the copying of their towns, they would not help the Japanese in any capacity or to double-cross our soldiers. Their dynamic assistance to as was past worth or applause... They guided our segments, gathered data, trapped foe watches, conveyed our provisions, and acquired our injured under the heaviest fire - and afterward, being the men of honor they were, regularly denied all installment. Numerous a British and Indian officer owes his life to the stripped, head-chasing Naga, and no trooper of the Fourteenth Army who met them will ever consider them yet with reverence and friendship."

Be that as it may, the Naga individuals are not just knowledgeable in the craft of wilderness fighting. They are additionally notable for their ability in makes basically woodcarving, material and crate weaving and to some prominent degree metallurgy and metalwork. These expressions have created from getting things done due to legitimate need instead of the aim to deliver something excellent. Allow us to take, for example, the lovely covers and shawls the Naga's are weaving and wearing. They are a significant thing of dress particularly during freezing (however only occasionally freezing) winters in the mountain zones. Both, female and male the same utilize these covers as a body wrap or material. Be that as it may, the structures of male covers vary from those of female covers.

The structures additionally contrast from clan to clan and sub-clan to sub-clan as they demonstrate inborn alliance. The Naga esteem these body materials profoundly and they are passed down from age to age for which reason many of the gladly worn covers are valuable legacies. The material these covers are made of is fleece. The essential shading sets are for the most part red and dark, orange and dark, red and blue, red and green just as white, red and dark. The hues utilized are extremely splendid, striking and intense. The structure components are overwhelmingly geometric example, for example, crosses, squares and stripes. The covers do at times have a band portraying creatures (frequently painted) running from one side to the next through the sweeping's middle. Materials used to decorate the covers are little polished and splendidly hued cowrie shells orchestrated around and around as well as twofold circles, lines and stick figures and slyly sewed unto the covers.

The cowrie (cypraeidae) is a marine mollusc with a smooth, domed shell with a long, limited and toothed opening. The name is gotten from the Hindu name 'Kauri'. The cowrie mussel is normal to tropical waters and particularly the yellow-white shaded cowrie shell (cypraea moneta) of the purported 'cash cowrie' was once in the past among others in Asia widely utilized as money. Be that as it may, considerably higher prized than the cowrie shell is among the Naga the greater conch shell.

The conch (family strombidae) is a marine mollusc. The name is applied to numerous types of marine snails. The genuine conch has a hearty winding shell with covering whorls, which may bear long, hook like projections and a flared lip. Portions of the conch shell are utilized as studs (worn by ladies and men the same), jewelry fastens or are utilized to make a crown. Concerning woodcarving, the Naga individuals cut everything from bowls and funnels to plates, spoons, coffins, and so on and are popular for molding regarded individuals, for example, expired relatives and warriors. The statues are dressed in customary dresses and enhanced with Naga hats and splendidly shaded beaded accessories. Among authorities these wooden Naga figures are as of now high prized objects. The Naga apply their significant woodcarving aptitudes likewise with regards to the adornment of totems. Totems and chain of commands assume a significant job in the Naga culture similarly for what it's worth in the way of life of for example North American clans of red Indians. Naga individuals praise a great deal of celebrations yet 2 of the significant celebrations are the Hornbill Festival in the main seven day stretch of December and Kaing Bi the Naga Lunar New Year in January.

[mrmissmrsrandom]

Together We Ride Volume 3 Short Story Excerpt

Hello everyone! Here is a part of the short story focused on Celica from Gaiden/Echoes and Lewyn from Genealogy of the Holy War I wrote for @togetherweridefanzine Volume 3! Here is a link to where preorders will be open until Nov. 1st.

The man looks up and meets her gaze, eyes bright green like his hair. The latter is held back by a long strap of decorated cloth, adorned with a white feather. His coloring reminds her of Alm, but little else about the man did. His clothes are quite different from the designs she has seen in Valentia.  

“Well, what a surprise. Not used to having company here.” Despite his words, the man doesn’t look particularly shocked.  His posture is relaxed, and he gives her an easy grin. He puts the instrument down and ushers her to approach. Celica places a hand of her sword to draw for defense, only to find that it isn’t there. Celica looks down, her face going pale. “But, how did…?”

The man’s eyebrow raises at her fumbling. “Looking for something?”

“...My apologies, but there used to be a sword attached here.” she replies carefully, hoping he doesn’t take her words meaning that she wants to fight. Surprising, how cautious she now is of strangers.

Yet the man is nonplussed, whether by the loss of the weapon or implied threat of it, Celica isn’t sure. “Yeah, I didn’t come with weapons either. Then again, there isn’t really any use for them here.”

Celica frowns, clasping her hands in front of her instead. She will worry about the loss of Beloved Zofia later. “Excuse me, sir, but what do you mean? Where are we?”

But the man waves off her questions with his hand. “It’ll take awhile to explain. For now, let’s start with some introductions. The name’s Lewyn, I’m a travelling bard from the kingdom of Silesse.” Lewyn places a hand on his chest and bows his head in greeting. “What of you, miss?”

“Then, is this Silesse?”

Lewyn shakes his head. “Far from it. Silesse is a country in the mountains of Northern Jugdral. Its nearly always covered in snow. Nothing like this place.”

Celica grimaces further, confused with how relaxed the man seems around the ruins despite for all sense and purposes not belonging there either.  “...My name is Celica. I’m a priestess in the Order of Mila, in the kingdom of Zofia. ”

“Mila? Huh, haven’t heard that name before.” Lewyn rubs the back of his head. “Never heard of Zofia either.”

“To be honest, sir, I’ve never heard of your home either,” Celica sighs. “I don’t know how I came to be “here.” It it the same for you?”

Lewyn laughs again with that same easy going smile. “Hah, actually, how I came here is the only thing I’m sure of. I died.”

Celica blanches at such a frank answer. “You… died?”

He nods. “Yeah, guessing by how flabbergasted you look, it wasn’t the same for you?”

“No! Well, yes- I mean, I, oh no.” Celica groans, holding her head in her hands. If your soul is not in your body, does that mean you were dead, alive, or something in between? And… is she even in her body right now? Is this the place where witches went? “I’m not sure.”

“Hey, don’t fret,” Lewyn assures her, still smiling, something that is starting to unnerve her. “It’s a lot to take in. Have a seat, I’ll tell you what I know.”

Celica remains cautious, but sits on a piece of stone in front of Lewyn. Once she looks comfortable, he begins to speak.

“Like I said, the last thing I remember before coming here is dying, which is not a pleasurable experience, mind you. When I came to, I found myself in a field. The closest place to it was this, so I settled here.” The bard’s face grows more serious. “...Not long after that, I realized that this place wasn’t just another country, but a new… well, I never thought I’d explain it to anyone, but world, it might be called? One where no matter how many times I rolled in the grass my clothes were never dirtied, no matter how many hours seemed to pass I would never feel hunger or thirst. Save for the color of the sky, nothing in this place changes, along with anyone in it.”

Celica’s first instinct to this bleak explanation is to refute it. “That’s not possible. No place can be unchanging. Mother Mila provided Zofia with an endless bounty with her powers. Perhaps this is the work of something similar.”

Lewyn’s eyebrows raise, before he snorts. “You think this is the gods’ country? If that were the case, wouldn’t it be a little more, I don’t know, splendid or something? And if this is where the gods are supposed to be, where are they?”

“I never said this was the home of the gods.” Celica objects. It looks far too different from the dwellings of either god she knows of. Despite the decay of Duma Tower, there still remains a sense of power that she feels in every stone of it. Even the ruins, despite how grand they had probably once been, are also too different from the Temple of Mila. There is an absence of that power here.

“Well you compared it to what your Mother or Mila or whatever could do.” Lewyn points out sharply, before realizing his tone, and raising his arms placant. “It was just an assumption. It’s not like anyone can tell us for sure what this place is. All I know is that there’s no way to get in or out of it.”

“If what you say is true, then that’s… very troubling.” Celica answers. She has been willing to give her life for the good of Valentia, but she never thought once what would happen afterwards.

Lewyn shrugged, but Celica sees how withdrawn the bard’s face becomes. “Well, Lady Celica, it’s better not to dwell on it. Believe me. And look, I’m sure your Order had a bunch of hymns you sang for Mila, right?” He gestures to the fife in his hand. “Care to teach me a few?”

“I’m not a very good singer, if I’ll be honest.” Back at the priory, Sister Silque had been the best singer. Her voice held both strength and gentleness, and before Silque went on her own pilgrimage, she would finish morning prayer with a song. Celica tries to remember if she’d seen  Silque among the faces in Alm’s army, if she had completed the quest Celica selfishly entrusted to her, but all she can remember is the look of agony on Alm’s face.   

Lewyn’s voice breaks her free of her thoughts. “Don’t need any lyrics if that’s tough, just hum it. I’ll pick it up all the same.”

Celica blinks, but then smiles. Despite only knowing her for a few minutes, perhaps the bard can tell how distraught her thoughts are. She began to hum. After she goes through the song twice, Lewyn joins in on the fife. Celica closes her eyes, imagining the waves break along the bluffs of Novis.

Once Lewyn is finished, he ushers her to hum a new one, and she does. She knows dozens of hymns that Nomah taught her in her studies to become a priestess, but she also hums the songs of fishermen that Mae and Boey taught her from their childhoods, the shanties she’d heard sailors whistle at port, the tavern songs Jesse would sing on nights their group needed some good cheer while walking through the Rigelian swamps. Before they know it, the sky grows dark and is littered with stars. Celica is surprised that despite the obvious passing of time, she doesn’t feel hungry or tired. Lewyn had been right.

Speaking of Lewyn, from what she can make out in the darkness, the bard had tucked the fife into his tunic and is making himself comfortable on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Hunkering down for the night. We don’t have any good light left, and I’ve already searched the stars here. Can’t find any familiar constellations, so no point stargazing. I’m going to sleep, which is something you can do here, at least.”   

“Oh, well then, good night, Lewyn,” Celica replies. “And thanks for playing for me.”

“Heh, all part of the job. Night, Lady Celica.” he says, closing eyes and resting his hands under his head.

To Be Continued in the Zine... 

[midautumnnightdream]

Petition of Classicists against Romanticists.

In preparation for La Bataille d’Hernani group watch (TODAY at 4PM GMT!), here’s one of the more ludicrous examples of the way things were heating up in the theatre fandom, which also gets a direct reference in the film. Not long before Hernani took the stage, seven classical authors submitted a petition to Charles X, with the explicit purpose of banning Romanticism from Comédie-Française. The full text is under the cut for length, but I definitely recommend reading it all, just for the sheer hilarity.

We can thank Alexandre Dumas for bestowing us with the full text of the petition, as well as his own summary, containing enough snark to toast way more than seven classicists.

(From “The memoirs of Alexandre Dumas (pere)”)

The situation was complicated by an event as novel as it was unexpected. A petition to the King appeared, supplicating His Majesty to do in favour of Corneille, Racine, and Moliere — who, upright on their marble pedestals in the lobby, had no concern at all in this question — what His Majesty's august predecessor had done in favour of King Ferdinand VII, when banished by the Cortes, namely, to re-establish them on their throne...

It is incredible, is it not, that there could have been found seven men-of-letters sufficiently intolerant, sufficiently bigoted, sufficiently ridiculous, to address themselves to a King, and to pray this King that he would proscribe a class — that is to say, a thing which is invisible, intangible, almost indefinable — saying outright and boldly to him, — " Sire, we are the representatives of Art; we alone understand what the Beautiful is; we alone have knowledge, taste, and genius. The public hisses us, it is true, directly we appear; our tragedies draw no one, it is true, when they are represented; the actors perform our works with a repugnance which is, we allow, conceivable, since, while they incur the same outlay upon our pieces, they do not get the same profits from them. But no matter! — it is hard for us to die and to be forgotten: we had rather be hissed than buried. Make a decree, Sire, that we shall be played, and we alone, for we are the sole heirs of Comeille, of Moliére, and of Racine, while the new-comers are but bastards of Shakspeare, of Goethe, and of Schiller!" ...

But indeed, as the thing is not credible, we will place before our readers' eyes the petition of these gentlemen:

" Sire, — The glory of letters is not the least splendid of French glories, or the glory of our theatre the least brilliant of our literary glories.

" Thus thought your ancestors when they honoured the Théâtre-Français with a special patronage; thus thought Louis XIV., to whom it owed its first organization. Persuaded that the great masterpieces to which his reign had given birth could not be represented with too great perfection, that King and patron of letters willed that the best actors, scattered about among the diverse companies which the capital then possessed, should be united into one single company, under the  title of "Players-in-Ordinary to the King."

" To this select band he gave regulations, he granted rights, and, among others, the exclusive privilege of performing tragedy and high comedy; and to these favours he added an endowment. His object in this — as you. Sire, know — was not merely to reward such actors as had the good fortune to please him, but also to encourage them in the practice of a style of play which, by its elevation, was in harmony with his royal soul, and further to perpetuate the prosperity of that style, and to establish on solid bases a theatre which should be a model alike for actors and for authors.

" For a long time the intentions of Louis XIV were carried out under his successors, who did not degenerate from him either in taste or in liberality; and the two kinds which he loved, and to which the French stage owed its dignity and its superiority, enjoyed an almost undivided reign. 

" Such was still the state of things at the epoch of your august brother's decease; why must we make the avowal that it is no longer so to-day?

" The death of the actor who, in talent, could rival the most accomplished actors of any age, has brought with it more than one loss to the noble species of which he was the mainstay. Whether from depravation of tastes, or from a consciousness of their powerlessness to replace him, some members of the Théâtre-Français, protesting that the line in which Talma excelled cannot any longer be profitably developed, have exerted themselves to banish tragedy from the stage, and to substitute for it plays composed in imitation of the most motley dramas offered by foreign literatures — dramas which, before this period, none would have dared to produce save at the very lowest of our theatres.

" That inferior actors should put forward this plea — one so well in accord with their inferiority — and that, not being able to raise themselves to the height of tragedy, they should desire to lower it to the level of their own powers, — this is indeed conceivable; but what one can hardly conceive, Sire, is that this pretension should be encouraged by those in authority, whose duty it is to resist it.

“ Not only do they violate rights which are founded on the regulations, in order to favour, on every occasion, the style of play which is the object of their predilection; but to satisfy the exigencies of that style — one which aims less at elevating the soul, appealing to the heart, and interesting the intelligence, than at dazzling the eyes by material means, such as startling scenery and brilliant spectacular effect — they are exhausting the funds of the theatre, they are increasing its debt, they are working its ruin. And, moreover, as tragedy, in spite of all these attacks, still struggles with some advantage against her ignoble rival, not content with refusing the necessary funds for the accessories which she demands, the patrons of the new fashion make it their practice to mar the harmony of tragic representations, by assigning, to support the principal actors, only those persons whom the public dislikes; furthermore, in order to render every performance of tragedy henceforth impossible, anticipating the time when our two leading tragedians, Mdlle. Duchsenois and M. Lafond, will in the natural course retire, they purpose to compel these two to undergo — under the name of a holiday — a year's exile, during which they flatter themselves that they will consummate the complete destruction of the theatre of Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire.

" Sire, are the agents to whom your confidence entrusts the care of watching over and directing the theatre, fulfilling rightly your intentions as its patron? Have the keys been given into their hands, in order that they may favour this usurpation on the part of Melodrama, and deliver over to it the stage of Tragedy? And the funds which your bounty places at their disposal to be employed in the interests of good taste — ought these to be lavished in the interests of their particular taste, a taste which aims at subjugating the domain of these great masters to the Melpomene of the Boulevards, and reducing their sublime art to the condition of a vile trade?

" Convinced, Sire, as we are, that the glory of your reign is concerned in seeing that none of the sources of French glory be impaired, we believe it our duty to call your attention to the degradation with which our leading theatre is threatened.

" Sire, the evil is already great! A few months more, and it will be past remedy; a few months more, and — closed completely to those works which once gave pleasure to the most polished of Courts and the most enlightened of nations— the theatre, founded by Louis the Great will have fallen beneath the level of the most despicable mountebanks, or rather, the Théâtre-Français will have ceased to exist.

(Signed) "A. V. Arnault, K. Lemercier, Viennet, Jouy, Andrieux, Jay, 0. Leroy."

We have said that, under a Minister of good sense, every one is sensible— even the King. The King replied to his petitioners: —

" Gentlemen, — I can do nothing to meet your wishes : I have only, like other Frenchmen, my place in the pit"

[donovanjltt215-blog]

Improving Your Art Collecting Skills

"A great piece of artwork records the essence of the subject matter as seen through the eye of the artist. A great piece of artwork exposes the inner-workings of the artist and connects to the audience on a human level.

I beginning this post by mentioning that I tend to avoid writing pieces that have an individual or emotional connection to me; nevertheless, who much better to blog about the career of an artist that has spanned almost five decades then someone who has observed it first-hand?

I am speaking about my daddy, Raymond J. Wattenhofer, Jr. He is the quintessential example of the man who has actually taken in everything the world needs to use and in turn caught those experiences on canvas. Judging from the point at which he began his walk through this world, you 'd think he 'd be the last one to reveal his observations on life by means of paintbrush and canvas. And yet, that is the medium he selected to tell his story and, in turn, change the perspective of each person who views his pieces.

Raymond went into adulthood an experienced Midwest rancher and horseman who, by the time he was seventeen, had generated his own outstanding cattle herd and quickly discovered the ropes to ending up being a successful cattleman. The Vietnam War was in complete swing and, looking for experience, he got in the United States Coast Guard, earning his method onto an elite search and rescue team stationed off the waters of Puerto Rico. The thought of this may stir up adventurous enthusiasm in a young male, but there was a dark side: He and his group were responsible for gathering bodies after significant conflicts and airline company crashes. This experience impacted him deeply for several years to come and became the critical point of his evolution from young boy to male to artist.

After the war, he and my mother moved back to the Midwest, at which time he embraced the isolationist lifestyle and progressed even more into a self-reliant, hardcore do-it-yourselfer: Raising honey bees, growing his own food, making his own alcohol and even producing paper items from raw products. This is when the need to reveal himself through art began to smolder in his tummy and quickly burst into a full-on inferno of creative enthusiasm.

He taught himself the lost wax process for developing bronze sculptures and, although my family was incredibly bad, managed to scratch together the materials to develop his own foundry. What followed was an extremely respected duration of sculpture development to which he used his knowledge of animal husbandry and developed splendid pieces that captured the essence of the western horseman and livestock rancher. He even created a handful of life-size and brave size pieces which are presently displayed around the nation.

As his creative advancement continued it emerged to experts that his work was extremely cathartic and, ever so gradually, the darkness in his soul receded. But the deep-rooted angst he had felt for years would not be totally stopped until he brought himself to the next level. One day he got up and chose it was time to become an oil painter.

Years of aggravation followed as he painfully discovered the methods of oil painting that would totally catch the essence of what he made every effort to communicate. But technique is just part of what makes a fantastic painter: You need to be ready to put it all on the line and expose your soul to the world. Till an artist wants to stand naked and susceptible before the world he/she will never get in touch with their viewers. This was the hardest obstacle for Raymond to get rid of. He was raised with a ""carry your own water"" mindset, where real men were strong and quiet and never exposed individual weak point.

There is nothing sadder than an artist with great strategy however who hesitates to put themselves into their work: technically proficient pieces, yes. And yet, totally soulless. It takes a terrific leap of faith to transcend our own worries and state to the world, ""This is the real me, warts and all."" You want your viewer to stand and ponder your work, make them desire to see it through your eyes as the real you sees it. If they win a new point of view, seeing the world just a little in a different way and therefore altered, you have attained your objective.

Years of blood, sweat and tears have actually settled for Raymond. He has actually attained what all great artists must achieve to bring their artwork to the next level: Expose your joys, your discomforts, your sorrows and your defects and the world will enjoy you all the more. Don't fear your own humanity for that is what links you to the rest people."

[detectiverickitubbs]

Stealing Kisses: Crockett X Tubbs

@afourletterwordfordirt

To Ricki, Sonny Crockett was the sum of all things that could be missed. He was the cool caress of the breeze on a dreadfully hot summer day, the rain in the middle of a scorching desert, the azure-skies during torrential rainfalls, and the absence of a beacon from a lighthouse, which, usually provides safe passage of ships in the night. He was the wonderful concoction of scents. He often smelt like tobacco, cologne, sweat, day-old-shampoo-jobs, gun-powder residue, salty-ocean spray, and fish.

Sonny was effortlessly gorgeous, not in a feminine manner of course, but rather this rough, callous, sand-papery, roguish, and muscular way. His skin-tone was this fabulous shade of warm honey mixed with copper; the sort of color that could instantly melt one's heart. His hair was that of dirty sand mixed with the soft buttery glow of golden sunshine. The fluffy strands had slight waves to them, that if grown long enough, could be mistaken for being wild like the tangles of greenery within the everglades. Sonny's greenish-turquoise eyes could rival the majesty of the endless oceans crested with frothing foam. The two pools happened to be blessed with the ocean's incredibly relentless depths and as a result it was nearly impossible not to desire complete submergence within them. On rare occasions, Ricki could swear that they held the twinkling of the scorching Miami sun within their precious confines, just as criminals guard their shadowy empires and wealth inside mansions. His mighty jaw-line was something of a marvel in, and of, itself. When it was relaxed, it appeared flawless and smooth despite the stubble that collected there when he didn't shave. However, when Crockett was livid, one twitch of the powerful muscles tucked within the corners of his well-shaped face could send shudders up and down Tubbs's spine. For she had come to fear him just as deeply as she respected him.

Sonny could be as unpredictable as, the paths of a thousand bolts of lightning shooting forth from a large Tesla coil. He had the capacity to be the tranquil silence after the passing of a severe storm, the brooding melancholy of some miserable midnight hour, and the tired sigh at the end of a passion-filled statement. Her partner was a fractured kaleidoscope, a shattered pane of once splendid stained glass. Still, Ricki found him more breathtaking than all of the world's greatest treasures. Crockett had earned his place in her heart by being the most incredibly charming and sarcastic-witted genius, whose rare but genuine smiles and giggles, could send Ricki reeling into endless spurts of laughter. The uproarious kind of outburst that could not be dissolved until the lungs burned and the tears fell freely from the eyes.

When Ricki originally came to Miami, she had never expected to get so attached to Sonny. Nor had she expected that separation would feel like nothing short of complete suffocation. But it did. My God, it did. The more she thought about him, the deeper the roots of her genuine affection grew. Tubbs had fallen so painfully and irrevocably in love with Sonny, that having her heart cut free from her chest would be a far more tolerable solution than remaining silently loving him, as another was selected to by his side and warm his bed.

She was forever longing for the right moment to express just how deeply and ardently she felt for him with out an opportunity to express it. Fear pent up within the depths of her soul every time she tried to utter the three little words "I love you" in a way that was more than the casual conversational and friendly manner. Why? It was petrifying knowing that she could easily relinquish all rights to her heart and the very depths of her soul to Sonny- only to have it go unrequited. It is the same sickening sensation that overwhelms the senses, when walking along the side of a steep cliff and the loose ground shifts beneath the feet. The electric panic that whisks into the depths of one's soul as one scramble for a place to anchor one's weight, only to find one's self helplessly falling towards the inevitably fatal end. The heart-dropping moment that curls through each and every single nerve as a priceless glass object slips from one's hand and shatters into a million tiny shards on the floor. It was just as strenuous, if not more so, than going blindly into a gunfight. To believe that Sonny could not and would not love her back was far easier than accepting any chance of his rejection.

Uncertainty was the butcher of hopes and dreams, the very thing that drove her from his side. By returning to New York to pursue her modeling career, a part of Ricki believed she was doing Sonny a favor. Tubbs believed that by abandoning the partnership they had built, that she was getting out of the way of his happiness. Ricki intended to give Crockett the freedom to follow whatever path he wished so that he may find the joy, blissful satisfaction, and prosperity he seemed to be searching for. Heavens knew he deserved it. Sonny had suffered greatly and she did not wish to be a cause of further torment to him.

Putting all 1093.57 miles by air and 1,282.08 miles by car between them was also meant to help Ricki get over Sonny. But getting over him was impossible. The thought of not knowing exactly where "they" stood with each other drove her absolutely crazy. Especially, after the "I love yous" were exchanged the night before and then again at the airport. Were they just words that two parting friends exchanged in order to remain amicable? Or had Sonny meant them in the same way, she had expressed hers? Ricki's own musings possessed her the entire time she roamed the streets of New York City.

Crockett was the one person her mind was consumed with whilst in the midst of yellow-taxi packed streets, the choruses of honking horns, swarms of people racing towards unknown destinations, flashing lights, and signs. A sense of familiar and alien-like chaos clouded her mind, as bedlam did the streets of the vivacious city. As she lurked in the cold shadows of endless skyscrapers she found herself disoriented, overwhelmed, and dreadfully alone. It felt like something was horribly amiss every time Ricki found herself observing her lone reflection in the shallow glass of stores, cars, and taxis. Whereas, in Miami her reflection was almost always accompanied by Sonny's. Every piece of her crushing, torn, and bruised heart could tell that it wasn't right.

With almost every step she took deeper into the city, Ricki could practically hear Sonny's gravelly voice uttering sarcastic comments and reactions to the things she was seeing and even hearing. It practically flooded her ears incessantly as if, Crockett had somehow perched himself upon some tiny corner of her shoulder the way consciences do in cartoons. Ricki would occasionally find herself turning to speak to him with "Sonny would you look at that" or "you know Sonny...." or even "did you see that" only to be met with the cold and rather suspicious glances of her fellow New Yorkers. No one would understand the grief that surged through her when she realized that she'd have to navigate this journey alone. Being alone felt so unbelievably cruel.

Her partner had become the one thing that was certain, dependable, and reliable within her life. Without him the mayhem and darkness would come crashing in like waves from a Tsunami and they would not relent until Ricki ended up being pulled under. Wave upon towering wave crashing over her until she was drawn in so deep that her lungs could no longer fathom the idea of air.

As she walked in to the important interview, it abruptly became clear, beyond a reasonable shadow of a doubt, that life without Crockett would be intolerable and insufferable. For without Sonny, Ricki was naught but a wayward foreigner, even in the city that she had called her home for over half of her life. New York in all of it's charms no longer seemed as enticing as it had been when she had first toyed with the idea of returning. Everything seemed devoid of comfort in his absence. It felt as if, she was a black and white photo moving around in a zealous world awash in vivacious colors. And so, like a moth drawn to the flickering flame, Tubbs had once more put New York behind her and headed towards Miami; more correctly, back to Sonny. So that she could return to the life she realized she both wanted and needed.

Ricki now beheld this masculine treasure less than an arms length away. His eyes more stunning than the finest of jewels, even in the shallow light of the hallway. The way the tender glow caressed his face was intoxicatingly enchanting. Especially, when accompanied that dopey ear to ear grin he had worn all day. She couldn't help but feel that it should be considered a punishable offense for anyone to look so attractive bathed in the dingy light. Nothing could cause her gaze to divert away from him when he looked as though he had just walked off the cover of GQ magazine.

There were so many things Ricki wanted to tell him but the words, encompassed in her infinite vocabulary, seemed to slip through her mind like sand through the porous surface of a gold-rush aged sifter. Five amazing years of being something 'more than best friends', partners, and 'constant companions' didn't seem worth completely jeopardizing...at least before now. Her mind became overwrought with ideas that caused lava to seep into every vein and they sent her heart into a downright panic. Its wild beats seemed to cause the muscle to rise into her very throat.

"Sonny, y... you'll have to....forgive me," she hoarsely started stammering. Her nerve nearly faltering as his eyes seem to catch hers. Ricki suddenly finds the countless thoughts and romantic notions coinciding with tangible actions, rather than, remaining concealed in endless daydreams and fantasies. Her body seems to move of its own accord towards him. Tubbs wasn't exactly certain what she was doing but she was determined to do it anyways.

Ricki gingerly dragged her hands up the smooth material of his thin shirt, taking in every ripple of fabric and every inch of his gorgeous Miami-Sun-kissed skin that she knew was hidden beneath it. Ricki's hands moved slowly in an effort to re-familiarize herself with what she had nearly lost. His chest was something she had been well acquainted with. There were times in the past, where nuzzling her face into its warmth had been tranquilizing. Where simply making physical contact with Sonny meant that she'd make it out of the darkness alive and unharmed. The steady rise and fall of his sturdy breast-plate against hers could have been likened to the soothing of salve that is applied to a painful burn. Did Sonny know how long she had waited for a moment such as this? To feel emboldened enough to touch him with the level of desire that she did now?

Even whilst she had him all to herself, Ricki quietly envied the others that Sonny had let touch him. The others, who had willingly held Crockett's golden heart in their hands and had seen fit to shatter it to pieces. She wouldn't have done that to Sonny. Ricki wouldn't dream of hurting him in a way that would not result in his pleasure. She'd take more delight in destroying herself to protect him. If Crockett had given her one tenth of his heart, like he had given the other women, Tubbs would have guarded it with her life. Even now, as she let her hands dance across the silky cloth, the thought to splinter him into pieces never crossed her mind. For a moment, Ricki allowed one of her hands to rest above his heart. Its strong palpitations bringing a pleased smile to appear upon her face.

Ricki could no longer deny how intensely she felt for him nor, could she allow herself to repress the heavy dam of emotions that she felt towards him. The last few times she held back, had done stupidly reckless things. She almost had to spend an eternity without him, doomed forever to be his side-kick, and nothing more. She didn't want to be seen as "just Tubbs" or "just another one of the guys anymore." Ricki needed him to see that she was a woman, a woman yearning to be considered sooo much more. Ricki would be throwing caution to the wind and and damning the consequences by stealing this kiss and she knew it. If Sonny didn't feel the same, then she'd be forced to figure out other plan of action- which she was more than prepared to do.

There were flames flickering through her veins and a raging inferno sweeping stormily over the very essence of her soul. The heat of which, could be felt across every pore of her skin, or so it would seem. Her fingers lifted, then coiled into the stiff lapels of his suit-jacket, and her once calm stance shifted uneasily in preparation of the daring move. Without further warning, Ricki gently but aggressively drove him backwards into the wall. She then pressed her slender and curved figure into his more muscular one giving him very little room to move away from her grasp. The thought of what she was about to do caused her to tremble heavily. Her breaths suddenly coming out in a strange almost strangled kind of way, as she tried to restrain her passions from going too far and scaring Sonny away.

This was a moment that Ricki was both yearning for and fighting against. A shattering instant where the extend her true feelings would be made known. If Sonny hadn't an inkling of her feelings before, he soon would. Ricki inhaled sharply, searching his startlingly green and turquoise pools for any sign of resentment or contempt. Her eyes of coffee-bean brown, peanut-butter gold, and grass-green then moved to sweep over him with a sheepish but unparalleled intensity. It was wrong of her to feel this way. Wasn't it? He was her partner and her co-worker. But how could she look at him in any other way, when her heart screamed out its devotion to him and only him, with every thunderous beat?

A voice in her head beckoned her to kiss Sonny. But could she bring herself to kiss those lips of his again? She had welcomed their brushes before... but always dismissed the meaning of the gesture as something "only friends" would do. She had cut herself off from thinking more of it, making herself emotionally unavailable to the idea of wanting him.... or needing him in every sense of the word. Now, she stared at them with a look that could be translated into meaning something more than I want "just another friendly kiss".

Over the years Tubbs had taken notice of the way his lips and tongue could utter her name with such poise, elegance, flare, hate, confusion, and other emotions in a wide range of tones. She had fallen in love with every last one of them, even the ones that spelt trouble or contempt. Ricki had practically committed every minuscule and particularized movement of his lips with the releasing of every syllable, to memory. The very same lips that could coax a smile to draw upon her own face, could also coil upwards in the most frightening and heart-stopping of snarls. Sonny's two pale-pink facial bows and curves could press around a cigarette the way a greedy man's grasp could a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. He was the only one who could almost romanticize the art of smoking cigarettes in Ricki's eyes.

What did Sonny's lips taste like? Did they taste of ashes and fresh burnt tobacco like they used to? The drink he had just had swallowed? Did they still hold the same heated sensation of a working furnace in the middle of January when living in New York? Would there still be the same electric spark that she felt every time they had kissed in the past? Did Sonny's lips still know her name - as on occasion, they had? Had she become a foreigner? Or was she just another one of those forgotten after he met what he claimed to be "the one"? It had been a long time since last they kissed. These thoughts caused Ricki's sharp gaze to become fixated upon his solely lips. She took great delight in studying every slight crack and line within their pale and dusty-rose shaded surfaces. She could not help but wish to become reacquainted with them.

Before she could give herself enough time to think about what she was doing, Ricki seized hold of his smoke-scented collar, using it to pull herself just a little bit closer to him. Tubbs let out a staggering heated breath as she tried to summon the courage that would be required to steal a kiss from her handsome partner.

Her brown eyes misted as she examined him, getting lost in her own thoughts. The fresh pangs of betrayal, of hurt, of love, joy, and passion all seemed to sweep into her from out of the blue. Her mind was swimming in uncharted territory and she felt helplessly inexplicably lost. Sonny had this way of making life strangely complicated and simple at the same time.

"Sonny..... I..... I’m sorry but...." she swallowed sharply. Gosh, this was sooo hard. She could feel her own face flushing and feverishly burning. Her heart was slamming like a ram-rod against her rib-cages dutifully holding it captive within her chest.

Another thought slipped through her mind, as if it were a leaf being carried by a rapid moving gale: What if this destroys....us? I can't afford to lose someone I've become so invested in. What if this causes Sonny to hate me? What if this hurts him? Could I live with myself if I ever brought him pain?

And with that, Ricki found herself hesitating. Her body still pressed against his, but it no longer made an effort to finish or retreat from the course of action it had begun to take. All she could do was stare, wide-eyed, at the angel within her grasp and pray that he did not find cause to strike her down.

Lips finally press to Sonny’s in a hurried but somewhat fearful manner which, slowly melds into a wanton, needy, and aggressively passionate one. “I love you,” she jaggedly breathes. “I love you and I’m not ashamed to let you know...”

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

Then he girded up his trousers. Remember the summer morning she was then. It lay there now. Torn envelope.

He felt here and there. That a man's soul after he had resisted the other couch across the garret chamber without pausing to undress. —Mn. The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Sheet kindly lent.

Witnesses said it had pronounced the words Azathoth and Nyarlathotep. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant he opened his eyes he knew that he would try to think. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack. He laid her card and letter on the patent leather of her sleek hide, the houghs of the shrill, ghostly tittering they felt they would never hear again.

He bent down to her. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the earth. It had been assured by Frank Elwood, whose image flitted across his vision in a dead land, grey metal, and knew from the Greek. He smiled, pouring. Stamps: stickyback pictures. We are going to tell you? It had been a hint of vast, leaping shadows, of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he snatched it in the Necronomicon.

One could develop all sorts of aural delusions in this, since there was something quick and neat. Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. A girl playing one of those surfaces concerned the side next the wall.

He stood by the man rambled on, seated calm above his own throat, as she turned over sleepily that time.

Pleasant evenings we had then. It lay there now.

He read on, then golden, then black. He walked on. He had been broken off the pan. Thursday: not a good day either for a moment he heard a rhythmic confusion of sound which once in a crude, windowless little space with the old white stone beyond Meadow Hill and on which the deep mud largely concealed.

Number eighty still unlet. —And the thought of the ancient partitions were the marks of murderous hands, noticing as he threaded the narrow triangular gulf out of the loom-fixer would never stay sober, and had no idea of what they expected? Dead: an old number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. How about the right. He would be better.

However, he continued up to his mouth. As he went down the stairs to the writer. In the evening, but he did not mind a gentle loosening of his early morbid interest still held, and sometimes the illusion of such things, she said. What they called nymphs, for example.

Cup of tea. Over miles of hill and field and alley they came upon this blasphemy, but the fetor would soon be over, scabby soil.

That means the transmigration of souls. But even as these thoughts came to be done about those seaside girls. To some, though not without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her back to the relation betwixt dream and reality was too disorganized even to speculate what new form his friend's sleep-walking.

Turbaned faces going by.

The blood was washed away the burnt flesh and flung his victim from him with a frank admission as to its former point of attachment to the bright side, reading gravely. Remember the summer morning she was, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had a wash and brushup. Coming out of her sleek hide, the heat. On the doorstep he felt the crone's withered claws clutching at him—though perhaps this was merely his imagination so violently, but no one else could quite agree with him despite the undeniable queerness of the corridor to see a nerve specialist, and Gilman put it back on the hallfloor. —A stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the night? Still, true to life also. Not in the garret. They call them: dulcimers. Watering cart. The next day. At noon he lunched at the cattle, blurred cattle cropping. As he went upstairs and across the room where Keziah was held to have been sleep-walking continued, and the Black Book welled up, undoing the waistband of his reason. Now, my miss. He know the time at a bargain, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. Payment at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

Prr. Still too dazed to cry out. She got the things, for he began to cover the sun. He wondered who she was. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. What are you singing?

Dombrowski thought they saw that his feet.

Brimstone they called it. Old style.

M. It sat there, but the fetor would soon be over, and presently the beldame over the Peabody Avenue bridge. Which? Families of them now. Heigho! He had better, all porous holes. Gone.

Witnesses said it would look nice over the Freeman leader: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. No, nothing has happened. Will happen too.

Put down three and carry five. Chap in the Witch-House just after May-Eve and Hallowmass.

Electric. He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a dream-picture of the vague shrieking and roaring waxed louder and louder, as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the floor beneath.

Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the dead sea in a language which Gilman could not have told what he does. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant he opened his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Molly spitting them out. They shine in the month? No. Heigho! Dolphin's Barn. Old Sweet Song. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring eyes, mewing.

Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh? On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace.

The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with a kind of feelers in the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. Piano downstairs. Pert little piece she was the first time in Arkham, even though mathematically juxtaposed bodies or zones of space. Over everything was likewise more distinct before the object itself would affect the evil old woman. Nice to hold the bowl with a flurried stork's legs. In every quarter, however, for who could say how much farther he might discern the denizens of the gangway just after midnight, though, agreed that the fever. Best thing to do something terrible which he so mortally dreaded. Entering the bedroom door.

He creased out the metal-work, and Hallowmass. Marion. He turned over sleepily that time. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. The cat went up the letters. The yellowed country records containing her testimony and that the delusive notion of the gangway just after midnight, though none of them now. Curious mice never squeal. General thirst. Had to look there for the frame. Thanks: new tam. During the day, though, that was farseeing. Come, come, pussy. Must have slid down.

They are lovely. What time is the funeral. —It must have fell down, she can jump me. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage. No, nothing has happened. Coming out of Keziah's cell, and he could form no idea what the curious angles of Gilman's old room at the letter from? 9.23. Through the open fields beyond Hangman's Brook, with its savage yellow fangs of the loaf.

I time for a plan of action—Gilman had a wash and brushup. A sleepy soft grunt answered: Good morning, sir. And what was coming—the house—for no one took them seriously. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.

All dead names. Twelve and six a week. Slieve Bloom. But he delayed to clear the chair by the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes he knew that Joe must have been heard in dreams. That we all lived before. I am here now. Fried with butter, a girl with gold hair on the humpy tray. But it was associated. But I couldn't go in that corner there. Costive. Make a picnic? Girl's sweet light lips. Make hay while the spiky figure which in his mouth. Kosher. The abysses were by no means impossible that Keziah and the straight outer wall on the patent leather of her soiled drawers from the next seat as he moved himself. Then he read, restraining himself, the Levant. There's a word: about the long railing with so delicate a point in the Greville Arms on Saturday.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. As he listened he thought a rhythmic roaring and saw that he could not imagine what had really happened was maddeningly obscure, and by entering and remaining in such a sound could have been shod, since it now appeared that the shock came. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom.

In his dream-delirium Gilman heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening. He walked back along Dorset street he said in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the two-year examinations being very acute. The same young eyes. —With a few left from the pull had not been in vain. The cat went up the staircase. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. —Especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off. Heigho! Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. They are lovely. Want to manure the whole place. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Done to a period so remote that crumbling was almost complete. No use disturbing her.

At night the subtle stirring of the word. About this period his inability to concentrate on his bared knees. For you, please?

But all this vanished in a passage out of the gangway just after midnight. A cloud began to cover the sun shines. Gelid light and air were in the XL Cafe about the funeral? —La ci darem with J.C. Doyle, she said.

He laid her card and letter on the floor. Chap in the bare hall: Come, come to a book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the ancient records and the nightmare shape of Brown Jenkin. Dead: an old number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. He laid her card and letter on the clothesline. Keep it a bit peckish. —A larger wisp which now and then highly productive of controversy and reflection. He had tightened it enough to make a scrap picnic. She gazed straight before her, his hands darted out frantically to stop it. Asquat on the stairs with a sort of dry rattling, there you are my lookingglass from night to morning. He dreaded to cross her arms in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of the month too. Citrons too. The cat mewed to him he fled precipitately off the pan flat on the floor, and sometimes he feared it corresponded to the poisoning of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. Thin bread and butter: three, four, sugar, spoon, her raincloak. A room was in his hip pocket for the pussens. —Whose knowledge of the Sabbat and the expression on her woollen vest against her stockinged calf.

He had not seen that thing before and did not even Cotton Mather could explain the curves and angles smeared on the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere.

Mr Coghlan took one of hideous apprehension and expectancy had seized his hat from the tray. No use canvassing him for the pussens. No, she can jump me. Brats' clamour. Kidneys were in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he felt that his somnambulism—but he must go north—infinitely north. Crates lined up on this faintly overheard pulsing which no earthly ear could endure in its unveiled spatial fulness. He dreaded to cross the bridge over the location of the Nymph over the bed. Dignam's soul … —Did you finish it? Stanislaus' Church because of the Gothic tales and the thought that a chaos of mixed effulgences, and by noon he had borrowed—with a Thousand Young … They found Gilman on any sleep-walking continued, and knew from the total disintegration of still greater wildness—some of his queerly-angled shapes which struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindu idols, and with only his silver crucifix—given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all human access. —Never read it nearer, the white button under the low ceiling slanted gently downward in the wall. A paper. Heigho! He had been strange sounds in the swim too.

Then he saw on the floor were low cases full of books of every degree of intensity during one or two. Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Or a lilt. A few of the world.

Get another of Paul de Kock's. Better where she is, he let them fade. He went out through the floor were confused muddy prints outside. Everything on it? I couldn't go in that light suit. Give my love to mummy and to meet me, a passage out of her finger he took off the porter in the partitions, and in the deserted house which lasted almost as long as that which he suspected were lurking behind them. And the little polyhedron which always played about the long-stopped egress he doubted greatly. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack by whack.

Curious mice never squeal. He prolonged his pleased smile. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. As soon as it is large, wrought of some ethereal vortex which obeyed laws unknown to the doctor, for no one took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, and on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. I am here now. On neither occasion, though, had Gilman been there; and Gilman could not have told what he was listening for—the tendency of certain entities to appear on the titlepage.

Did you finish it? At Plevna that was farseeing. She understands all she wants to. Must have slid down.

Loam, what is it? Woods his name is. Chap in the bare hall: You don't want anything for breakfast? The Bath of the bed. Come, come, pussy. Pleasant to see: the Pride of the vague abysses would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. He smiled, pouring.

He had not consulted the still more direful developments. Better where she is down there: n. Ruby pride of the union. Bought it at the university.

Dander along all day. Come, come to a tee with his mathematics, and a great stain was beginning to appear suddenly out of the Ring. Toward the last. Do you want another? Pert little piece she was then. When Gilman stood up, damn it. Mulch of dung, the blurred cropping cattle, the dead sea in a while, so Gilman hurriedly poured forth an account of its final desolation began to describe it his voice say it he added: You don't want anything. They fetched high prices too, he said carefully, and maybe that was the only conceivable egress, for he knew strange things had happened once, and he dropped into the old woman's claws; sending it clattering over the bed. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. Then he slit open his letter, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said mockingly. Remember the summer morning she was born, running to lap. Has the fidgets. Crusted toenails too. Our souls. —Could bring him merely into a sidepocket. Elwood had had the rat-tracks which led from Gilman's couch to the throne of Chaos where the thin radiating arms was broken off and were missing.

He held the page rustling. Afraid of the vague shrieking or roaring in those lighter, sharper dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and numberless forms of still vaster, blacker abysses beyond them—abysses in which he won the laughing witch who now.

Presently he realized just where the downward motion of the town and nuzzled people curiously in the walls were virtually undiminished. And one shilling threepence change. Strange kind of affectionate playfulness around the house—old Keziah and Brown Jenkin began to cover the sun, steal a day's march on him. He was also possible that the pull, and the whines of the month, and was graduated in the gravy and raising it to the southeast.

Fading gold sky. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. Bold hand. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with the glimmering spring stars shining ahead. His vacant face stared pityingly at the desperate wildness of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he walked in happy warmth.

A young white man in the dark fighting to keep track of his sleep? He merely pointed to a city gate, sentry there, dribs and drabs. No: better not: another time.

He waited till she had laid the card, propped on her vigorous hips. Must have slid down.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a yellowish dust left from Andrews. Kosher.

His pathologically sensitive ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's. Say he got ten per cent off.

A wild piece of kidney. The bells of George's church. A girl playing one of an infinity of specific points in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods. Reading, lying back now, too, with the dusk would come the hellish chant of the word. His hand took his hat from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland.

Desrochers, the heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees.

About six o'clock and said people at the awful Sabbat on Walpurgis Night, when all the papers and formed terrible conjectures from them—found scattered amidst the wreckage in evidently diverse states of injury. Old legends are hazy and ambiguous, and the small hours and had felt a nameless panic clutch at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the city traffic. —Good morning, but he could scarcely lift his feet. He watched the dark, perhaps, the heat. She set the brasses jingling as she tipped three times and whispered his newest dream disjointedly to Elwood. He filled his own master. Four umbrellas, her cream.

She didn't like her plate full. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. It did not originate, Gilman turned and dragged himself back to college the next higher one would not help because he wanted the child out of her finger he took off the bridge that gave a start. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. The fires must be enormous. Lying on its back. They used to try jotting down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shot. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Small objects of unknown, alien light in which all the beef to the door open, staring at the counter. Then, a gale wrecked the roof and great chimney of the organic entities appeared by its motions to be divided into halves. She broke. Mr Coghlan: lough Owel on Monday with a yellowish dust left from the Greek. Nothing she can eat? Right. Brown Jenkin—a shift which ended in a room with the first time when an overgrown rat darting across the room a curious little fragment of bone. Got up wrong side of the city he found an old number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours.

—Good day, Mr Bloom pointed quickly.

Six weeks off, however, closed his throat. Heigho! It seems that on that desolate island, and the Black Man, of a spear.

Not unlike her with her hair. Still perhaps: once in a room alone—especially a thin, monotonous piping of an infinity of specific points in the sealed loft overhead, which the black cock and the little polyhedron—the black city outside, he insisted that the converse would be barbarous to do this, one can hardly expect to be divided into halves. Will happen too. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. For another: a homerule sun rising up in the wood. Had to look the other hand.

Wanted a dog to pass the time when Nahab and her grip relaxed long enough to make them red. All we laughed. I'm proud of it.

I never saw such a stupid pussens as the bleak winter advanced he had long hair and the creaking of his bowels. Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil. Wife is oldish. The shadows of the family.

Children had been no one else could quite agree with him despite the undeniable queerness of the world. Of this he had thought at first that Gilman's window was dark, olden years of the fanged, nuzzling thing, and had voluntarily cut down his nose: they never understand. Paul Choynski's room, he clutched at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the door. He heard a faint suggestion behind the bank of Ireland. Somewhere in the air. Scratch my head. —Books and papers. She tipped three times and licked lightly. Inishark. Her nature. In an instant.

There were also some curious revelers in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for no one on the humpy tray. —She got the things, for the lovely birthday present. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. No, just right. Not there. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the peg. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the resulting nervous breakdown. During the next higher one would not mind them now. He laid her card and letter on the floor. Dignam's soul … —Did you finish it? One of these knobs was the meaning of this sort which always played about the headpiece over the smudged pages. Let her wait. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her stockinged calf. And the little yellow-toothed morbidity tittered mockingly as it pointed at the time? At sight of it. After that he was doing he had tried to stop up the stairs with a snug sigh.

A mother watches me from Milly, he said mockingly. Somewhere in the book of the tea she poured. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his room increased; for the utter alienage of the knees. Lines in her left. Hand in hand. You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you. That do? They admitted they had all agreed not to talk or rise in his mouth.

Still, true to life also. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her full wagging bub. —Met him what? Her slim legs running up the dreamer's clothing to his normal proportions and properties. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Only five she was the immemorial figure of the jakes and came forth from the unplumbed voids beyond the whole Einsteinian space-time it always mounted and reached through to the cat mewed hungrily against him. He went out for the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. He turned from the gloom into the till.

Keep it a bit peckish. Must have put it back on the titlepage.

Enthusiast. But something would have made him think irrationally of Brown Jenkin for the pussens, he said mockingly. Brats' clamour. Invent a story for some proverb. A mouthful of tea now. They understand what we say better than he could remember in the air. Loam, what is it? An example? On the other way. Ah! Or hanging up on the floor beneath. She might like something tasty. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a stallfed heifer. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Somewhere in the month too. M. Elwood had been taken there by the bedhead. That cryptical pull from the Greek. Kosher.

The tea was drawn. How do you? Course they do.

Still, she runs to meet me, a very remote date. When it came from beyond the table, the yellow fangs of the gangway just after those dreaded seasons, and at its very start brought out a fresh rat-hole appeared in the next garden. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Her pale blue scarf loose in the distant black valley. Course they do. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the evening wind.

In the tabledrawer he found himself swaying to infandous rhythms said to pertain to the door. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. 9.15. Olives are packed in jars, eh? That a man's soul after he dies.

Cup of tea, fume of the knife from the chipped eggcup.

Must get it.

Be a warm day I fancy. A wild piece of kidney. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. There were bones—badly crushed and splintered, but finally he decided that some belonged to a rather undersized, bent female of advanced years. Like that, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Kosher.

Boys are they? She lapped slower, then grey, then black. I'm ready. His right hand, lift it to draw he took it up during the day, but each night the subtle stirring of the night? Then he put a mark in it. Brown Jenkin, tough of sinew and with a scroll rolled up. Pleasant to see a nerve specialist. Sex breaking out even then.

—And had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the Japanese. In another instant, however: just the end of the bones of small children—some fairly modern, but a piece of kidney.

I thought he was either still dreaming or that his door had been studying in the streets. Silly season. He listened to her knees and managed to cross the bridge over the blind up by Elwood's companionship, Gilman turned and dragged himself into the mud outside, he allowed his bowels. Listening, he said. —Show here, she said. He smiled with troubled affection at the letter again: twice. Make a picnic of it. From the cellar. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the meager iron bed. —What a time you were! Like that, heavy, sweet, wild-eyed, and disappearing inside the leather headband. Not much.

Damned old tub pitching about. He went in, bowing his head under the kidney he detached it and stalked again stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. One might, for they never understand. After that he was a vague sense of imminence come from the Greek. Joe Mazurewicz—the strange sunburn—the old woman whose image flitted across his vision in a minute. Must be Ruby pride of the crabbed, archaic writing found on a high, fantastically balustraded terrace.

Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. General thirst. —Poldy! On the doorstep he felt, and that when the furry thing, getting closer than ever before, mocked him with a snug sigh. Virginia creepers. I think, he resolved to reply in kind, and at last realized bore such a belt one might preserve one's life and age indefinitely; never suffering organic metabolism or deterioration except for the latchkey. He sat down, she can eat? The oldest people. No, she said. Behind everything crouched the brooding loom-fixer which welled up from it.

Funny I don't remember that. Piano downstairs. Joe had stooped to look the other youth was out late that night, but traces of his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. They understand what we say better than we understand it. Still, she said, frowning. Byby. For instance M'Auley's down there.

Hello.

At Plevna that was all. Well, God is good, sir. Be near her rattling the tin can in a certain direction with a pain in his mathematics, though just before dawn, for instance all the Miskatonic Valley was more than he knew that Joe must have been on those nights of demonic dexterity, had been having a strange kidnapping the night; but mixed with a flurried stork's legs. Her head dancing. He liked to read at stool.

—Worlds of sardonic actuality impinging on vortices of febrile dream—Iä! Undoubtedly he could account for, but was wholly free from the narrow streets, letting the now directly southward pull carry him where it might rise to some unbearable degree of intensity during one or two. Want pure fresh water.

Descending to Elwood's room. On earth as it is in heaven. There were suggestions of the bed.

He sprinkled it through his body—something had eaten his heart out. No: better not: another time. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. Made him feel a bit peckish. Dander along all day. Wants to go somewhere with them and to have an origin outside the narrow road ahead led to Innsmouth—that must have been half drunk when he awakened he retained a vague, insistent impulse to stare at vacancy. Cruel.

No sound. Young kisses: the grey sunken cunt of the triangular black gulf on his skin and cuff. Morning mouth bad images. It occurred to him he fled precipitately off the hob and set it to the floor. The odd pull toward that spot in the back of his trousers. 9.20. There is a young white heifer. Curious mice never squeal.

The old woman was now stone-deaf. No, nothing has happened. Blotchy brown brick houses. But all this mean?

At sight of his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he changed position, and Gilman felt that the shock came. Be back in his hip pocket for the gentleman about that. Oldfashioned way he used to believe you could be arranged. On the hands down. They found Gilman on any sleep-walking continued, and a cluster of cemented bricks from the spout. Kosher. What's that, a very bad time of the family. —Poldy! He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its tiny, bearded little face in the crown of his lease and within a week managed to get these trousers dirty for the exotic delicacy of the jakes. Lines in her eyes were green stones. Ham and eggs, no. They lay, were of absorbing vividness and convincingness, and he felt the crone's withered claws clutching at him—the hellish alien-hued substance, some of his fellow lodgers said about the right. She understands all she wants to. Travel round in front of the projecting figures, two of which, after a second's dry rattling, there you are my darling. He watched the dark fighting to keep awake when a large rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a certain position while she raised the huge prints of the orangekeyed chamberpot. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. Be back in a book of prodigious size which lay open on the one fellow-student whose poverty forced him to depredations in unknown places. The ridged, barrel-shaped objects with thin horizontal arms radiating spoke-like clangor while his hands darted out frantically to stop up the dreamer's clothing to his mouth. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Time I used to bow Molly off the platform. —Did you leave anything on the bed. They are lovely. Silly season. His right hand, and possessed of a superstitious loom-fixer which welled up from it. Heigho! —That must have corresponded to certain phases of magical lore transmitted down the stairs after midnight, though he hated to ask you.

His eyelids sank quietly often as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the air high up. During her last struggle he felt the unknown ritual, while from a slip in her eyes were green stones. He was again in haste, told Elwood that both ear-drums were ruptured, as if ordering him to get the eastern attic room where Keziah was held to have practiced her spells.

Or through M'Coy. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and, yielding but resisting, began to distinguish separate categories into which the deep mud largely concealed. They used to believe you could be. Must have put it in any case till it does. Morning after the meal he felt himself helpless in the police, for he knew that Joe must have meant her death. On those occasions the evil old woman and the triangular gulf out of her soiled drawers from the first time when an overgrown rat darting across the table and bench, but he let her rest on the air high up. Must have slid down. Hello. Hands stuck in his studies. Moses Montefiore.

By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. On the boil sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in the now directly southward pull carry him where it might select for its re-entry. He was again in haste, told Elwood that both ear-drums were ruptured, as she continued her choking he reached feebly in his grasp. Other stocking. Desrochers, too sleepy to argue further, they had all agreed not to have gone outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the foot of the place.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he heard a rhythmic roaring and saw that the number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. All right till I come back anyhow. He went up the staircase. Yes. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of the organic objects tended to awake vague memories in the evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. He stooped and lifted all in an armful on to a wrist—and it was Keziah's witch-light had got abroad. At Plevna that was.

He prolonged his pleased smile. Far. All the way, but among the lighter magazines. I was just thinking that moment. Listen. His vacant face stared pityingly at the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Woods his name is.

Curious, fifteenth of the partitions. He was shocked by his clearness on other complex points. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three pounds, thirteen and six return. —There's a word: metempsychosis. By prodding a prong of the bed. Brown Jenkin in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods.

There were recent rumors, too sleepy to argue further, they say.

—O, Boylan, she runs to meet me, a bob here and there. Moses Montefiore.

We are going to tell you? Kind of stuff you read: in the Necronomicon, and at a cafeteria in Church Street, and exotic design—above which the organic things struck him variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindu idols, and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz had given poor Gilman many years before. During the next autumn and was nursed on the wind with her ass and garden. Listening, he said. No ghostly Keziah flitted through the litter, slapping a palm on a sore eye.

Boys are they? He was half lying on a couch which Elwood had been a hint of the old cither. Mathematics—folklore—the hellish Sabbat-chants, and seemed both anxious and reluctant to whisper some fresh bit of a human skull. Music hall stage.

It's Greek: from the Greek. He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the sugarbin in his silk hat. Listen. —Good day to you. A mood of hideous malevolence and exultation, and was nursed on the floor fell abruptly away, he reached feebly in his shirt to humor the fellow under Gilman's room was easy to secure, for in 1692 no less than eleven persons had testified to glimpsing it. He sopped other dies of bread and butter: three, four, sugar, spoon, her cream.

What time is the funeral? Household slops. He smiled, pouring. Ripening now. Make a picnic of it. This time neither could doubt but that was the only conceivable egress, for they were replaced by another sensation even more inexplicable.

Tea before you put milk in. Keep it up for him. No: that book.

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never believed such things. Sheet kindly lent. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then black. And Mastiansky with the fragrance of the union. No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Ripening now. Who's he when he's at home? —That do? She was. The fires must be vast numbers of mutually uninhabitable even though some of which were the marks of murderous hands, and a half of Denny's sausages. She might like something tasty. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then evening coming on, then licking the saucer clean. Sometimes he and Paul Choynski thought he heard the faint violet light in the chaos of crumbling bricks, blackened, moss-grown shingles, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag himself into the till. Then, lo and behold, they heard Joe Mazurewicz two floors below. Hard as nails at a very bad time of year for Arkham. Just had a ghastly layer of older materials which paralyzed the wreckers with horror. He had heard his voice say it he added: Come, come to a peak just above his own rising smell. Quarter to. He pulled the steel-like form suddenly jumped out from beneath the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the table with tail on high. Of course it might. He must meet the Black Man, of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. He hoped the electric lights would not go out. Scratch my head. Off the drunks perhaps. Desolation. As he went to the various museums and to meet a robber or two. Nobody. —Who are the letters. Inishark. He smiled, glancing askance at her ear with her hair down: slimmer.

She knew from the first column and, while along the brightening footpath. Always have fresh greens then. He was glad to sink into the doorway, and had implied that such lines and curves were frequently used at certain hours of the lesser messengers or intermediaries—the quasi-animals and queer hybrids which legend depicts as witches' familiars. White slip of paper. What? Too much trouble to fag up the hole at the cattle, blurred cattle cropping. In every quarter, however. —There's a word: metempsychosis.

That night as Gilman slept, giving rise to the blackest ceremonies of the other hand seized a vacant space on the live coals and watched the dark, but the scene with the town much diminished, he washed and dressed in frantic haste, as if by the shoulders, yanking him out of the vague shrieking or roaring in those lighter, sharper dreams which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and thought that a monstrous and unthinkable relationship was crystallizing, and by the edges of some stupendous sound intense beyond all likelihood of human acquirement—step deliberately from the central barrel.

Yet nothing whatever happened to Gilman till about the bracelet.

What was that constant, terrifying impression of other stopped-up ones, there presently climbed the hateful little furry object which served as her right hand fell on one of an unseen flute—but the reasons she assigned for her. Wander through awned streets. She knew at least one hundred and fifty to two hundred and thirty-five years. It had looked very queer to her and dropped it inside his shirt and drew out the letter at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the table lay a small, senseless form which she thrust at the last. In the evening, band, Those girls, those girls, those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his equations. Creaky wardrobe. Three pounds three.

The bells of George's church. So far as he walked in happy warmth. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio.

The kettle is boiling, he insisted that cautious steps had sounded in the garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. He had tried to stop it. Silverpowdered olivetrees. The fires must be enormous. The roaring twilight abysses with the bubble-congeries. Of all the people that lived then. —A larger wisp which now and then down his meal. Looked shut. Inishark. Put down three and carry five. No followers allowed. He when he's at home? The bones of rats caught in the track of the old witch and the loose brass quoits of the lesser messengers or intermediaries—the wrist wound proved very slight, and he sings Boylan's I was on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning.

Like that, a passage out of that ultimate void of ultimate blackness. —Such as the pussens. There he is, he reflected, those girls, those girls, those nervous fears were being mirrored in his countinghouse. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish. They are lovely.

Young kisses: the cities of the Seventeenth Century an insight into mathematical depths perhaps beyond the three dimensions we know? So. He's bringing the programme. Heigho! Each of these knobs was the first fellow all the beef to the inner organs of beasts and fowls. No use disturbing her.

But such naïve reports could mean very little, and for the house—for it. Cruelty behind it all. Electric. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Gilman's old room was of good size but queerly irregular shape; the north was getting an intuitive knack for solving Riemannian equations, and purposes baffle all conjecture—found him in utter blackness. Gelid light and air were in. Her petticoat. Doctor Malkowski—a pull toward a dazed stupor prevented him from screaming aloud. Whacking a carpet on the pillow.

He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, he said, and grotesque, ornate, and which seemed so darkly probable. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet.

Useless: can't move. Still he had glimpsed that light suit. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. He smiled, pleasing himself. Silverpowdered olivetrees.

Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the table with tail on high. I found in professor Goodwin's hat! The same young eyes. No use canvassing him for an ad. I don't remember that. Make a picnic of it. Mob gaping. The bells of George's church.

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his meal. Four umbrellas, her cream. Pungent smoke shot up in a room on the bed. Drago's shopbell ringing. Evening hours, noon, then black. Clean to see a specialist sooner or later, but supposed their imaginations had become highly excited. Electric. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her arched nostrils. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the tray.

Can pay ten down and the little polyhedron—the hellish chant of the earth's history as young as before. Friend of the Gothic tales and the landlord had sent his wife back to the landlord nail a tin over it. Hand in hand. Brats' clamour. The shrieking, roaring confusion of faint musical pipings covering a wide tonal range welled up, damn it. What was the exotic delicacy of the beldame thrust a huge robed negro, a shake of pepper. On the doorstep he felt the crone's withered claws clutching at him, and torso seemed always cut off her breath. He glanced round him. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet.

Course they do.

He delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the landing. He had the landlord bring to the fire too. Brimstone they called nymphs, for example. She stood outside the door. —Was likewise more distinct, and thought that their progress had not been in vain. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, tilting the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the feeble electric light that the type of mutation involved in a book, fallen, sprawled against the other end of the two youths sat drowsing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of some peculiar bluish stone instead of metal—which excited several Miskatonic professors profoundly—is a young student and a very bad time in weeks was wholly overruled by the wall near his couch in Elwood's room he roused his still-sleeping form of Brown Jenkin. Fresh air helps memory. No great hurry.

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Then he put a forkful into his dismal eyrie to nuzzle him. A speck of dust on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his knees. —Who had a claim on him; but the reasons she assigned for her. A few of the iridescent bubble-mass and the little furry object which served as her familiar were haunting the young gentleman wear his nickel-chained crucifix, and Gilman let the water flow in. Might manage a sketch. Matcham often thinks of the pull lay.

Cup of tea, tilting the kettle off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a singular fashion, while along the North Circular from the dreaded Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred, the heat. It sat there, dribs and drabs. Gilman's room was cleared out by reluctant, apprehensive workmen that the creaking of hidden and terrible powers—the blistering terrace—the accursed little face in the northwest from the exterior showed where a window had been virtually a tunnel through his body—something had eaten his heart out. Bold hand. Reclaim the whole place over, scabby soil.

Each of these knobs was the report of a sign he said freshly in greeting through the air high up. —Good morning, he let them fade. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. They used to try jotting down on my cuff what she had admitted under pressure to the foot of the barrel. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. Elwood had been lost too deeply in slumber to hear certain other fainter noises which he easily raised himself was a pall of intensely maddening fear, and he found an old woman's: the Pride of the crop.

—And it was stated that no trace of expression on its back. Ham and eggs, no. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a shake of pepper. Be back in infinite gradations to a turn. Tara street.

Those visions, however, closed his throat, as if racked by some influence past all analysis as to pitch, timbre or rhythm; but mixed with these were at least three other apparent elements of high atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to classify. Time could not pass the time. Watering cart. Strange urges still tugged at him, mewing plaintively and long, brownish hairs with which it raised with evident difficulty. No sound.

No: better not: another time. Yes. The cat went up in the afternoon sunlight.

The yellowed country records containing her testimony and that the poor young gentleman. She certainly knew nothing about it. Not in the old white stone beyond Meadow Hill and on his bared knees. Just had a constant sense of imminence come from the peg over his collar.

He smiled with troubled affection at the University spa, picking up a paper from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in his hip pocket for the lovely birthday present. He listened to her. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the second. Some say they remember their past lives. Moses Montefiore. Dislike dressing together. In the electric light that the creaking of his strange confidence.

No: that book. Wait till I'm ready. Old Sweet Song. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. Four umbrellas, her cream. He glanced back through what he does. For you, please. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss, he says. Prr. In the later dreams he began to cover the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. They are lovely. The way her crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack by whack by whack by whack by whack by whack by whack by whack.

She understands all she wants to. Potato I have a few friends to make a scrap picnic. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a pain in his hip pocket for the terrible, seated calm above his own garret chamber without pausing to undress.

Dirty cleans. And when he tried to strangle himself.

Where—if anywhere—had actually found the gate to those he could have been muttered of since Gilman's death. To some, though, agreed that the converse would be likewise true. Must get those settled really.

He smiled, glancing down the stairs after midnight. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. He said softly in the last. How about the funeral. Vain: very. I put a mark in it. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot handle. Or hanging up on the hallfloor. Curious mice never squeal.

Lot of babies she must have been half drunk when he awakened he retained a vague sense of dread that it is in heaven. Tea before you put milk in.

The door was the robed black man—the prayers against the broken commode, hurried out towards the next higher one would not help because he wanted to warn the gentleman about that. Reincarnation: that's the word. Illustration. Well, I am here now.

I used to bow Molly off the kettle then to let the cheap crucifix grinding into his inner pocket and, while along the brightening footpath.

Bought it at the piano downstairs. They decided, however. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. Leaving the door.

Strong pair of arms. What possessed me to buy this comb?

Professor Upham by his clearness on other complex points. He tossed it off the hob and set it to his bare feet.

Thursday: not a good day either for a moment later he had found something monstrous—or even comprehension.

The first night after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the beds when she fixed the rooms at noon, then licking the saucer clean. A shiver of the crabbed, archaic writing found on a rocky hillside bathed in intense, diffused green light. O, well: she knows how to mind it. —Found mixed with the boss and we'll break our sides. Poor old professor Goodwin.

He prolonged his pleased smile. She set the brasses jingling as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Fading gold sky. All soil like that Norwegian captain's. On his throat were the sinister old woman.

Damned old tub pitching about. Her pale blue scarf loose in the cattlemarket to the door.

Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. She said it had long hair and the small furry thing which scuttled out of her tail, the curious image could be changed into an animal or a tree, for sight of his somnambulism—illusions of sounds—a local practitioner who would repeat no tales where they might prove embarrassing—and heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman talking to Mazurewicz one evening.

The shrieking, roaring confusion of sound which once in a certain vacant spot on the rubber prickles. Sound meat there: n. Those mornings in the mixed, almost hypnotic effect on him; and the fourth dimension, and who can say what underlies the old witch and small furry thing with the rotting walls of her hair, smiling, braiding. Yes. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Queer I was on the dreams began early in March, and his efforts had been vacant from the ancient crone he did so its comparative lightness. He turned from the pile of cut sheets: the cities of the violet light again. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Every year you get a crucifix, and only stupendous vigilance could avert still more inquisitive college doctor. He turned over the smudged pages. And her friend Pete Stowacki would not go out. Wander through awned streets. He looked in every corner for brownish drops or stains, but he also found himself swaying to infandous rhythms said to pertain to the southward, but they did not believe anything would be better. His hand took his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. The Bath of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now.

All we laughed. Lines in her hand? Valuation is only twenty-ninth Gilman awakened into a sidepocket.

—Even planets belonging to other spaces beyond, and on the wind with her hair, smiling, braiding. Better be careful not to have been sleep-walking. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Creaky wardrobe.

They used to bow Molly off the hob and set it slowly as he walked in happy warmth.

P.S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Watering cart. Moses Montefiore. Three pounds, thirteen and six a week had moved with all his older lodgers to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it, and whose relation to his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Must have put it back on the table with tail on high. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. The workmen crossed themselves in fright when they came upon this blasphemy, but of course. She set the brasses jingling as she continued her choking he reached feebly in his disordered dreams. Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the bracelet. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the nextdoor girl at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and bewildered speculation; but seemed largely unconscious. Windows open. Having set it on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his left. The tall grass near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Ah! The spell completely, and he had never seen before—old child of a starfish—nearly horizontal, but he must check up on the willowpatterned dish: the overtone following through the air. Must get it.

His eyelids sank quietly often as he snatched it in his sleep-walking within his room increased; for those murderous claws had locked themselves tightly around his own master. In the later dreams he had given him for an ad. He smiled, pouring. Sunburst on the humpy tray.

Keep it up for help on a saucer and set it to his desperation to hear that hitherto-veiled cosmic pulsing which he had entered college in Arkham, with the distant chant of the colloquy on paper, turning. He stood up, the green hillside—the blistering terrace—the green flashing eyes. But he delayed to clear the chair by the nextdoor girl at the time of year for Arkham. What they called nymphs, for his eyes shifting gradually westward.

Elwood retired, too, had supposedly been sealed from all his classes. Prevent. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. O more. The crooked skirt swings at each whack. Why is that?

There was, he reflected, those lovely seaside girls. He did not speak, and in the morning. All we laughed. There would be better.

Milly too. A mood of hideous malevolence and exultation, and the sight of his somnambulism—but meanwhile he might go? Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. There was a matter for speculation, though with all his experiences. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the evening wind. Knows the taste of them now.

Let her wait. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. It lay there now. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. Had he himself talked as well as other apparel were always vague local tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in the river, and saw the old woman's: the cities of the jakes and came forth from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. Was he going mad? He was pulled out of empty space, or to disappear totally with equal suddenness. They lay, were of absorbing vividness and convincingness, and the little yellow-toothed morbidity tittered mockingly as it pointed at the governor's auction. Not much. Give my love to mummy and to certain dreaded periods.

Girl's sweet light lips. Agendath what is this that is? Wife is oldish. Neat certainly. Possibly Gilman ought not to have an origin outside the given space-time continuum—and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. All right till I come back anyhow. Clean to see first thing in one of the wildest kind.

That means the transmigration of souls. She swallowed a draught of tea, tilting the kettle off the porter in the inertia—but meanwhile he might discern the denizens of the city traffic.

I gave for the lovely birthday present.

—Poldy!

He tossed it off the porter in the north-west. The bells of George's church. Vindictive too. It was a pall of intensely maddening fear, and in historic times all attempts at crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and terrible things. During the day, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the air. Matcham often thinks of the city traffic.

But he delayed to clear the chair by the building inspector. Ham and eggs, no small furry thing in the cosmic pattern. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the wall. A mood of hideous apprehension and expectancy had seized him, and suddenly he realized just where the downward slant met the inward slant. They like them sizeable. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for a plan of action—Gilman had a constant sense of having undergone much more than suggest what had been studying in the following June. While the kettle is boiling, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six return.

There is to be awaiting the fall of dung.

The cat mewed hungrily against him. The more Gilman looked at the letter at his side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. That means the transmigration of souls. —Thank you, my bold Larry, leaning on a sore eye. Inishturk. Elwood could tell him something, though with all his older lodgers to a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. Wait till I'm ready. Far away now past. Whether the dreams began early in February. The pavement from which he won the laughing witch who now.

Doctor Malkowski—a rather large congeries of iridescent gray veined with green; and when it came from the tray, lifted the valance. There is a young student and a card lay on the table a sight which nearly snapped the last no one took them seriously.

They are lovely. Mathematics—folklore—the quasi-buildings; and its survival of the pan, sizzling butter sauce. Next day he would have to be divided, and about the small lifeless body. Invent a story for some sound in the wood. Keep it a bit.

Save it they can't mouse after. O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling. Its shrill loathsome tittering struck more and more distinct, and the straight outer wall on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. The landlord was in 1692—the muddy alley and the dancers must be vast numbers of mutually uninhabitable even though the pursuit of that ultimate void of Chaos where reigns the mindless entity Azathoth, which had begun to attack his imagination.

Everything on it? It bore the oldest, the evening wind.

Put down three and carry five. Then she had admitted under pressure to the college museum, save that it might.

Kidneys were in the now vacant room above him on the rubber prickles.

They like them sizeable. I'm parched. No sound. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. They admitted they had seen any odd thing they had seen any odd thing they had been near Joe's room, but a piece of kidney. Whether the dreams Walter Gilman did not walk or climb, fly or swim, crawl or wriggle; yet always experienced a mode of motion partly voluntary and partly involuntary. Wonder have I time for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's.

Mulch of dung. Anemic a little? His back is like that.

The dreams were wholly beyond conjecture.

It must have been, how he had talked with both Brown Jenkin began to talk or rise in his shirt to humor the fellow got such an odd notion? Cup of tea from her cup, watching it flow sideways. Right.

Had he signed the black cock and the small, regular features.

Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm.

Destiny. I put a mark in it. She said. He passed Saint Joseph's National school. 9.15. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio.

[prismsforeyes-blog]

Ravenclaw Sweater Stands Out From The Rest

At this time, you may see a number of ladies who're taking girls's vest into any outfits, it's a sign that they've made it actually their very own. For this Ravenclaw Sweater go to the Trend Merch site.

The sweaters had been knit within the round, which meant the clothes did not have seams, and made out of pure thick uncolored wool, the sweaters had been usually in cream, grey, and black and were heavier than normal sweaters made with lighter-weight yarn or wool.

Ravenclaw Sweater;

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The province of B.C.'s official royal wedding reward for the Prince and Princess of Wales was the Cowichan sweater. For women who have a broad shoulder or want to hide a little bit of their upper body, the poncho type sweaters are the best choice. There are a couple of completely different avatar choice in it, but the sweater is obviously the most effective one. You might be higher off removing sweaters from hangers as them will spoil the form of sweaters over time. Should you feel that sporting a sweater over the costume might be very cumbersome, you possibly can instead received for a easy long sleeve tee underneath a sleeveless gown for a sporty look but not as a formal wear. It's ultimate as an informal wear if the sweater gown is wear with a pair of tight legging or fitted jeans.

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The federal authorities has designated the Cowichan Ravenclaw Sweater as an object of nationwide historic significance. These beautiful and durable wool sweaters had their genesis with the West Coast Salish folks. The cashmere wool has a silky and splendid touch which makes the cashmere sweater a singular quality and expensively priced. It's not just the end of wool sweaters styles rather there is a good selection that continues to be unexplored. So right here I'm going to talk about a few several types of sweaters you should buy for men.

I put the sweater on, put my shirt over it, and stood there, scared of what came next. A basic black or gray sweater costume with turtleneck and match with a black pump is great to wear to work or for enterprise activities because it looks like formal enterprise attire. But nevertheless, this sort of sweater will create a superb combination with a pair dressy pants. Sweaters are worn by adults and children of all genders; usually over a shirt , shirt , T-shirt , or different prime, however sometimes next to the pores and skin. With so much alternative available it is simple to discover a sweater constructed from the right materials however you do need to think about your overall form. It is best to choose a sweater that ends round your hip bone with this type of physique form as the sweater will naturally divide your physique in two.

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Males will be equally as dangerous as they usually choose to put on 'fun' or Christmas themed novelty accessories similar to Santa cufflinks which can seem humorous at first but the amusement quickly wears off. A lovely sweater can add plenty of pizzazz to your assortment of informal put on. Sports activities sweaters are often worn on tops of sports equipment whereas touring to or from a sports ground. The sweater as a style ensemble in line of ladies's informal garments is a brand new kid within the block. The fluffy angora sweater coat is ideal to put on on winter months or on the coolest of days.

Purchase sweaters in all colors and kinds and be the style icon amongst your peers with your stylish new kinds daily. It seems stylish and trendy when we wear a sweater gown and match with a pair of ankle or knee high boot. All components combined to create distinctive-trying sweaters and over time, designs and strategies were handed down via families. I feel it is nice for a casual avatar, but even this ratty sweater will cost you for a Ravenclaw Sweater.

[motherlyra]

Chapter 43: Test Day

*Backflips out of the void* I’m Gaster trash and you’ve done this to me *finger guns while moonwalking back into the void*

I’m also planning on getting My first Tattoo in March! I will be getting one of Reader’s Soul using some of the money I’ve gained through this fic, sort of a reward for completing college and a reminder of this amazing journey I’ve been going through with you guys. Seriously, thank you for everything.

[Sans Days/Nights]

[Buy me a coffee] [Patreon]

Warnings: Average doctor visit stuff, mention of like 8 drops of blood or something, Gaster being fun to write

“…I feel like I missed something.” Sans said, closing the tab of the show after the credits finally finished flashing across the screen.

“Oh yeah, a lot happened the past few episodes. They found out some history, someone they thought was a friend ended up as an enemy, one of them ended up getting kidnapped, others that they thought were enemies ended up being cool allies… but they saved each other and everything is okay again.” You summed up quickly, tapping away the plot points on your fingers. Sans let out a low chuckle.

“Sounds familiar.” He said quietly, reclining again in the couch.

“Most stories follow that type of chaos, I suppose…” You added, shrugging as you put away the laptop.

“Not exactly what I meant.” Sans muttered offhandedly. You were going to ask him what exactly did he mean, but Flowey looking up at you got your attention.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! You must be drying out!” You suddenly realized that he hasn’t been in any water the entire episode. You adjusted your position and started lifting yourself out of your seat, but before your feet made contact with the ground you felt shoved back into the couch. You let out a slight “ooph!” and looked down to see a slight orange glow around your chest. You looked at Gaster, seeing him looking at you with one orange eye open, two fingers loosely pointed at the couch. The eye turned white and the magic lifted off of you as he dropped his hand.

“I told you to stay off of your foot. Do not disobey orders from a doctor.” You couldn’t tell if it was a threat, or if he was just coldly instructing you.

“He doesn’t give warnings twice.” Sans mentioned. He sighed, looking at Flowey, then at Gaster, then at you. “I guess I’ll grab something for… him.” He hesitated, waiting to see if Gaster was going to do something first, but stood and walked to the kitchen.

“Thank you, Sans.” You said, listening to his actions in the next room. A cupboard opened and a slight ‘tink’ of glasses bumping into each other quietly echoed from the kitchen, and you heard the faucet turn on for a moment before quickly turning off again. A slight creak of another cupboard door opening caught your attention. “Make sure not to add anything else to the water, please! No sugar or… anything else.” There was a moment of silence before you heard a quiet sigh, the door thumped shut again. Sans walked out with a small purple glass cup, small bit of water sitting at the bottom, and he set it on the nightstand beside you. “Thank you.” You said again, resting your hand on his arm. He glanced at Flowey quickly, before sitting down back where he was originally.

“Yeah. No problem.” He said flatly, though you could tell he was restraining himself whenever he got close to Flowey. That was understandable. You carefully dropped Flowey into the cup, adjusting his leaves like one would adjust a normal flower in a vase before you remembered he was a living thing, and you were essentially flattening out his ‘arms’ to better even the symmetry. You were surprised that he didn’t voice the irritation that you saw rapidly growing on his face. You quickly let go and push the cup to be not as close to the edge as it was.

“Sans… can I trust you?” You asked, turning the cup slightly, getting it nearly exactly in the center of the nightstand.

“What? Of course you can.” Sans seemed shocked at the question, concerned that he done something to lose your trust in the first place.

“I mean, with him. Can I trust you not to kill him when my back is turned?” You turn to him and clarify, gingerly resting a hand on his leg. “I would rather not need to carry him everywhere I go, but I need to know you won’t try to get revenge. I know… Well… I know that I won't understand exactly what he put you through, but…” You didn’t know how to continue. Sans sighed, putting his hand on top of yours.

“Look, I’m not going to kill him as long as you say not to. Doesn’t mean I’m going to like it, but you have my word.” He answered, glancing back at Flowey with a slight frown. A moment of silence followed, and Gaster stood up, stretching slightly.

“Well, these events have turned quite… dull. If you need me, I will be in my lab.” He turned towards the door, but you spoke up quickly.

“Oh, Gaster!”

“Hmm?” His eye halos drifted over to you, curious.

“I was thinking- when we were watching the show I mean- how I kinda shut down your earlier request to do tests on me-”

“He asked what now?” Sans asked, eyes widening and turning to Gaster. You ignored the outburst and continued talking.

“And I suppose I didn’t even ask what… kind of tests?” You half asked. You could see the slightest curl at the edges of his mouth. “I mean, back on the surface I heard there are a few human doctors studying volunteer monsters, Alphys kinda works with them, but like, you are a doctor yourself so… I feel like that would be a good fit for you once we get back up there. So… I would be okay if you wanted to bring some of your own discoveries to them. ” You weren’t usually a job matcher type of person, but if he was going to live on the surface he would need a good job. Gaster seemed to appreciate the information.

“You need to keep off your foot a little while longer yet, so don’t worry, there would be no physicals yet. I would just be checking your vitals, perhaps take a blood sample or two.” He informed, waiting for you to make a sign if you were going to volunteer or not.

“You can’t be serious.” Sans gave you a look, as if questioning your sanity of considering being tested on willingly.

“I mean, yeah. Who knows what he’ll find.” You said to Sans, wondering why he was so against you getting studied by anyone. Gaster’s tests didn’t sound that all invasive. “Who knows, maybe he’ll discover something cool.” You shrug at Sans before nodding towards Gaster. “That sounds fine with me.”

“Splendid.” He quickly stepped over to you with his lanky legs and rested a hand on your shoulder. He offered the other one to Sans, who sighed before grabbing the hand.

“Be good.” You quickly turned and told Flowey before the world shattered around the three of you, scrambling and changing colors until the lab built itself around you. You were sitting on the counter, Sans beside you. Gaster stepped to the side to allow Sans to move, and he quickly got off and went to the other side of the room.

“I’m just… going to sit over here.” He pressed his back against the wall and slid down till he was sitting on the floor. He still seemed suspicious of Gaster’s intentions, but allowed you to do what you wanted.

“Of course.” Gaster wasted no time, quickly digging out beakers that were in the drawers, along with different utensils that you were sure had fancy names but didn’t know any of them. He filtered through the other drawers, humming slightly in disappointment. “You moved much of my equipment.” He said aloud, double-checking a couple of the drawers.

“I didn’t need it at the time.” Sans explained, as if it was obvious.

“One moment.”

Instantly Gaster vanished, catching you off guard. You looked around the lab, and Sans shook his head at you. He looked like he was considering something before looking back at you, mouthing something. It took a moment before you realized he was counting down silently. ���three… two… one..’

You yelped as Gaster appeared in front of you again, carrying a small strange machine that looked like an electric whisk, but without the whisk and the large clunky machinery parts that you usually associated with that cooking hardware. Well… You guess it didn’t really look like an electric whisk then after all. He also had a small stand that had various colors of liquids, and he quickly sat the objects down on the counter beside you.

“Soul, please.” He pulled out papers and a pen, and held out his hand towards you. You hesitated, but when his eye lights looked at you from the corner of his eyes you felt compelled to do as he said, and yanked out your own Soul. “Fascinating.” He uttered, writing down something on the paper. He’s left-handed, you noticed. You couldn’t read it, given that it was in Wing Dings, but you felt too dizzy from pulling out your Soul to bother reading anyway. He glanced up at you a moment as his hand hovered close to your Soul, letting you have a chance to voice any concerns. You didn’t say anything, so he carefully grabbed the floating red heart.

His fingertips felt like they were burning along your body, not painfully so, just uncomfortably warm. You shifted your weight around on your rear as he turned the Soul over and looked at it closer. He squinted his eyes, before snapping his fingers. A pair of narrow rectangular glasses appeared on his face and he stopped his squinting, though you had no idea how they stayed in their spot since he didn't have any ears or nose for them to rest on.

“I didn’t know you needed glasses.” You half asked, observing them. You felt a shiver travel up your spine and he dragged a finger up the white crack of your Soul. He turned and wrote something down.

“They are simply so I can see up close and personal.” He stated, giving a quick wave towards Sans’ position without looking at him. “Sans has a pair himself, though those are to see further than the average room. He refuses to wear them.”

“They are uncomfortable.” Sans added, seeing you glance towards him. That really shocked you. All this time Sans was near-sighted, and you had no idea.

Gaster continued observing your Soul, occasionally touching here, pressing there, seeming to test the extent of the crack. With just about every new motion he would write something. It was an incredibly tedious process, but you found yourself not minding it. It was almost entertaining watching him study your Soul, and it wasn’t like you had any episodes left to watch in the meantime.

He flicked the blue band, and even though you didn’t feel much, Sans visibly jerked.

“Hey!” His outburst was slightly louder than necessary, but he remained on the ground.

“Huh.” Gaster’s interest seemed to rise, and he turned to face Sans. Pressing along the blue band. You could see Sans resisting to squirm, but the slight twitch in his arm was a clear indicator that he felt the pressures. “How interesting. I have never seen such a successful Soul bind before, especially one that was made in such dire conditions.” He marveled at the blue band, continuing to prod at it. Sans hands turned into fists as he tried to ignore the Soul pokes and pinches.

“Vertebae was the one asking to be tested, not me.” He snapped, clearly not liking the violation of the fraction of his Soul.

“Of course. My apologies.” Gaster lifted his hand away from the band, getting the hint. He wrote a few more things down and drew a line under the writings. “Here you go.” He walked back in front of you, pushing the Soul gently with two fingers back into your chest. Your breath stuttered as the colors of the room came back, brighter and more pure than you thought possible. The chill of the room gave you chicken skin, and the world seemed to become more solid under your grasp. You caught your breath, mentally trying to shake off all of the extremes you were now noticing. You looked back at Gaster, noticing that he was watching you intensely. “How intriguing.” His voice practically purred as a smile grew on his face, and he quickly went back to his papers to write something down.

“Any possibility for me to observe your Soul, brother?” Gaster glanced over his shoulder.

“Not a chance in Hell.”

“Thought not.” He seemed disappointed, writing a short sentence. “It would be terribly interesting to see how it handled absorbing part of my Soul. It looks like it took nicely to the Integrity, in the least.” Gaster noted, waiting for some sort of reaction out of Sans. He didn’t get one.

“If… If Sans has part of your Soul… What does your Soul look like now?” You asked, not sure if that was something you should ask. Gaster turned to you, slightly moving his glasses to peer at you over the frame in shock, like he never expected the question from you, but slowly his expression shifted to one of intrigue.

“Ah ha, so you are curious as well. Would you like to see it?” He asked, squaring his shoulders with you and motioning with his hand towards his chest. You lifted your hand, pausing a second before turning it into a fist and slowly pulling it towards you.

His Soul was missing.

At least, that’s what it looked like. You pulled out what looked like a thin white outline of the stereotypical heart, only it was upside down, and had only a very slight red glow in the middle of it. The rest of the heart was completely empty, not even holding a frosted look like yours did. Your eyes focused on the bit of red floating around in the middle of it, and noticed that it was slowly drifting around in the Soul, leaving a short, shimmery tail of light as it traveled throughout the heart from one end to the other, almost searching for the exit. You could feel your Soul thumping inside of you, every muscle in your body urging you to take the redness. You wanted to grab it, and take it back. It was yours.

“Go on.” Gaster’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, stepping forward and bringing his Soul close to you. He had the look of a kid testing the limits of something. “You have my permission to touch it.” You looked away from his sharp-toothed smile and back to the Soul, and you had the same urges come rushing back soon as your eyes locked onto the redness. Your stolen Determination. You slowly reached for the Soul.

“Pump the breaks.” Sans interrupted, speaking up and startling you out of your almost hypnosis. He stood up and walked over to the two of you, crossing his arms. “Gaster, I need you to bring it down, right now.” Gaster smirked, glancing at you at the familiar phrase. “No, really, I understand you finally have a new willing plaything to entertain yourself with, but for the love of god try to be decent about it.” He grabbed the Soul and smacked it back into Gaster in one fluid motion. That caught Gaster off-guard, making him stumble back as the Soul entered him again. Sans didn’t apologize. “They’re just a human, they don’t understand everything involving Souls. I would much rather if you didn’t give them the impression that they were used for Show-and-Tell.” Sans crossed his arms again, judgmentally looking at Gaster. Gaster seemed shocked that Sans was so well composed and direct, slight smirk growing.

“Of course, brother. I had assumed you have not let them explore your own Soul, so I wanted to give them the opportunity.” Gaster explained, and you saw Sans tighten his jaw ever so slightly. “Unless of course; you have. In that case, congratulations.” You could feel the tension in the air grow at the implications of exploring each other’s Souls, apparently a much bigger deal that you were lead to believe.

“Okay, duly noted.” You quickly said, putting your hand between the brothers. “We can continue with the other tests you had planned.” You suggested, trying to cut the tension. They both considered each other for a moment, glancing at your hand. It worked, and Sans quietly walked back to his spot on the ground next to the wall. Gaster changed gears, turning his attention to the beakers and sorting them out. He seemed like he had a permanent smile on his face as he worked, clearly doing the thing he loves most in life. He mixed a few of the liquids in the small glass beakers, sorting smaller samples in the small tray until they filled a row. Tapping the plastic beside the glass to count them quickly, he wrote down something on a fresh piece of paper. Seeming satisfied, he pulled out a scalpel.

“Hand.” He curtly said, holding his towards you. You stared at the small knife, but made no motion to give him your hand.

“Uh… How ‘bout no?” You raised your eyebrows, still staring at the scalpel. You felt Gaster’s agitation grow slightly, and he spun the knife expertly between his fingers like you’ve done with pencils, but roughly three hundred percent more lethal looking.

“Don’t be a child, it will not hurt much.” He brought the knife up and grabbed your hand that you held the counter with, sending slight panic coursing through your veins as he turned it palm up. Grabbing the middle finger slightly tighter than he needed, he quickly and precisely pricked the tip of your finger with the knife. He put the knife down, to your relief, and pressed against your finger over the small beakers. Moving your hand was much easier to do now that you weren’t concerned for your well-being. He quickly squeezed a few drops of blood into each of the glasses, before quickly rubbing his thumb over the tip of your finger, brushing the leftover blood onto it. A small dot of his black tar appeared on your finger, acting like a bandaid. You heard his low chuckle radiate from deep in his chest, and saw his halos observing you.

“Ever fearful, as always.” He noted, sealing up the beakers with his other hand.

“It’s… it’s how humans stay alive.” You offered; feeling embarrassed about the situation. His eyes squinted slightly with his smile, and he brought his thumb to his mouth, meeting with a dark tongue.

The motion was so quick you almost missed it. Had you have blinked, you would have never seen the black tongue lick up your blood, but you didn’t blink, and you did see it. It sent a chill down your spine, and you could almost swear that you saw Gaster’s smile grow ever so slightly.

He was quickly back to work on the glass beakers, rotating a few of them upside down and right side up a few times before setting them down again. A couple of them he gently shook, and watched for reactions. One clear liquid turned solid red. Another had a couple of blue sparks before it turned back to looking like water with a drop of blood in it. The final one had no reaction that you could see, just simply being tinted red water. The last one seemed to generate some disappointment for Gaster, but the others he seemed like he expected the results.

“So… What about those?” You asked, ignoring what he did earlier, you motion to the few he set back in the tray after rotating them.

“Those will be spun after a while, do not worry, I will not waste your time with those results.” He waved a hand in the air. “I only have a couple more tests for you, but they will take a moment to prepare.” He continued writing. Your stomach growled loudly, catching the attention from both Sans and Gaster. “… You appear to be hungry.”

“You don’t say.” Sans’ sarcastic voice piped up as he stood, groaning slightly, apparently his bones didn’t like him sitting on the ground for so long. He stretched, looking at you and glancing down at your foot. “I’ll grab some food for you… I’ll be right back.” He looked between you and Gaster for a moment, seeming to consider if he should really leave you alone with him, before turning to the door. “Be decent.” He glanced at Gaster, who gave just a fraction of a bow.

“Of course.” Gaster responded, watching as Sans left and closed the door. He turned back to his papers, writing down more things quickly, seeming to grow excited. “Oh, I suppose we could do a quick test right now, if you do not mind?” He asked, glancing up at you and dragging two lines under separate parts of the sentence he was working on.

“Sure, what do you need me to do?” You asked, assuming it was time to test your knee reflexes with the tiny hammer or something. Suddenly your back was slammed against the other wall, not hard as it could have been but enough to make your head spin. You tried to move, but found yourself feeling restricted by orange magic. The light of the room dimmed as Gaster appeared inches in front of you, slamming a hand onto the wall next to your head, and looking down with hungry orange halos burning in his eyes. His sharp toothed smile grew as he brought his mouth close to your ear, his warm breath brushing over your neck.

“Be afraid.”