#not to like doom post but i just have so little faith in this country

[frogayyyy]

6 more weeks........

things can only get better 💀

[macfrog]

san angelo | one shot

what happens when joel miller meets his star-crossed lover?

big love to @mrsmando and @5oh5 for cheering me on with this one, and @bageldaddy for being my eyes, my ears, and - only sometimes - my brain.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: it's the summer of two thousand eight. after two weeks following his little brother cross-country on the back of a harley, joel follows him through the doors of a dive bar - where fate delivers him to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so cordyceps outbreak happens, sarah dies (off-page), joel dissociates, doomed love, lots of mention of fate, alcohol consumption, reader is a smoker, cursing, drunken one-night stand, oral sex, unprotected piv, joel's cock is massive, a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lil smut to tie it all together. enjoy! word count: 9.8k

moodboard | main masterlist | playlist [in case you wanna vibe in sad] | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤍

Palm lines.

It’s the first thing he thinks as soon as she stops moving in his arms. The second her little whimpers cease, the moment her chest stops heaving and her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, Joel’s little girl weighs more than he can bear.

Palm lines. And he has no fucking idea why.

He closes his eyes and there you are. The whir of the ceiling fan, the tinkling of bracelets loose on your wrist. You have sorta earth hands, you told him. Or, well – they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way. I don’t really know. I’m still learning.

You told him that air hands were long, spindly. And Sarah was always a lanky kid – tallest on the soccer team, head and shoulders above the other girls by the third grade. Her hands, he thinks, must be air. They must be.

Her fingers are still twisted around his right now. Lifeless, slippery with the blood still wet and quickly cooling.

Joel cradles her, squeezing so hard that he wonders whether he might be able to fuse their bodies together. Lock them in some white-knuckle grip so that he never has to let go of her – never has to leave this hill covered in dirt and blood.

His palms are ruined; a maroon river carving its way down his heart line, dirt deep in the groove of his life line. Why does he even fucking remember what they’re called?

Why the fuck are you what he’s thinking about, right now?

“Tommy,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We gotta…we gotta get to…”

She’s limp, draped over his thighs as though she’s nothing more than a stretch of crimson curtain. He looks down at her and begs her to come back, begs her to open her eyes and look up at him again.

But the night is passing and she’s still not breathing. Dawn is breaking and Joel’s daughter is dead.

He sucks in a shattered breath. “…to San Angelo, Tommy.”

The younger Miller stuffs his gun into the back of his jeans and paces over, soles coated thick in shit and grass. “I hear you, Joel.”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me, I –”

“I’m listenin’ fine, Joel.” Tommy hooks his hands under his niece’s arms. “Now, help me lift her. We can’t…” his voice strains, fighting the death grip his brother has on the girl, “…we can’t leave her here.”

Joel’s frozen to the spot; sinking further and further into the earth. Staring at his open hands, the stains like rust on his palms. He says to San Angelo again, and Tommy snaps.

“Jesus, Joel, enough! I’ve heard enough goddamn it! I see your hands, now – we gotta fuckin’ bury Sarah.”

Your fate line, your nail tickled, and Joel held his hand steady, It can change, if something big is coming.

Somethin’ big? he asked. A little younger, a lot more naïve. Still a healthy dose of belief in the world, an echo of the god-fearing faith that raised him.

His hand felt so light, cradled in two of yours. He half hoped he’d never have to let go – just lie there with you forever. Your legs tangled with his, the sheets disturbed; the room injected with amber from the streetlights outside.

You nodded. A big shift, or something.

And he scoffed. He actually scoffed, right there and then. Incredulous. The hell kinda big shift is comin’ our way? he asked, laughing.

You just smiled back, shrugging. You were so fucking casual, that whole night. It would’ve unnerved him, if he hadn’t been so swept off by the sparkle in your eye, the glowing cherry of your cigarette.

Guess we just gotta wait ‘n see.

It’s August thirtieth, two thousand eight.

Almost five thousand miles on the back of a Harley, and Joel just wants to go home.

He arches his aching back, palms flat against the crests of his hips, and blinks in the light from the food mart in front of him. Twenty-six, he thinks to himself, only twenty-fuckin’-six.

It’s ninety degrees out. An uncomfortable heat, for a man who feels ten years older than he really is. For a man who hasn’t had a decent shower in almost two weeks. For a man who’s spent the last six hours tailing the brake lights of his little brother’s bike.

The sweat gathers sticky between his shoulder blades, prickles along the nape of his neck. There’s dust spattered down his bare arms and buried in the grooves of his knuckles.

He’s tired. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and goddamn, he wishes he was back home.

He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, the yellow sky melting to a purple haze. Squinting, he follows the soar of two swallows overhead, looping through the sky, until he’s rubbing the image from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He’s gotta remember to call Sarah before she goes to bed.

The door opens with the tinkle of a brass bell older and rustier than Joel feels. A swaggering figure splits the glow from the store in two – a figure with a pack of Marlboros in one hand and an already half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Tommy holds them both out to Joel, who swipes the water with a scowl.

“Ain’t killed you yet, brother,” Tommy scoffs, stuffing the cigarettes into his back pocket. He swings a frayed-denim leg over the seat of his Harley.

Joel drains the bottle, panting as he crushes the plastic in one fist. “Damn near tryin’,” he mutters, tossing it in the trash. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Where are we?” Tommy asks. He glances over his shoulder, staring from the cracked roads to the telephone wires overhead. A Syclone pulls into the lot; a dehydrated squeal as it rolls to a halt.

“San Angelo,” Joel says. “Only a few more hours to go.” He settles on his own bike, pulling his leather jacket over his shoulders. “We passed a Super 8 coming into town, if you feel like restin’ up. Or – we leave now, be home around midnight.”

Tommy chuckles. “What’s the rush? We ain’t gotta be anywhere anytime soon.”

And Joel agrees – for the most part.

His mom is watching Sarah while they’re gone, and he reckons she’s hardly missing him. Too smart for her own good, Joel’s realizing: plotting and scheming her way into staying up past her bedtime, drinking Pepsi at dinner, watching Curtis and Viper – and swearing that her dad lets her do it all, too.

But, still. He misses his kid.

It’s the most they’ve ever been apart – time or distance. The longest he hasn’t had her climbing up his back or hanging off his arm. The least he’s been called Dad since he was eighteen years old.

He just…misses his kid.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the body of the bike. “Tommy, I gotta get back home to Sarah.”

“Look,” Tommy says, and Joel knows that the argument is lost already, “By the time we got back, she’d be asleep anyways. Let’s leave in the morning – first thing, I swear – and we’ll be home in time for breakfast. Deal?”

They stare at one another, a stand-off in the parking lot. Both waiting for the other to break. The swallows gather on the roof of the store, basking in the weak wash of flickering fluorescents.

“Come on, brother,” Tommy pleads, “It’s one more night.” He lifts his helmet, punching it over his mop of shaggy hair, and kicks the bike to life.

Joel growls to himself, watching it drift over to the side of the road.

He considers heading to the Super 8 alone, grabbing a room only to shower and get some food, then hitting the road and leaving his little brother in the dust. Waiting for him to stumble through the door tomorrow morning – tired, groggy, probably hungover – while Joel, fresh as a daisy, drizzles syrup over Sarah’s pancakes and pours her orange juice.

He’s a pragmatic man. He’s a grown-up. Scares away the ghosts and ghouls and monsters of his daughter’s nightmares. Shushes her back to sleep in the crook of his arm, tiptoes as lightly as he can out of her room so as not to wake her.

Things like God, like the universe, things like horoscopes and laws of attraction…for the most part, Joel can do without them. Has done his whole life.

But then – the glow of indigo overhead, and the mysterious shadows lurking behind the buildings. The birdsong tittering in his ears, the twinkle of the sun in Tommy’s helmet – something distant in the dusty sphere.

Something, someone, winking at him from far away.

Something a little heavier than the breeze nudges at his spine, and Joel’s arms lift – fitting his own helmet over his head. He swings the heel of his boot into his kickstand and revs the bike, Harley roaring as it joins Tommy’s out on the boulevard.

Murphy’s is a small, green bar on the corner of an intersection. All peeled paint lettering and buzzing fluorescents – the y burnt out and pulsing.

Joel doesn’t think Tommy picked it for any reason other than the huge Lone Star mural on the side of the goddamn building, the way he tosses his thumb to it as they park up. A squint smirk on his face, muttering something like ‘s good to be home, big brother, as they hook helmets over handlebars.

Tommy leads Joel inside, their boots tacky on the wooden floor. Walls paneled by aged frames and sun-bleached photographs; air hanging thick with a smell like vinegar. The babble of slurred conversation is pierced by the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Metal-plate belt buckles snaked through strained jeans; low eyes which shift to size-up the two strangers. They all turn back to their fingerprinted glasses when Joel and Tommy settle into an empty booth.

It feels hotter in here than it is outside, stuffier. A thick humidity which clings to Joel’s bones, humming like the string lights draped from beams above his head.

Tommy reclines between the creaking leather cushion and the wall. He pokes at a yellowing poster of some Western, hums to himself, and then looks across the table.

Joel’s eyes loop once around the room before they meet his brother’s. “What?” he asks.

“First round is yours, old man.”

“Oh, is it, now?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Thought this was your idea?”

A weedy grin stretches across Tommy’s lips. He needs to fucking shave, Joel thinks. Whiskers poking from around his small mouth like pine needles. “’s my birthday trip,” he reasons.

And can Joel argue with that? Does he have the fucking energy? Will it get him out of here and back to Austin any quicker?

“Goddamn it,” he grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet, heels of his palms against the tacky wood.

He wanders over to the bar, tugging on the front of his tee to unstick it from his damp chest. Slots in beside an ivory cowboy hat with a pair of jeaned legs. The man fixes his bolo tie and watches Joel’s hand as he flags the bartender down.

And then he feels it.

You.

Then he feels you.

First, the weight of you – crashing some into his back. He shunts forward from the suddenness of it, knocking his ribs against the bar, and lifts a hand to brace himself on the ledge.

And then – heat, like an iron. Like every hair and freckle on your skin is branded into his the second you come into contact with him. A feeling like the roll of a wave against his spine, a hand hooked around his forearm when he begins to turn.

“Shit,” you hiss, steadying yourself on the curve of his shoulder. You glance down at your feet, clicking between your black boots. “I’m sorry, that was…that was my bad.”

“’s alright,” Joel says instantly. He holds his arm still until you let go and he sidesteps – though only a little. He watches, dumbstruck, as you rest your elbows on the bar and lean forward. His eyes linger on your back, trailing the crisscross straps wrapped tight over your spine.

You squint up at the menu pinned above shelves of crystal bottles. Your eyes move back and forth across the chalkboard, slowly descending until they’re meeting his in the speckled mirror opposite – a sweet smile growing on your lips.

It runs like whiskey through Joel’s veins: warm and dangerous.

And the way his head spins, the way the world blurs for a moment into one swipe of color around you; the way your cooing laugh echoes between his ears long after he’s heard it –

Joel’s already intoxicated.

He’s still staring when you pull back and motion to the bar. “You can go first, by the way,” you say, waving a hand. “I wasn’t cuttin’ in line. Just trying to read the drinks.”

“I’ll wait,” he replies, remembering how to be polite, how to be charming. Old cogs long out of use jerking to life inside him again. “Can’t read any of ‘em, either, anyways.”

It draws from you that same little laugh, a puff of air from your nostrils. You nod, biting your bottom lip.

He’s quickly forgetting why he’s stood in this room, why he’s in this city. He’d probably forget his own fucking name if you asked him right now what it was.

“’nother drink, darlin’?” a low voice interrupts, and you’re turning away.

Joel’s eyes follow you – a moth chasing something golden and radiant – as you face the wiggle of a snow-white mustache poking from beneath the brim of that ivory cowboy hat.

You shake your head, lifting two fingers with a bill slipped between them. “I’m good, thanks, George. Maybe next round.” You wave to the kid behind the bar – some name that Joel’s too fucking mindless to hear. Too distracted by the glint in your eye, the sparkle of your crescent moon earrings in the light.

If only he knew this feeling. If only he could put a name to it. As familiar as the sun and yet, brand new like dawn. His stomach swirls in a fleet of butterflies – as though he’s fifteen again, bumping elbows with his high school crush.

You nudge him, thumb pointing in the direction of the bartender.

Joel shakes his head. “Ladies first,” he says, heart skipping when you hold his stare.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, “Told you I ain’t jumping in.”

He asks the guy for two beers, barely taking his eyes off you. “Alright,” he leans in, lowering his voice, “Then let me buy you a drink. Make up for gettin’ in your way just then.”

You prop your chin on your knuckles, grinning as you push your twenty around the wooden bar top, dodging pooled rings of alcohol like it’s an arcade game. “I don’t do that,” you say, eyes tracing the slick trail left by the bill.

“Do what?”

“Accept drinks from strange men in bars.”

His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, the taste of humor honey-sweet. “Yeah? ‘n how long have you known…” he nods to the – what is he, sixty? Sixty-five? – year-old on your right, “…George?”

Your gaze lifts, eyes wide. Apparently as impressed by Joel’s confidence as he is himself. “We’re actually in a very serious relationship. Marriage proposal imminent.”

“Damn,” he mutters as the bartender reappears with two Coors, “And here I thought I had half a chance.”

You hum to yourself, studying him. Looking from his jaw across the span of his shoulders, his wide-knuckled hands and then back to his lips. Curious and wary, judging the strange animal stood before you.

And he knows he’s weathered from the weeks on the road, and all the years before that. Dirt under his nails and the light sheen of sun on his forehead. The flecks of gray through his thick, brown beard.

You take a deep breath, eyes twinkling, and tell him, “I’m here with my friend.”

“Ain’t that lucky?” Joel glances at Tommy. “I’m here with my brother.”

You look across to the dirty blond, sat tilting a glass candle in his hand. “He single?”

Joel nods. “Is she?”

You nod.

“Alright. You wanna come sit with us?”

Your smirk answers his question. You take the beers, rings clinking off the glass. “Rum,” you call over your shoulder, wandering off, “I drink rum.”

Joel’s gaze lowers to the sway of your hips. “Rum it is,” he says, turning back to the bar.

“So…a cross-country bike trip, and you wound up in San Angelo?”

You’re on your fourth drink, the first one Joel hasn’t paid for – and he only allowed it because it’s a Diet Coke (and maybe you got to the bar first, held his wrists with one hand so he couldn’t stop you from slapping your own money down).

“Yep,” Joel replies, pinching the lime from his drink and dropping it onto a napkin. “Just passin’ through. Shower, sleep, then head on home.”

“Where’s that, then? Home?”

“Austin.”

“Austin,” you pout, “Nice.”

Joel smirks, licking citrus from his fingertips. “Is it?”

“I’ve never been to Austin,” Brooke chirps, fiddling with the umbrella in her piña colada. She twirls the paper canopy and glances up to Tommy.

He snaps out of his slack-jawed gaze when he realizes what she’s implying. “Oh – yeah, well…” his head wobbles as he stutters, “…you two ever come down that way, we’d be happy to, uh…show ya ‘round, huh, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t reply, staring back at his brother with the same amused expression you are.

You’ve been an inch apart all evening – doused in the dive bar darkness, the shrouded conversations and muffled TV static. The tip of your nose and curve of your shoulders lit only by the luminous signs dotting the walls.

Tommy and Brooke are already deep in conversation again about the best car Tommy ever owned. Joel watches as your eyes flit between the pair, entertained by the way they trip over each other’s sentences. Your cheeks lift when Brooke lays a hand over Tommy’s, and he squeezes her fingers back.

Where did you come from? Joel’s thinking. He takes a swig of his whiskey, feeling your eyes on him. As he lowers his glass, you lift yours. When he turns in his seat towards you, you’re already facing him, back against the wainscotting. He smiles, and so do you.

Every movement feels choreographed, some merry dance only you two know. You’re in your own little world.

Where did you come from, again, and where have you been my entire fucking life?

“So, what about you?” Joel asks instead, swallowing – all warm-bellied and brave. “You grow up here?”

You shake your head, taking another sip. “Nope. Just liked it enough to hang up my coat for a few months. I grew up in Phoenix.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I’ve been around. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a kid.”

He thinks of home: of Austin and its silver-snake river, burnt-orange jerseys and the pleated bunting lining Sixth Street. He thinks of late nights on lawn chairs, nursing a beer and shooting the shit with his brother. Keeping their voices lower than the buzz of the cicadas, looking more at the dusky sky than at each other.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” Joel asks. “Of moving around so much?”

You scoff, breath clouding the inside of your glass. “Three weeks on a motorcycle starting to get to you, huh?”

He breathes a laugh, loose again. The cicadas fade from his ears.

Your head tilts in a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess the universe keeps on surprising me.”

Joel doesn’t do this. At least, he hasn’t done this since he was a teenager – crate of beer under his arm and a chest full of courage. He’s long forgotten the feeling of heat blooming in his cheeks, the twitch of his heart anytime you look at him.

But fuck, if there isn’t something about you. Something in the way you move, the way you look at him. Something in the way you play with your straw, knocking ice cubes around and chewing on the plastic once you’ve drained the glass.

Something – though it’s a little too early and Joel’s a little too tipsy to tell just what. He tries to remember that he’s pragmatic. A grown-up. He chases away the monsters in his daughter’s –

“Oh, shit,” Joel says suddenly, scrambling to pull his cell from his pocket. It’s nine thirty. He was supposed to – “I forgot…”

A miserable tone from his Motorola cuts him short. The screen flashes an empty battery before fading to black. He jams a thumb into the keypad a couple more times, cursing at the winking symbol.

“Someone you gotta call?” you ask.

He meets your eye and winces. “Yeah, I’m…I said I’d call an hour ago.”

“You wanna use mine?” You twist around, fishing in your purse for your own. “We can go outside.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright, I’m sure she won’t mind, she –”

You shake your head. “Shut up. Come on, let’s go. I could use some fresh air, anyways. Be back in a minute,” you tell Brooke – who nods and turns straight back to Tommy.

Joel extends his hand to help you out of the booth, then follows you to the door. The cool air tugs every nerve in his body to attention, pin-sharp when he steps out of that lazy heat. Under the emerald glow of the Murphy’s sign, he settles his glass on a window ledge. “Next round’s on me, alright?”

You roll your eyes, pushing the phone against his chest. “Just call, Joel.”

One last apologetic glance, and then he’s dialing. He makes to wander along the curb, the tone already pulsing in his ear, when he notices –

“You ain’t brought a jacket?”

You’re sitting on the ledge, clutching your elbows. Swatting midges from the light you’re bathed in, charms on your bracelets jingling. “Hm?”

He tuts. “A jacket. Here.” He shrugs his own off, sitting it around your frame. It’s warm from the bar and from Joel’s body heat, and you sink into it – letting the dark leather drown you as you rummage through your purse again.

“Nice,” Joel’s eyes narrow, “Fresh air.”

You hum into your hands, flicking your lighter. The cigarette trembles when you murmur, “We all got our skeletons, I guess.”

He turns on his heel when a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey, hey, M–Yeah, sorry it’s late…Yeah, we got held up. My phone died, so I’m using…Is she still–? Can I–? Oh, Sarah. Hi, baby.”

His little girl begins chattering down the line immediately, telling Joel everything she’s been up to since they last spoke this morning.

“…and then, Emily thought I was one of the Armadillos – I don’t even know how, ‘cause they play in red, remember Dad? – but she did, and she slide tackled me so bad that Coach Thomson had to sub in Akari for me so I could ice my ankle. Grandma was kinda mad about it, but she took me to Burger King after to cheer me up, and…”

Joel wanders back and forth, smiling to himself and scuffing the heel of his boot along the concrete – barely able to squeeze more than two words between her chirping. It’s all, Yeah, baby? and Wow, sweetheart; all uhuhs and mhms until she finally quietens, excitement plateauing again.

“Alright, well. You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarah groans. She knows it all too well.

Bedtime.

“…But you didn’t call when you said you would, Daddy, and it’s Saturday, it’s –”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry. Just…somethin’ came up. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where’s Uncle Tommy? Can I talk to him?”

Joel turns to face the bar. “He, uh…I’m not with him right now, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though.”

Sarah concedes, and then begins asking questions Joel knows she’s only asking to stay on the line a little longer – to stay awake a little later. But still, he answers each one – humoring her and, at the same time, letting himself listen to her voice just a little more before he has to let her go.

He thinks of scooping her up in the morning; thinks of being slumped on the couch after dinner with her head on his stomach – fast asleep with whatever movie she chose droning on in the background.

Despite the thousands of miles and close to two weeks between them – she makes him feel closer to home. She always does.

When Sarah asks where he is, he glances your way. Clocks your flat expression, the half-burnt cigarette hanging from your fingers.

You flick ash to the ground. Eyes unreadable beneath low brows, a tiny crease between them that Joel’s only just seeing for the first time.

“Uh…” he clears his throat, “…just a little – a little north of you, baby. Home first thing, I promise.”

He tells her he loves her and she says it back, and he tells her to sleep well and she says that back, too. And then he’s hanging up – Alright, see you soon, bye, Sarah, bye-bye, byebyebye – and pressing his thumb into the red button.

He wanders back over to you – ears flat like a guilty dog, though he isn’t quite sure why. He mumbles a quiet thanks as he passes the phone back, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You lean back, ankles crossed, studying him. Swirling what’s left of the cigarette in your fingers – the smoke lifting like a winding snake to the dark sky. “So,” you pout, “What are you doing flirting with me, if you got a wife and kid back home?”

His jaw ticks, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. “I don’t have a wife,” he says.

You stare blankly, filter back against your lips. “Okay, then – a girlfriend. Does she know you’re out tonight with us?”

He shakes his head. “No wife, no girlfriend. I don’t have an anything.”

“But you have a kid.”

Joel nods once, tongue in his cheek. “Uhuh.”

And then the penny seems to drop. A small oh; your jaw slack and eyes wide. The cigarette smolders between your fingers. “Fuck,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, hey,” Joel steps closer, “You didn’t know. It’s alright.”

He straightens the jacket on your shoulders. When you finally look at each other again, you snort.

“Sorry,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Is she okay? Your daughter – is she…?”

“Sarah,” Joel says. “She’s…she’s fine. Thanks.”

You look down, stubbing your cigarette against the brick. Voice quiet, you ask, “Her mom’s not around anymore?”

Relief settles in his chest: you’re softening to him again.

Joel slots onto the ledge at your side. Shoulder to shoulder. He reaches behind and lifts his drink. “Not since she was a year old.”

Your mouth pulls in a wince. “Jesus. That’s rough.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to – you’re not asking him to explain – and he doesn’t want to, either.

You’re not stupid – you’ve seen enough of the world to hear what he’s really saying. The darkest, dustiest corners of it – all the places no one ever wants to look.

You don’t seem disturbed, barely even moved by the reality that…well, shit happens. People leave, families break; a two-car driveway is suddenly taken up by just a pick-up truck and a little pink bike with tassels.

He figures you get it. You don’t need to know how can that be? – you just…know that it can.

“So, uh…” you look up at him again, “…my apartment is, like, five minutes away if you wanna…you know. You can charge your phone, can shower – if it’s bugging you that much.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”

You simper, eyes thin. “Really.”

“Charge my phone ‘n shower?” He stands, palm flat against the wall above your head, and leans in. His face is inches from yours.

You look up, mirroring his expression. “Yes,” your voice curls in a half-truth, “What’s the big deal?”

“What a goddamn line,” Joel says, smirking. “How long you been sittin’ on that one for?”

His blood thrums faster, harder, louder in his veins when you stand up, hands on your hips.

“It’s not a line, I’m serious –”

“I didn’t take you as the type, baby, I really didn’t – but if that’s how you wanna play this, then –”

He feels you before he sees you moving, like he’s stood at that bar all over again. Your hands on his jaw, your chest pressed to his. Your lips – soft as satin, with a tinge of sweet rum and smoke – against his.

Joel barely misses a beat. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to the back of your head, kissing you back. It’s dizzying, the taste and feel of you so close; the wet of your tongue on his. The little scratches of your nails in his beard, the moans caught in your throat.

Dizzying – and fucking perfect.

You break apart and lean in to each other, catching your breath. Joel’s hands slip beneath the heavy leather of his jacket onto your waist.

“Unless…” you whisper, pulling away from him, “…you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just…” You twirl back towards the door, batting your eyelashes.

Joel smiles. He catches your wrist and reels you back into his body. “I want to,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I want to.”

“Let’s go.”

You make it to your apartment door, fumbling with your keys – and Joel’s hands are glued to your waist.

You miss the lock over and over as he kisses your neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. Anything to satiate the hunger quickly taking over, the tightening in his jeans.

He pulls you against his hips – rough denim grinding into the curve of your ass. He can smell your flowery perfume, a strange melding of peony and menthol sharp in his nostrils.

It’s the hungriest he’s ever felt, he thinks – a starved animal pinning his prey to her flecked apartment door. He pauses, bottom lip damp against your neck; breathing a liquor-laced laugh over your skin.

You jam the key into the lock. The door finally shunts open and you spill inside, dragging Joel with you.

Your place is dark. Angled strips of streetlight thrown high up the bare walls and across the ceiling, splintered by tilted shades. The spill of a blanket draped over an empty couch; a pair of sneakers left on the rug. Joel’s knees brush by a houseplant guarding the door – heavy leaves which pfft when they sway out of his way.

It’s half-decorated. Temporary. Caught somewhere between home and away. Little fragments pieced together into something the shape of home: a mosaic vase that scatters light across the surface of the coffee table; a beaded curtain pinned around the closet doorway.

Like you’re a little magpie, collecting trinkets of silver and gold until your nest feels like yours. Bags dropped long enough to keep a Monstera plant alive, not to put nails in the wall for the frames propped against the skirting board.

You shrug Joel’s jacket off, dropping it over the back of the couch. When you spin back around to him, he lifts your chin with two fingers and presses his lips to yours. You lead him down the hallway, tumbling into your room.

He follows you over to your bed, collapsing onto a tousled mess of sheets with his hips between yours. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs, bunching around your hips and revealing a flash of pink lace underneath.

The world around him seems to sober up for a second, sharpens into focus. It begins to seep in: the realization that he has you – some girl he met no more than two hours ago in a bar – pinned to your mattress. A slick gathering in your underwear and a weight building in his.

Right now, he should be sinking into squealing bedsprings in a Super 8. Bathing in the flicker of a television set twenty years too old. He should be showered and rested – ready to head home at sunrise, if not sooner.

But then something led him to you, and – well.

There’s no fucking helping him now, is there?

Joel’s fingers hook around your panties. He pulls down, leaving a trail of kisses along your bare leg, until that same pink lace is dripping from your ankle.

His eyes flash up to yours, love-drunk and sparkling. He pushes your knees apart, watching your velvet folds open for him, and – oh, he thinks, staring at the glistening arousal smeared around your cunt. Such a slick little mess for him already.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he licks his lips, “She’s so pretty.”

You hum, hands lowering. Your fingers separate, spreading your pussy for him. Your middle finger swirls around your clit, dips along your seam. And the n, silky and shining, you lift your hand again and slip your fingers into your mouth.

“Tastes even better than she looks,” you murmur, dappling your fingertip along your bottom lip.

Joel growls. He pushes down on your thighs, ignoring your little yelp, and drags the tip of his tongue through your slit.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, back arching. Your fingers knot in his hair, twisting and tightening. “Shitshitshit.”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, tongue pushing inside.

Fuck, you’re just so perfect: so soft and warm and fucking dripping for him. He laps at your sweet center, wet already spreading all over his mouth and beard.

A dampness blooms in his boxers. He’s throbbing, fucking aching the longer he goes untouched. He grinds against the mattress, denim rough against his solid erection.

He lifts his chin, panting – satisfied by the way you squirm under the weight of him. “You like that, huh?” he asks, a sodden kiss to your mound. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He spits a thick bead of saliva, watching it dribble down your folds to your ass. His tongue swipes it back up, circling your clit, all slippery and swollen.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan, tugging on his hair. Your legs spasm, hips lifting.

He loves the sound of his name when you say it. Broken in two, a lilt to it as it rolls from your tongue and down his spine. Like it’s yours as much as it is his, now.

He sucks hard on your clit, his tongue flicking. And he can tell you’re close; can feel your hips starting to lose rhythm, see your back desperately arching higher and higher.

Joel groans, pushing up to hover over you. He cups between your legs, dabbing two thick fingers at your entrance, and pushes in.

Your pussy draws him in knuckle-deep. Your chest lifts, the loose neckline of your dress exposing more and more. You grab your breast, pinching your nipple – a roll of pebbled flesh between your fingertips.

He lowers his lips to your ear – watching as you toy with yourself. “Come on, baby,” he grits his teeth, “Give me one. Let me feel this pretty cunt.”

Your head rolls back into the pillow; a high sob as your orgasm crests. Clamping tight around him; a warm flood down his fingers.

Joel kisses you as you come. You look so pretty, he thinks, with ecstasy behind your eyes and his fingers between your legs.

Christ, he wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to feel your cunt do all this around his cock instead.

The blood rushes between his hips.

His fingers slip in and out, bringing you back around. Joel’s lips are on your neck, murmuring, “Good girl, that’s my girl,” as you resurface.

Your eyes open again – glossy, glazed with the aftershock of your high. “Fuck,” you breathe, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean. Whips the tee over his head in one motion; another kiss tucked under your chin as you peel your dress from your body. He tosses it to the floor.

Still dazed, your body still trembling, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” All dreamy and distant, your hands trailing along his belt.

Joel pauses. Tilts his head, frowning. “I’m on a road trip with my brother, baby – the hell would I bring condoms for?”

You roll your eyes, sighing. It’s the cutest thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. You thread the belt through the loops of his jeans. “In case you meet a really cool girl at a bar and wanna take her home, maybe?”

He lifts his eyebrows, impressed. He slips his salty tongue over yours again.

You moan at the taste. “It’s just I’m…I’m all out.”

His belt drops to the floor; buckle clinking against hardwood.

“Well, shit,” Joel whispers.

It’s not exactly a scenario he predicted, setting off from Austin. Meeting you wasn’t on the bucket list for the trip. It’s another three, four, probably five things to add to the list of shit he doesn’t do, shouldn’t do, wouldn’t fucking do if it hadn’t been for you.

No, Joel thinks, groaning as you palm the solid shape of him – he didn’t bring a goddamn condom. Jesus, the most he has in his pockets right now is fifteen bucks and a stick of gum.

You unzip his pants, shrugging the denim loose. “We can just do it…without,” you offer.

Joel stares down at you. “You sure?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Just pull out, right?”

“Just pull out…” he echoes. Your hands are cold on his heated skin, but he’s not about to fucking stop you.

You tug his underwear down with his jeans, following the darkening hair from his navel down. Another quiet pull out passes your lips – your voice dissolving when you spot the thick base of his dick.

Joel’s shaft springs free, heavy against the inside of his thigh.

“Holy shit.” You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes flooding black.

His tongue runs along the bottom of his teeth. He thrusts forward into your hand, a glassy drop of precome dribbling from his slit.

Your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, fingers wrapping around his width. You roll his balls in your other palm, massaging and squeezing just the right amount.

“Easy, easy,” Joel whispers. Too much, too soon. He can’t come yet, not until he feels your fluttering cunt around his cock.

Instead, you reach up – snaking an arm around his neck. You pull him back down, his naked body flush against yours, and hike a knee over his hip.

He grinds into you, his cock nudging between your legs. They fall apart for him – pliant and keen, like petals unfolding. He covers himself in your slick, his tip catching below your clit.

“Pl-ease,” you whine, scratching at his shoulders.

Joel nips at your damp neck. “Please, what?” he taunts.

Your breath is hot against his cheek – a stifling request which curls up in the shell of his ear. “F-fuck me.”

And his hips roll into yours.

“Jesus f…” your face buries into his chest, “…you’re…you’re so fucking big, Joel, I can’t –”

He nudges between your walls, groaning into your skin. You’re even tighter around his cock, even cozier. “I know,” he pants, “I know. Take it, baby, know you can take it.”

You stretch around him, opening up the deeper he pushes. “Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, the thick hair at his base finally brushing against your clit. “Fuck, Joel.”

“Look at me,” he taps your jaw, “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

You exhale, hot and shaky across his lips.

“Good, that’s good.” Joel nods. He holds you by the waist, lets you adjust to his size.

He pulls back, your cunt clamping around him. Halfway out, and then in again. Feeling you open up, inch by inch, until he builds a steady rhythm.

“Jesus, baby, she’s so…” he moans, “…she’s so goddamn tight.”

You drape an arm over his shoulders, a hissing pain where your nails dig into his skin. Yelping each time he bottoms out, your leaking cunt wrapped snug around him. “So – goddamn – big,” you whine, a ruined smile on your lips.

He slams his body into yours again, watching the way your tits bounce. Nipples hard, skin tacky and shining with sweat. Your pussy pinches, and he starts to unravel.

Fuck the road trip, Joel thinks, fuck all of it. This is where he should be: in the middle of your bed, burrowed deep between your legs. This is the only place he wants to fucking be, right now.

So he fucks you harder; the headboard hammering against the wall. A fistful of the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He guides his cock when he slips out – a filthy sound as your clutch sucks him back in.

“Fuck,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard he worries he might bruise you. His thrusts become sloppy – quick and desperate.

“So close,” you gasp. You’re squeezing him so tight that he sees stars. “I’m gonna – I’m…”

Perfect, Joel thinks, watching you bloom. You’re so fucking perfect.

He coaxes you through it. Slows enough to feel you come around his cock, your warmth as it gushes all over him. “That’s it, baby, I got you. Shit, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls out just in time to coat your stomach; a throaty groan as he comes. He pumps his shaft, covering from your sternum to the plush of your tummy. It dribbles down your waist, spurts between your breasts.

He collapses over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His dick, soaked and softening, smears the ejaculate across your skin.

You giggle, leaving sticky kisses along his beard.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, and his tongue dabs at the inside of your lips. You taste like sex and sweat – sweet and salt.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels you follow, your lips featherlight on the curve of his shoulder.

You make to stand – going to clean yourself up, he reckons, your tummy dripping with his semen – and he locks a hand around your bare thigh.

“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough – sex still smoldering. “Let me get you a towel.”

You smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. Your fingers link around the other side of his waist. “I’ll get it. Just relax.”

And for a minute or two, you stay like that. Hooked onto one another, tired eyes closing over, breathing in rhythm. Your cheek on his shoulder, your knee brushing against his tummy.

It’s simple; quiet and still. Joel feels like half a person – the other half tracing her chipped nails along his bare thigh. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth holding back a grin that she thinks might give her away.

Eventually, you move. Shimmy yourself down the mattress, swipe a crinkled tee from the ottoman – and slink off to the bathroom.

Joel lies back against the headboard, body sticky hot. He watches the shadow of your figure stretch across the open door. His eyes drift upwards to the looping ceiling fan – only half as dizzying as the sound of your humming in the next room.

And just when he starts to think he might be fucking missing you, you reappear in the doorway. Leant against the frame, some worn band tee hanging from your shoulders. Arms crossed; smiling back at him.

A rush of words floods to the tip of his tongue. You look beautiful. Your makeup’s smudged, chains of your necklace twisted; your shirt is frayed and splotched with faded stains – and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He holds his arms out and you prance over.

You crawl over his figure, kissing your way up to his lips, and then turn in his lap. Cradled against his broad chest, your head nuzzling into the dark threads of hair between his pecs. You clasp one of his hands in two of yours.

“Offer’s still there for a shower, if you want it,” you whisper, kissing the pads of his fingers.

Joel tilts his head, mumbling against your temple, “Will you be in there with me?”

You answer something shaped like a tease, just as sharp with wit – but he’s too busy watching your nails trace his open palm. Too distracted by the sweet scent of your skin: a fresh burst of fruit, singed with the edge of tobacco.

“What do you do for work?” you ask.

He makes some sort of sleepy sound – a grunt, a hm? into your skull. “Oh, uh – I’m a contractor,” he says.

Your chin lifts. “That why your palms are all…?” Your thumb strokes light as lace against his worn skin.

“Probably,” Joel admits. He draws shapes on your thigh with his free hand.

“Do you sand the wood with your bare hands, or somethin’?”

Joel scoffs. “Alright, alright. You liked my hands plenty, twenty minutes ago.”

Your cheeks lift, a low hum caught in your throat. You angle your head to let his lips trail along your shoulder, pressing into the hinge of your jaw. A dark nail following the landscape of Joel’s skin – each score and divot, the callused pads at the bottom of each finger.

“You have sorta…earth hands, I think.”

It sits in the air for a few seconds before Joel turns to you. “What?”

“Earth hands. Or, well – I guess they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way.” You open up his hand, fingers stretched. “I don’t really know. I’m still learning.”

He looks down at you. Feels the now-steady pulse of your heart on his sternum. “Learnin’…hands?”

You snort. “Palm reading, Joel.”

His brows draw tight. He licks the inside of his whiskey-stained cheek. “You’re into all that hippie sh…stuff?”

You knock your knuckles against his chest, still staring at his hands. The hills and their valleys, the ravine-like lines; the worn skin and hatch marks.

“Let’s see…Your heart line,” you whisper – more to yourself than Joel, but he’s listening all the same. “It’s pretty deep, which means the relationships you’ve had have been…important. But it’s kinda…it tails off right here, see? It’s broken. So…I guess they didn’t end too good.”

Joel raises an eyebrow – playful, encouraging your timid smile. Keep figuring me out, he thinks, stoking the curious flame behind your eyes. “Alright,” he says, “Now tell me something you didn’t already know about me.”

You gawk, holding his wrist up. “You don’t see that? The way it breaks up? I’m not bullshitting you, Joel, it’s –”

“Naw, I see it,” he nods, squinting a little at his palm, “Just – tell me more. What’s all these other lines mean?”

“Well,” you adjust between his hips, “you got your life line right here. Short, which means –”

“Don’t tell me that part.”

“No,” you roll your eyes, “It just means you’re independent. You never needed much from anyone. And it runs past this mount – these are called mounts – right here. Venus: all to do with love and sexuality.”

Joel holds your open palm next to his, comparing them. He takes less than a second’s look, lines his lips to your ear and says, “Seem like a pretty good match to me.”

You wriggle when he tickles your ribcage, trying to twist out of his grasp. You’re laughing again – the same laugh he’s been hearing all damn night. The same giggle that’s had his stomach somersaulting since he first heard it.

The room seems to light with it, this glow he feels from you – as if you’re the sun. Spent and still half-drunk; lazing with a stranger in the middle of her bed. Tracing the lines and scars on his palm, telling him how logical and grounded he’s supposed to be.

As if the world orbits around you – everything you touch turning to molten gold. And for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Joel looks at you and wonders: Where the hell did you come from?

You hold your hand against his, folding your fingers perfectly together. The evidence of your night flaking from Joel’s knuckles; sweat still simmering on the nape of his neck.

He hasn’t done this for years. Hasn’t felt this gentle aftermath. It’s usually a rush, a hastened zip and clink of his pants. An awkward dance, plucking clothes from the bedroom floor and pacing back to his truck.

It’s never like this. Talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Questions about his parents and yours; his biggest dream as a kid, or the time you broke your arm falling out of a tree.

He tells you stories about growing up with Tommy; tells you Sarah’s favorite flavor of cake. He tells you about the time they tried to make it for a school bake sale, forgot to turn the oven off, and almost burned the damn kitchen down.

You snicker and tell him that never would’ve happened if you were there.

Yeah, well, Joel smiles, I wish you were.

He notices you’re drifting off, despite your slurred protests and your weak grip on his wrist. He pulls you under the covers, curving his body around yours, praying that the quickening drum of his heartbeat won’t wake you.

His nose nuzzles into the curve of your skull, his hands link in front of your tummy. And he wonders whether his body was made with yours in mind.

He glances out at the sky – light starting to bleed from the horizon – and wills the turn of the sun to slow. Only a little; just let him stay here a little while longer.

Just a little while.

Dawn forces her way in eventually – more unwelcome than ever before.

There’s a throb between his temples which swells to life when the light floods past his pupils. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, face turning back into the pillow. He gives you a gentle squeeze and then pushes up from the mattress.

You roll to the middle of the bed, still sound asleep. The sun spills golden all over the valleys and crests of your body. The bedsheets carve pathways up to your hips, dipping at your waist.

Last night, there was something so mystical about you – so otherworldly. Joel felt himself drawn towards you like a compass needle shooting north, the second he felt your weight crash against his spine.

A figure behind a cloud of smoke, like the mountaintops disappearing into a thick mist. And now, blood drained of alcohol, you’re just you.

Your shirt is twisted around your shoulders. Your lips puffy, mumbling to yourself in your doze. Makeup smudged like chalk under your eyes, and still – just as beautiful. Just as radiant as you were ten hours ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinks down at his bare feet, the morning sharpening into focus. As he lifts his phone from the nightstand, the cable drops – hitting the wooden floor with a snap.

He pauses, shoulders hunched. Hears you stir over his shoulder, and turns around.

The earth of your body shifts beneath cotton hills, clouds of sleep clearing from behind your eyes. “Hey,” you whisper, voice pretty and broken.

A little bird in the palm of his hand – that magpie curled up in her nest of gems and trinkets.

“Hey.” He leans down and kisses your cheek. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You wrap your arms around his wrist, tugging. “Are…are you…leaving?”

Joel feels a pang in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He takes a deep breath. Your scent fills his lungs and steadies his heart. “I…” he sniffs, “…I gotta go home, baby.”

You give a slow and heavy nod. “S-Sarah…”

He strokes your head with his thumb. “Yeah. Shh, go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

He glances at his phone – it’s just after six. He knows Tommy will be waiting for him, parked outside the Super 8 and wondering where the hell Joel is. He knows Sarah will be, too – sat by the living room window, listening for the rumble of their bikes.

And still, he thinks – How do I fucking leave you? Leave this?

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. He has a kid waiting for him back home; soccer practice, packed lunches, homework and bedtime stories. He has work to do, bills to pay, a roof to keep over their heads. It’s all waiting in Austin, two hundred miles away.

As though you can see the question flipping in his mind, you pull him closer. A weak finger in the palm of his hand, drawing circles. Your bleary gaze meets his, and you whisper, “In the next life.”

Joel smiles. Twelve hours ago, he’d have laughed at the idea of it. Now, he’s not so sure. He kisses your knuckles, muttering, “Promise.”

Another wave of sleep washes over you, and you’re gone again.

Joel pushes himself from the bed, reaching for his clothes. His back twinges as he stretches, pulling his T-shirt over his shoulders. He steps into his jeans; pinches his belt between two fingers and lifts it from the floor.

He leans over and tilts your shades the opposite way, dulling your bedroom. He unplugs the charger, neatly winds the cord, and sits it on your nightstand. He fixes his side of the sheets: folds them over the mattress, tucks them in at your back.

With a deep breath, he makes for the door.

His jaw turns, eyes still low. Your dress is in a heap at the foot of the bed; a tube of lip gloss lying next to it. He looks up, following the landscape of sheets – the slope from your ankle to your hip. Your hunched shoulders, your cheek smushed into the pillow.

If he looks too long, he’ll never leave.

The image burns golden into his eyes. He hopes for half a heartbeat that you’ll wake again and pull him back into bed. Kiss him all over, whisper something sharp and sweet in his ear. Touch him and graze him and wrap yourself around him – anchoring him right here and now.

But you don’t.

And Joel slips out of the room.

Jackson stirs to life over his shoulder.

A white lump in the snow-covered valley, the settlement seems so far away now. Tommy sets off up ahead, leading the way to the outpost. The blizzard is picking up – it almost swallows the silhouette of him whole.

Joel had tried to warn him: the weather would be too bad to see five feet in front of them, never mind any infected. But Tommy argued with the same determination that dragged the pair of them into that dive bar thirty years ago, and Joel didn’t have half the energy nor the will to argue back.

He’s thinking about you. He always is.

Your searing gaze over the rim of your glass; the weight of you against his chest. The tickling of your nail on his palm, severing each line and changing him forever. You and your palm lines.

You were just learning to read them. Joel didn’t know a thing about any of it, and he told you so. You took his hand in yours and said, Here. Let me see.

He runs a thumb down his fate line, swaying in time with his horse. And he shakes his head with a little smile – he still remembers which one is fate and which is heart.

He still remembers all of it. He has earth hands. All salt and soil and solid as stone. His earth hands have gotten him this far, right? Twenty-five years and he’s still here. Gray and grown; stiff joints and sewn-up scars.

His head line has channeled more strangers’ blood than Joel can count. Mounts that’ve stopped breath in the throat of any man who crossed him. He doesn’t think you’d recognize his hands anymore, if your fingertips traced over them again. Broken and bruised and bloody.

And he doesn’t think he’d want you to – doesn’t want you to meet the shadow of the man you knew back then. He’d prefer you remember that same brown-eyed, soft-touched stranger with enough charm and naivety to survive anything. No need for bone-breaking fists or bloodstained hands.

Where are you, he wonders?

The answer knots deep in his stomach: the same old rope twisting into the same old shape. A fist of anger, of guilt. Some terrible cocktail of both, spilling poison through his veins.

He’s terrified to wonder what might’ve happened if he had ever made it back there. What he might’ve found in your apartment – what he might not.

Where would you have gone, that day? Would you have fled, or would you have stayed?

You were smart, he knows that much. He saw the cogs of your mind turning right in front of him, standing opposite each other in that bar. Barely thirty seconds in and he could’ve sworn you had him all figured out.

But – oh, Jesus, you were kind. Open and willing to help a stranger with a dead phone and a tired smile. Would that kindness still glow as bright against the flicker of a world on fire?

A lone hawk swoops down before him, shooting straight between the pines. Joel slips his glove back over his freezing hand.

He thinks about you every day. Every fucking day, and it never eases. Never loosens. It keeps him up some nights – the truth he’s too afraid to look square in the face.

You live now in the back of his mind like a little ghost. His little ghost – still floating around that dusty city; the warm light of life and innocence still bright in your eyes.

Tommy glances over his shoulder. He gestures ahead as if to say, Would you take a look at this goddamn storm?

And Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m lookin’, brother.

All he wants is to go home. Jackson, Austin, the bedroom of your apartment in San Angelo. Just let me go back.

He blinks, and the snow melts to cracked asphalt under a lilac sunset. Tommy’s holding handlebars instead of reins. The horses’ hot puffs of breath darken to clouds of smoke, choking from the exhaust pipes of the Harleys.

You’re somewhere on the other side of town, waiting for him in the faint glow of a jukebox. Sipping what’s left of your rum and Coke, fishing a twenty from your purse for the next round.

Just let me go back home.

He tugs on his horse’s reins and pulls off after his brother.

[asmimir]

Your art reminded of how the Unholy Alliance update made me go from very on the vence about Narinder to biggest Narinder defender will die in the trenches for my wife /hj

Like personally, them finally giving us the reasoning behind the Bishops attack on Narinder beyond vague prophecy changed a lot of the context behind the situation

And while, yes, the intentions behind his actions of resurrecting followers and his opinion on his new find extreme popularity were left quite vague (and why I don't if someone still interprets Narinder as the one mainly/equally at fault). It still doesn't change how it was a betrayal out of the Bishops fear of a possible betrayal. He wasn't conquering and overtaking them, he wasn't actively starving them, they just feared that possibility that he would.

It gets even more fucked up when you remember that all the Bishops ran their faiths by gifting and blessings their followers with the opposite of their domains (food, heath, etc) so Narinder actions where probably completely normal thing to do as a god of death in his mind, like.

In my fucked up fantasies (aka my interpretations of the canon), Narinder was only truly in the wrong when they asked the Lamb to sacrifice themselves. But getting into even more personal headcanons territory, for him it was likely just the natural/necessary think to do. He's a god of death that gave this little mortal life so they could do his bitting (that included them doing their own sacrifices, depending on your own gameplay), them sacrificing themselves was likely a given for him. Probably didn't consider that the Lamb would mind it, like, sacrificing yourself for your god just another tuesday in the life of a follower of death aint I right

So in conclusion, narilamb before post-game was a classic case of doomed yaoi/hurt people hurt people. Narinder asked the sacrifice-survivor to be sacrificed once again and the Lamb betrayed the one who was betrayed in return (pun half-intended)

(Really sorry for the ramble, it's almost midnight in my country and your art plagued me with thoughts. Hope you at least liked reading my deranged screams, I mean, my interpretations of the story. If you didn't, again, Im truly sorry. But Im still interested in your own thoughts regardless, so yeah... feel free to share??? I don't know how to phrase that in a good way, again, its almost midnigh)

no truer words have been said

[drenched-in-sunlight]

"Marika becomes the sum of all the Fromsoft girlies" is nice but you forgot Nashandra who actually has parallels with Marika! Recommending to check it out, she's cool!

let’s get this out of the way now… I love DS2, I think the vibe and gameplay is immaculate and I’ll defend it as a whimsical and enjoyable videogame experience till the end of time.

But my god, I hate how they handle female characters in that one 💀

In fact, I don’t like how they handle female characters in DS franchise in general. It got a bit better in Bloodborne and Sekiro and especially AC6, but overall ever since I started playing Fromsoft game in 2020, my main gripe with them is they only have 2 tropes to shoehorn their female character into: helpless victim of a system that would mangle and exploit them OR serious sword lady. And if I’m being real, it’s the main gripe I have with Elden Ring base game too?

I didn’t discuss it on tumblr because back then I were still trying to keep this blog art-focused, but when the game came out in 2022, I did express my concern on twitter that I found the female characters cast… strangely lacking. Because I went into the game expecting Ema-level of writing (literally Sekiro’s Ema is one of the best female characters Fromsoft has ever written to this day I could and have talked ppl’s ears off about her. And I’m glad she on her own is very different from Marika. That means they could at least write 2 more types of female characters now the bar is on the floor but I’ll take it and cherish what I have), but it felt like they got reset back to DS franchise with ER base game.

(This has an added layer of me being a girl born, raised and lived in a Sinosphere country that is entrenched in Confucius values just like Japan, so yes I do understand and experience firsthand the underlying culture values that shapes their writing. Hell, I live and study postgraduate in Japan for 2 years too).

But we are going off track, this is about DS2. Now, my problem with DS2 is, see, with 1 or 3, the female characters either have very little agency or no agency at all. And it just…. be like that. The male characters are somewhat the same, so it really doesn’t bother me that much. The cool, unique, not sexualized design is enough. But 2?

2 has a lot of female characters…. who either play no role in the world setting or sinister figures that charm men and bring ruins to kingdoms? What?

(Before anyone says “but Lucatiel—” Lucatiel is the beacon of light in that game, yes, but at the same time her purpose centering around her brother is… also a problem I have with the way they handle Malenia’s story. My Fromsoft experience has lore to it as well jfc)

Like, it’s just ??? to me half of those women have no agency or backstory whatsoever apart from being the Dark’s daughters that would bring doom everywhere they go??? You can say everything wrong in DS2 world is their fault and I actually wouldn’t have much to argue. Actually, it’s interesting you bring up Nashandra because I do think Nashandra has parallel in Elden Ring. But not to Marika.

Nanaya.

That’s who reminds me of Nashandra in Elden Ring. Literally the mysterious, lowkey nefarious lady and her old man husband with questionable dynamic DS2 trope 🧍‍♀️ you can actually see that in their name too.

If I have to pick a character in DS franchise specifically to make parallel to Marika, it’ll always be Gwynevere. Because I honestly think it’s amazing they took a character that has the least amount of agency they’ve ever created, and turned the core concept of her (warmth, healing spells, sunlight, mother, daughter, queen, faith) into another character with actual good writing.

That’s why I didn’t include Nashandra in my previous post. Not because I don’t know about her. It’s because I know.

[crusherthedoctor]

Hey all, hope everyone's doing good. Thought I should give an update on my current perspective on things around here, as it's shifted for reasons I'll get into.

In a nutshell, I'm feeling better than before... but I also think it's time for me to semi-check out of current Sonic discussion.

By now, you all know that with the exception of Superstars and Dream Team - and Jimbotnik, because of course - I've not been enthusiastic about much of the current stuff. Whether that be the likelihood that they'll continue with a Frontiers direction, the SA2 milking that has made me more sick to death of its influence than I thought was possible, the Year of Shadow in general not being all that enticing if your top ten does not include him, IDW still causing the same repetitive back-and-forths with its characteristically terrible decisions and disproportionate praise from fans who don't actually buy the comic, various other bits and pieces that plant further Eggdad seeds into people's heads, a bunch of other stuff that I'm just apathetic about while everyone else goes crazy over them... it's not been a great time for me. I'm the Garfield, and the current direction is the Monday.

That would all be one thing, but as you may expect, it's the fandom that really irks me. I don't like how it's considered necessary to make every post a bestseller in order for your opinion to be seen as valid and insightful. I don't like how you're expected to not criticise something just because it's popular or "iconic". I don't like how everyone dedicates themselves to the same old lengthy discourse that will continue to not change anyone's minds either way, since the only people listening are the ones who already agreed with them. I don't like how you have Flynn/Archie/IDW stans on one side, and an increasingly common "Japan only, no one else should ever touch the series, also the Japanese fandom is the only one with good people in it, I was born in the wrong country uwu" mentality on the other side.

And... I don't like that I've brought these concerns up so many times before when I know it'll always fall on deaf ears. Why do I do this? Why do I bother? For the fandom, I guess. But if the fandom doesn't even respect me, if my words are always doomed to ring in an empty hallway, why should I bother?

While all this has been going on, the Paper Mario Thousand-Year Door remake has been on my mind quite a bit, as it has been for a lot of folk. As someone who has always loved TTYD, as well as the original N64 Paper Mario, I'm happy to report that I absolutely adore the remake, and quickly considered it a gold standard as far as faithful remakes go. :) There's a lot of reasons for that, but that's best for another time. Anyway, after a certain point, it occurred to me... hasn't it been a while since I've been able to just relax and join in on the hype for something? Hasn't it been a while since my opinion lined up with that of the majority? Hasn't it been a while since, regardless of not actually posting, I felt like I belonged somewhere, and wasn't being made to constantly feel like I'm worthless because I'm not an artist, animator, etc?

I think this is something I've been needing for a long time now. The irony of it coming from the bing bing wahoo man is not lost on me.

After how the past few years in the Sonic fandom have felt like a classroom more than anything, watching everyone repeat the same Why ___ Is Secretly Good/Bad three hour manifestos over and over, and flogging themselves for being Not-Japanese, can you see why the simple pleasures of "hehe Vivian :3" would appeal to me? Can you see why I'd prefer to unwind? I made a valiant effort, but now, I can't force myself to keep up with shit that I'm not passionate about for the sake of a community that doesn't care about what I have to say anyway. I need to find myself a place on here that I can be at ease with.

So what does this mean for my blog? Well, nothing too jarring, just that my focus may shift a little for the time being. Despite what all of the above may imply, I'm not turning in my Sonic badge. I still love the franchise, even if I'm not so fond of its overall current direction. And obviously, I still love Eggman, that'll never change. I'll still answer asks about the series, talk about things I like, reblog stuff I like, work on Stellar, spread Egg Propaganda, and so on. But unless I'm asked about them in certain contexts (ie: "how would you improve this character"?), I refuse to talk about IDW, Frontiers, or anything else whose contents and fandom circles cause me migraines.

Not because toxic positivity, but because after the joy of gushing over Vivian TTYD, and remembering the feeling of belonging, I can't do this again. I can't change Tails calling himself Wildly Inconsistent. I can't change The End being a nothingburger. I can't change Lanolin being an arsehole. I can't change Surge's shilling. I can't change how unprofessional the IDW crew is. I can't change what they're doing with Eggman, and various other characters. I can't change any of these things, no matter how much I or anyone else rants about them, and half the time, no one is seriously listening anyway. So many words for so little results. So I need to move on, stop wasting my time, and turn my attention on things that actually make me happy instead of just... deflated. Maybe if I do that, I can belong again. Maybe when the direction inevitably changes again in the future, it'll feel like it came faster.

So yeah. That's where I'm at now. I hope you guys can understand.

[elucubrare]

on expository dialogue

we all hate it when someone says "as you know, bob." however, expository dialogue is both necessary and good.

while it's nice to think of fictional characters & narratives really existing without an observer, they don't. dialogue, including expository dialogue, should serve both the characters (to establish traits and advance the plot) and the reader (to guide them into the narrative and the world).

honestly i think people are too harsh on what counts as "too explanatory/clunky." i'm not going to think "i have to get on the subway, the underground transportation system built in the 1900s, when Theodore Roosevelt was President, to go to my interview." I might, however, think "i have to make it to the 6 by 1:00 if i'm going to be on time. and I really want this job, i've been unemployed for six months."

I think the key thing about expository dialogue is that when it's bad, it's because it feels like a thought a person who lives in the world wouldn't have, or something that you wouldn't tell someone else who also lives in the world. this post is, in part, sparked by an okay book i'm reading where someone is surprised to see someone dying of the "horned death."

here's the actual dialogue:

“Well, well, a witan of the Faith and this is yer first taste of the Horned Death, eh? Get used to it, young’un! You’ll see plenty more, I’m thinking.”

...

A’Va got these. The devil’s work now. Your business, I s’pose, brother witan. Not mine, fer sure. But you mark me words, reverend sorr: there’s too many twins being bore. The Way of the Flow is doomed, lest you lot tackle the sprout of evil!”

What the beggary has twins to do with anything? Or A’Va of all things?

The whole question of the existence of a demonic antithesis of Va, a being called A’Va, was moot, and in another situation he might have argued the point.

The thing here, aside from the pretty egregious eye-dialect, is that honestly it sounds like the main character should know about this - he's from a country that's relatively close; he's a priest; and, crucially, this doesn't seem to be the first outbreak of the plague, from the worker's reaction to it. And even bearing in mind the idea that this dialogue is for the readers, it's so easy to make this sound like someone who is actually aware -

"...too many twins being born!"

He winced. That Va-cursed supersition about twins being born of A'Va again. I thought we'd handled these A'Va heretics years ago.

my edit's quick & not perfect, but at least it doesn't make the main character sound like he can't put simple facts together.

The point is, you can have dialogue (or internal monologue) that gives the audience the information it needs and develops the character appropriately. It just needs to be considered a little bit.

[echo-stimmingrose]

Slight rant/ted talk

Trans People are People Too

So this person on tik tok responded to one of my comments, saying "they/them pronouns wtf y'all are still on that?"

One thing to note: I did not mention my pronouns in my comment nor are they in my name. This person had to have gone onto my profile, saw my pronouns and then decided that they needed to make a comment about it.

A ton of people responded to their comment defending me and other gender non-conforming people.

This person then went on to make a comment about what gentiles I have. 1, they have no way of knowing. 2, that's super fucking creepy especially considering i am a minor.

Many people called them creepy and they said, "it's not creepy, every woman has one" which is just incredibly false. Also how tf would they know what genitalia I have?

They continued to respond to other people under my comment while actively ignoring all of my comments, especially the one where I stated that I was a minor and it doesn't really matter whats in my pants.

The worst part of this though was their most recent comments. They said that "people like her make all the gays look bad"

They then revealed that they are gay/a member of the LGBTQ+ community.

To be honest I wasn't upset at first. I'm used to cis het people being ignorant bigots towards minorities. Especially when they have the cover of the internet to shield them. But a member of my own community? Not gonna lie that hurt a little bit.

I know it's just a stranger on the internet but if our own community can't stick together what hope do we have?

I live in the US and frankly it's scary right now. All of these bills and people in power who would rather focus on getting rid of the gays then helping the kids being shot I'm schools. It's so sad.

And to all the people telling people like me who aren't happy with our country "just move then" it is not as easy as you are making it sound. People can't just up and move across seas or across the continent.

I know they would like that though. If everyone who dares to be different would just leave and stop complaining about our rights being stripped from us.

I'm being told by my grandfather that it's not actually that bad. Maybe not for him, he's a cis het white man who only watches Fox News. I commented on one of his bigoted transphobic posts on Facebook and he blocked me and refused to respond to any of my messages. He then called my mom a bitch when she got pissed at him.

We're back on good terms now thankfully. He still has some effed up opinions on LGBTQ+ people, which is hard not just for me but my little sibling as well.

This is the same man who used to tell me to stand up for my country and the things that I believe in. I guess that only applies to things he agrees with.

Our community is being told to stop being so loud about our rights and maybe people would like us more. Imagine if we talked to women in the 1920s and informed them that we are still fighting for equal rights even 100 years later.

I don't care if things are "better now." Better doesn't mean good or safe. People are still being killed for this. We are moving backwards instead of forward. Don't they know history is doomed to repeat itself? Especially if they refuse to make changes.

I informed my uncle of the new bill in Florida about how trans kids are being ripped away from their families just because their families support them. He said "yeah that'll get fought. It won't stay for long."

But he also said that this bill would never get passed. I love my uncle and he means we'll but he still has a lot more faith in our country than I do. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. But it's also leaving him ignorant to a lot of the things that are going on.

Even if that bill doesn't stay "for long" as he says it's still a problem now. People are fleeing Florida and parents have already lost kids to this fucked up system. That's going to cause irreversible trauma on not just the parents but kids as well.

My uncle also says the biggest problem with our country right now is our economy. When I informed him I frankly didn't care about the economy as much as other problems, he laughed. "You're gonna care when you can't pay for anything to live"

The way things are going, by the time I am paying on my own to live I won't have the rights to do so.

Since before I came out I have always wanted to attend a pride parade as I've never been to one. Several months ago my mom and I talked about attending one during pride month. But now I don't want to, the thought honestly scares me.

I live in a small town in a red state. I hate going out in public because of the people in this town. I ate the way they look at me and my friends as if we don't belong.

My heart goes out to my LGBTQ+ siblings. Things are fucking scary right now. Please don't discriminate against your own community or else we don't have any hope of going anywhere.

Happy Pride Month I Guess

[birindale]

I'm curious to hear your overall thoughts on the original Princess of Power.

While Filmation's He-Man had to come to an end, due to TV stations not being willing to pay for TV show episodes beyond 100, it was still a bold move to carry on Masters of the Universe in a girl-centric show.

From some of the interviews you've posted, it doesn't sound like Mattel Marketing had much faith in PoP, saying things like "Oh, she's a flanker brand: she'll succeed, increase gross doll sales, and when she stops selling after a couple of years Barbie will gobble up the increase."

It especially struck me in the interviews about the Star Sisters engineering how much more creativity and tooling money "action dolls" took than fashion dolls. It's a bummer to think of so much heart and intellect was being poured into something doomed to be short-lived.

She-Ra has of course had two limited revivals, in a (predominantly male) adult collector form for MotU Classics, with no action features and sculpted hair, and then as more conventional dolls when SPOP debuted, but being canceled after only a few characters.

So what do you think would be the ideal way to handle these characters?

my thoughts on the original? six words:

capitalism is the death of art.

i wrote like four thousand words about it but ultimately it boils down to Mattel ignoring market research because doing so was cheaper in the short term, which killed the original toylines & had already squashed Janice Varney-Hamlin’s original pitch for an action doll.

the same 1984 FCC repeal which allowed He-Man and She-Ra to have tv shows at all marked a sharp decline in 'gender neutral' toy advertising, which had been on the rise since the early 70s. In 1975, <2% of the Sears toy catalog was marketed to a specific gender. By 1995, it was nearly half--numbers that hadn't been seen since WWII.

By reinforcing binary gender norms, the toy industry is able to capitalize on specific play patterns (what was once ‘homemaking’ is now ‘disney princess’) and condition the market to accept pink taxes, and.

Okay I’m starting to rant again. Reining it in. No death threats this draft. Anyway Mattel killed both toylines by trying to maximize their profits & Filmation was doomed from the moment RankinBass realized it was cheaper to outsource animation to other countries. Hell, from the moment the SCG was formed. It’s so much cheaper to extract value from people you’ve fucking colonized and. uh.

No. okay I’m fine. I’m fine. We’re just gonna move onto the modern toys now.

MOTUC is its own can of worms for me. On the one hand, they didn't have the Filmation design rights until like 2012, so there are a lot of things they couldn't do, but the number of MOTU vs POP figures has always been disheartening. And the bios... it's gotten better since Penny Dreadful & gbagok have come aboard, since they're like human encyclopedia for MOTU lore, but in the early days, when Toyguru was in charge?

I should be nice but i’m still annoyed he’s making me check his youtube channel instead of just answering my questions like a normal person. what does “near future” even mean. When is “soon”??  i am currently disinclined to be charitable towards your lore, Scott! answer my riddles three or i start listing grievances!!!

The Dreamworks toys... honestly, I think the big failure there was marketing. For one thing, I never saw a single advertisement for them until I went trawling through the official Youtube channel (and that video put me off very quickly). And I can recognize that I'm not the intended demographic, you know? I’m like thirty years old & i’ve never been into dolls. Did kids like them?

My ideal toyline would have an emphasis on accuracy. Looking as on-model as possible. When I was a kid my favorite (non-stuffed) toys were those little pokemon figurines; articulation isn't really necessary for me as long as the figures can stand up by themselves. The Super7 toys were pretty good, I just wish they had more of them--or that they were sculpted in more interesting poses. But that line, too, suffered from a dearth of advertising. Who can buy these toys if they don't know they exist? Especially during the pandemic, when fewer people were willing to linger in the toy aisle and happen upon things--that's when you should be promoting shit. hell, put a bumper at the end of the episodes if you have to. as long as it was skippable idt there would be much flak for that, given we all signed up to watch a toy-based cartoon in the first place.

the type of toy i prize above all others, though? the kind of shit i went bananas for as a child & still delight in to this day?

toysets.

give me a crystal castle toyset with a little pocket guide on reading first ones' script. give me castle bright moon (WITH A MAP. PLEASE). a hordak's sanctum set that's the only way to get an imp figurine--kids love evil lairs & adults love collecting. a little Darla set that comes with spacesuits if the toys themselves are still Dolls.

but that’s not cost-effective. so. yeah

[night-creeps]

Gonna be honest, as a canadian seeing that kosa passed senate has actually made me give up hope a little. Like i understand why people spread posts with information for further actions to take to try and prevent it. But what about people who don't live in the USA who are still going to be impacted by it? We literally can't do anything. Sometimes I feel like theres a difference between using social media sites for americans vs non americans, when USA politics goes around that will have a ripple effect but I can't do anything. I can reblog posts and spread awareness and prepare for the right wing politicians in my country to do the same thing, but I can't physically do anything. I can't vote in your elections, I can't influence your politicians, but I still have to be constantly reminded of this fucking anvil hanging over me.

So for Americans, being able to differentiate between doom scrolling and staying informed is whether or not you can/are doing something about it. But when you live outside the US it's so much harder to tell sometimes. Because I can't do shit. And it feels like walking around with a fucking ticking time bomb in your pocket, and you can't try to defuse it. You have to have faith that the people who *can* try *are* trying. But the only way to know is to watch the timer tick down because no one close by can help you. And why bother telling them? If they don't already know then they won't be affected by the explosion. Not directly at least. It just feels fucking hellish.

[sahhr-studiesmed]

JOURNAL ENTRY - 20 June, 2023

In ten days I have my send ups that will be starting. Basically they are exams. The entire next two months are just exams.

These days I write my journal entry out and don't post it because I couldn't. There is so much to say but I'm having trouble saying just about anything but there is so much to say I want to say but it's as if my words have been locked away and someone took the key away. I've been struggling with that for a week now. Nothing was helping and all I did was doom scrolling as the worst case of executive dysfunction and task paralysis took over me. The kind where you keep telling yourself to get up but your body won't get up so now you are screaming in your head and your body still won't move because moving feels that hard.

Knowing that you need to be doing something else but aren't doing it even though you want to do it. It's the worst feeling ever and this feeling persists very strongly.

I am a bit of the opposite of other people or am I completely misidentifying my feelings. I cannot say. when everyone seems to be bothered and working hard— even those that never did before. I'm not worried about myself at all— as my worry isn't translating into any action at all. Rather I feel these specs of harsh anxiety and they go away just as suddenly as they appear. Perhaps because I know there is not much I can do at this point. Other than doing as best as I can.

Back when I was preparing for NEET ( the qualifying exam for being a doctor in my country ), at one point I stopped caring if I would make it or not. My point is that all I did was do as much as I could and left the rest to God. I did as much as I could by fighting for as long as I could- till the end. What happened after the end was what the god wanted for me. It's not always easy to accept things so I pray. I pray that things go my way and that God is listening because he needs to. People pray to god and I think I have my daily arguments with God. Fights perhaps? Anger perhaps? There is everything. Reverence and anger but the faith I believe remains. Faith that things might not go my way and it really fucking sucks but I will fight the fight because that's my responsibility. That it is my responsibility and no one else's, not even gods. So I fight god because that is why my and his connection is like. He's my friend but we have our falling offs and reconciliation. And I know God is not for everyone but this is what it is for me.

But coming back to people— if people are studying around me, I can't seem to study as well. If people are only sitting around me and I'm the one studying. I can do it. Is this the curious case of body doubling? Or just a severely low self-esteem? Or perhaps both?

I'm envious of those whose heads and minds work with them and not apart from them. I was going to write the word against instead of the word apart but I don't think my mind wants to work against me. It made me sad just as suddenly as it had appeared. I feel sorry for my mind— because it tries to work with me.

So it makes me envious because— why do they get to be normal and me with the extra struggles? I wish I was the normal one or perhaps a little more extraordinary because that's what it feels like— that to belong to this place I need to be more than myself and more like others. It's shitty.

Perhaps there are fifty other people here with the same thoughts as mine and I don't know about them and perhaps there are none. I will never know.

Today I made myself get up and eat breakfast, lunch and dinner properly. I hadn't eaten anything properly for the past three days. Just one meal a day and that too not food. I also made myself attend a few classes today. Just for the sake of it. Tomorrow I might not go. It really depends. I also studied today after I hit another slump.

I downloaded a pomodoro and used that. It was an app I had deleted earlier and now I got it back. I felt the resistance and I'm immensely slow as compared to my counterparts but I'm waking at the snails pace. I haven't turned into a rock yet. I might tomorrow. I don't know.

I'm trying to survive because I can't die. Not like this.

" If winter comes, can spring be far behind? "

[rametarin]

The ink wasn’t even wet yet.

So LilNas did a silly and once again completely harmless performance thing involving him fucking Satan in a music video in the most hilarious, Wayanes Brothers-esque outfit for the job I have ever seen.

There really wasn’t time for anybody of value to be offended or really voice complaint about it in any numbers that really matter. The voices of outrage and the stranglehold they had on the religious right of today is paltry peanuts by comparison to the lockstep, marching and goosestepping of the mega evangelical churches of the late 70s and throughout the 80s.

It was just sorta taken for granted that The Wacky Westboro Baptist Types and any buffoon that still goes to church would get their knickers in a twist and start harumphing by the millions about LilNas’ objectively harmless exploit into having sex with a cartoonish low budget Satan.

And the music journos and others in entertainment cultures reacted about how I expected. Seguing into, “Oh look! It’s the Satanic Panicers! Because that was a thing, you know! And they’re still at it!”

So in come the articles about the very real history of the US’s Moral Majority and their big huffy puff pieces about, “degradation” and “degeneracy” and harumph and fi and foo and won’t someone think of the children and how the mean ole Christians wanted to gatekeep literature and media based on certain Christian moral undertones.

Which is true. Don’t get me wrong. It was a cringe and eyeroll worthy last hurrah of when, while defanged and declawed legally on a federal level and most civil and decent places on a state level, the Moral Majority still played to their pews and organized to try and become the defacto arbiters of what was acceptable vs. outrageous content not to expose the kiddies to. It was an exertion of their social and soft power in the hearts and minds of their flocks and believers to dictate the content a whole community could sell, advertise and make cultural without getting ostracized and possibly hurt by radicals.

However, by comparison, today is not back then. Doom and Mortal Kombat and hyper violent videogames and occult and Satanic imagery are old hat. Our daytime cartoon shows for children can casually play with themes of magic and infernalist powers that would’ve been cancelled or censored or banned in the 60s and 70s; and the 80s blew those standards to hell. There really ISN’T any real outrage about Lil Nas fucking Muppet Satan. You can surely find some among the usual mouthbreathers that will always be loud and represent a section of the US that these self-proclaimed, “progressives” hate to begin with, but other than that, the matter is settled. At this point, Satanic Panic isn’t really a thing on the radar in the mainstream. At best, you can point to some cloistered community of people that come together because they voluntarily believe that stupid shit and grumph about it on social media.

But that brings me to my ultimate point.

These people posting these masturbatory articles about the history of Satanic Panic and those wacky Christians (they never specify all the conservative or fuddy-duddy Jews in the Abrahamic tradition of faiths, for some reason) are sort of speaking about it in this wishy-washy way that tries to claim the mass hysteria is as real today as it ever was back then.

And it isn’t. It just simply isn’t.

All the old people between 50-100 in the 1970s-1980s are themselves 100 and dead, now. Their kids are in their mid-60s and, while conservative, nowhere near as intolerant statistically as the stodgy, “no mentioning witches in front of children, no magic or occult things” religious conservative values of their parents age.

The Satanic Panic, the microcosm of believers stirred into a frightened panic over non-Christianity competing with their ideology in the country, is all but dead. Secular civic government barely finds them a road block, and while corporate media might cowtow to them as a reliable paying consumer base for specific niche products, they don’t bow to them and self-censor like they used to.

Yet, you read the articles by these people trying to take this opportunity to tell the youth about how widespread and dogmatic and intolerant the Christian hegemony was in the US, and then they say, “they’re still like that today.”

They’re so desperate to get inside the youth’s heads to shape their teen rebellious phase over whom they think the entrenched powers are and how to defy them for shits and giggles, that they’re taking the image of North American Christianity out of the moth balls from how it used to be and trying to say, “it’s the same. Nothing has changed.”

Now, I’m not accusing Lil Nas of being in on a conspiracy. Lil Nas does shit to entertain and be silly. He’s done absolutely nothing wrong.

But whether or not he did it on purpose, the asymmetrical system of the usual suspects picked it up and ran with it. To, “stawt a convuhsayshun uwu” about what idiots and assholes Christians are in the US. Taking advantage of this... barely blip on the cultural radar that’s getting more press due to the nothingburger “controversy,” because they take for granted that it upsets some imaginary vitriolic majority.

So they have their own little in-group conversation about, “Oh how CONTROVERSIAL Lil Nas is!” and talk about really sticking it to those frumpy stumpy fuddy duddies, or whatever. And..

no. This isn’t fucking Madonna kissing Black Jesus. This isn’t Ozzy Osbourne tossing a chicken out into his audience or biting the head off of a bat.

This isn’t even the wholesale manufactured nontroversy that is the record industry making a great big scene out of poking white America with a stick that was Eminem’s phony baloney career.

This is just Hot Coffee except the people finding it controversial are giggling over just how much it must make, “those people” stew with fury and backpat themselves over the accomplishment of rustling The Power’s jimmies.

They’re trying oh so hard to stir up the hornets nest, to just milk whatever little performative bear rage and indignancy left in the Christian right to seem like they’re the status quo, that they’re the intolerant and outraged and impotent power structure and source of oppression and theocratic intolerance, a danger to our civic secularism and liberal society by sheer numbers and reach in power.

And...

There’s just nothing left of them to do that.

So even trying to act like Lil Nas is doing more than upsetting the Minions Meme Boomers on Facebook that really have next to no power anymore just comes off as out of touch, desperate and pathetic.

[half-man-half-lime]

SBURB in the Pact/Pale/Otherverse

There’s a series of Reddit threads where people come up with versions of story characters, settings, elements, etc. that fit into the mechanics and style of the Otherverse from Wildbow’s Pact and Pale web serials and Pactdice game. In the last thread someone posted an idea of Sburb as a ritual, and while I was stewing on my own ideas for that, I didn’t want to hijack the comment. I was waiting for another thread to pop up but for now I’ll post it here. Sorry if some of the stuff doesn’t fit the tone or style of Pact and Pale. This is what I’ve come up with:

Nobody remembers the name of the small European colony on the Pacific Ocean where the war between Angels and Demons took place. It was literally wiped off the map, from most people’s memories, and from most records. It’s quite possible that if the humans, Angels, and Demons involved hadn’t taken part in this war, their cooperation would have sustained better relationships between the human and celestial forces, which are distant and oppositional to this day.

By some unknown series of events, only a few hundred years ago, a war sparked between many Greater Angels and Demons. Many Others and practitioners were roped into fighting for both sides. Evangelists, Diabolists, Greater and Lesser Angels and Demons, and greater gods and non-Angelic architects of Space and Time, standing on the same level as the most powerful Angels and Demons. Old grudges and rivalries had come to a head here, and the battle was bloody.

The final escalation happened when the Angelic forces were losing, and the Demonic side elected to deal the finishing blow. One of the Greater Demons called the stars to fall from the sky and crush the enemy. Others and Practitioners mounted defenses, and the arbiters of Time and Space tried to displace some of the stars, but weren’t strong enough to prevent the entirety of the damage, and so a Greater Angel elected to make sure the enemy didn’t survive to advance their agenda, pulling down more stars to destroy the Diabolical forces.

What resulted was a destruction so thorough that most of the island was wiped out, leaving a small sliver of volcanic island in its place. Nobody remembered what happened there, as the destruction was thorough, and brought on by Demons. However, nobody disappeared exactly. The whole country was pulled down, as the stars burned holes in reality, past the known homes of the forgotten, including the Abyss and the Paths. They were pulled down to the void beneath the void beneath the void, far beyond any realms known to Practitioner or Other.

Those pulled into this realm were shredded apart into simple and complex spirits, and larger fragments of beings still not whole enough to live on their own. Spirits and fragments were attracted to things similar to themselves as if by some gravitational pull, and slowly coalesced into whole beings. These beings were massive and godlike, eschewing conventional bodies, becoming a patchwork of flesh and mouths and eyes and tentacles.

The architects of Time and Space re-formed, merging with the remained of what temporal and spatial elements once made up the island colony. The Angels and the ideas they embodied tried to reform, embodying forces of knowledge, fortune, and Light, as well as creation, faith, and Hope. The Demons re-formed as amalgamations of darkness, emptiness, and the Void they found themselves in, and the sin, destruction, and Rage against the flawed structures and conventions of the world they once sought to destroy.

Most people and Others were broken down to their base elements. Their capacity for thought, and the forces of Karma and the laws of the Seal of Solomon, as well as choices, promises, and words, came together and took on a Mind of their own. The Selves of these beings, their feelings and identities grew their own Heart. The cycle of birth and death, and the beings who sought to take the dead to their final resting places, became the overseers of Life and enactors of Doom in this strange new world. The old relationships, connections both natural and Practiced, they came together to embody the ties of Blood between those who lived in this realm.

And, lastly, the one force that had no hand in this war was the air spirits, who only ever sought freedom. When the stars fell from the sky and burned a hole in the ground, sucking everything in, it was the air spirits that coalesced of their own accord, seeking to escape the horrible fate that befell the island, but sadly they weren’t strong enough to escape. The complex air spirits were torn apart, but became whole again long after they drew their last Breath.

These new Horrorterrors who ruled this realm remembered the echoes of their old war, and their old desires to tear down the old world as Demons, and the Angels’ original role as creators, long before they fell into their role as caretakers of the world the humans inherited. As such, the seed of purpose was planted here, to become the seed for the old world to be torn down, and a new universe to be created.

The problem was, this place was empty. There were spirits, fragments of animals, humans, and others, and the broken landmass of the forgotten country, but this wasn’t enough. This place was like the Paths, needing context and ideas in order to become solid. Guided by its new gods, it became hungry for definition and ideas it could use to build its new world, a bare canvas to be painted, a Medium for creation.

It reached out to the world, searching for anything to give it definition. It couldn’t bring in much at first; stories of heroes and adventure, of war and conquest. Games of cards and chess. Study of planets and stars. These things were reminiscent of the war that echoed through the memories of the Horrorterrors, and so the Medium sculpted two new kingdoms, Prospit and Derse, to wage a war like the one it remembered. The kingdoms’ citizens didn’t have enough definition taken from humans, and so they took on bodies more like chess pieces, and organized themselves like card suits. If the Battlefield could ever become ready, they could wage a new war, build a new world. But for now it was just a chessboard, with two kings narrowly avoiding one-another, never ceasing.

This didn’t become a full-fledged Ritual Incarnate for several hundred years. A group of technomancers and programmers in the nineties found the remains of that small volcanic island in the pacific, tended to by an elderly practitioner who had retired from traveling the world, retiring to this place with his young daughter. He showed the technomancers how this place harbored some faint, distant connection to the Medium, and they all worked together to find ways to channel it, and use its hunger for definition in constructive ways. They created a language of new symbols connected to this place to use in diagrams, choosing spirographs, as circles distorted by circles distorted by circles, to signify the circular, self-fulfilling loop of space and time in a void beneath the void beneath the void. These symbols were inextricably tied to Paradox Space.

These practitioners, now calling their group Skaianet, tried to bind the Medium to punch cards, to record the spirits making up an object or being within the Medium, and retrieve or create those objects from anywhere using an associated Hexadecimal code. These Captchalogue Cards were a success.

However, the connection to these technomancers was a potential foothold for the Medium to pull in more ideas from the world. The practitioners became Harbingers for the Horrorterrors without even realizing it, and the horrorterrors used their incredible powers to rewrite these practitioners’ lives, little by little. At first the members of Skaianet were only creating Captchalogue Cards and other associated odds and ends for their own gain. Then, suddenly, they had always been studying the ruins on this island, which had always been there. Then they had always been working on using their experience with text adventure games to build a ritual around the Medium. And then they had always been translating the code in the ruins into a video game that could be mass-produced.

And finally, these practitioners and their children had always been born in the Medium, destined to play the game and create themselves.

The Medium and the Horrorterrors finally had access to enough spirits to build new worlds. Other practitioners were beginning to use Captchalogue Cards to store items and build new ones out of the composite spirits by punching the cards a certain way and writing down the codes. Some could gather information on how a piece of technomancy could grow this powerful this quickly, but few could do anything about it in time for the game’s release. Skaianet’s members communicated through the internet via a chat program, and so the internet and the chat program became more footholds for the Horrorterrors. The game’s beta would go public, and people everywhere would be consigning themselves to doom in sacrifice to the Medium.

The four players (children and grandchildren of three of the members of Skaianet, and one practitioner related to the old man) would enter the game and complete the ritual.

The new structure of the game, a new Ritual Incarnate, would be as follows: The four chosen players would enter the game using the game disc and captchalogue cards. Like other Practitioners who became Harbingers, they were each chosen by Horrorterrors in charge of one of the Twelve Aspects, taking on a Class, a relationship to that aspect based on their personality and the archetypes of old stories and new games. The sacrificed players, their homes, and the objects they deposited into the Kernelsprite, all destroyed by meteors, would provide some definition to the new universe the players would create, and to the Lands they would adventure in.

The players, meanwhile, would deposit objects or beings into the Kernelsprite, and the spirits making up these things would provide definition to the warring kingdoms and their battlefield, allowing the war to properly begin. The pseudo-Lost Others of this realm took on roles as Imps, Ogres, and other, greater enemies, to challenge the players, once there were enough things prototyped to make them whole again. The children would set out on their adventure on their personal lands, completing quests and fighting the emissaries of the Horrorterrors hidden as Denizens deep within this land.

The quests would lead each player, playing out their own coming of age story, to save their Land, fight their Denizen, and assist the Kingdom of Prospit in defeating the Kingdom of Derse, completing the war that had never been fully won by either side in the old war. They would create themselves, fulfilling the time loop the game created, breed frogs (frog breeding was another bit of information the Medium found relatable for some reason) and create a new universe to rule. Everything would tie into itself using the portals utilized in the Reckoning, both protecting Skaia from the summoned meteors, and sending the meteors through time to Earth to fulfill each time loop.

[streets-in-paradise]

I want to talk about some of the main family relationships in Troy

As I already told once in one of my posts, I adore to overanalyze family relationships in the media I consume. I’m still in the process of writing another one as a second part to my sibling relationships post talking of more family relationships from various of my fandoms but, since that one is taking me too much time to finish, I'm writing now this shorter one for my Troy appreciation series. 

I already started this ramble in the same post I referenced. There I talked about my favourite family bond in the entire film, the sibling relationship of Hector and Paris. Still, there is a lot to discuss about family dynamics in the story this movie tells. Even since I was writing that post I kept thinking on how many family related story arcs this movie has and how, if you pay close attention to those, you can capture the essence of the characters. Because of this, I decided to dedicate a separate post to the main family relationships portrayed there and the important role they play in the development of the story. I will try to skip the ones i already talked about before. This are, for most part, the relationships inside the trojan royal family. Since i already discussed those, most of this will be about family bonds of the greek characters. 

As i stated in previous posts, this is a talk about the characters and actions in the movie. I’m not talking from an adaptation” movie vs book” point of view. I can occasionally mention some of the differences but there would be more references than comparisons. 

As always, i apologise for any possible mistakes in my writing. I’m still in the process of getting used to writing long texts in english. Also, I give proper credits for the images to the original sites hosting them. 

Agamemnon and Menelaus 

The movie establishes them clearly as the main antagonists. Precisely, one of the many scenes I love in this movie is the one in which they show up to the gates of Troy commanding the greek army and they argue with the trojan princes over the terms of the combat between Paris and Menelaus. The first thing I always notice in that one is how alike Hector and Paris look when they get down from their horses, it reminds me of the actual part of the Iliad in which it is said that Paris gets confused for a brave man because of his looks. Going back to my point, in that scene I get the vibe of opponents these characters have just by the display of the dynamics between siblings. 

Agamemnon is using his brother’s problem as an excuse for a war highly profitable for him. Menelaus is aware of this and he doesn’t care because he is too consumed by his wish for revenge and, it seems that this mutualistic beneficial goal is what sticks them together. Their first scene together, when Menelaus goes to Mycenae asking his brother for help, summarizes their relationship in a great way. Menelaus seems to have a rather servile attitude towards his brother and Agamemnon clearly takes advantage of that, having in that particular time a perfect excuse to attack an enemy he had wished to conquer for a long time. If you think about it, this is the exact opposite relationship of Hector and Paris. I love how well this scene fits as a contrast to the argument in the ship scene of Hector and Paris . In both, Menelaus and Paris are basically asking for the help of their older bros, one doing it on purpose and the other one half aware. Their family relationships are established so well by those two scenes. 

Going back to the one scene I mentioned first, the exchanges between characters are awesome. Not only because you can appreciate directly how this differences play a role in the conflict, but also because you can totally appreciate how every character involved is the exact opposite of the one who challenges. The exchange between Hector and Agamemnon is fantastic. I love how Hector cuts the crap on Agamemnon’s cocky bullshit, their short interaction is priceless.Also, i almost feel bad for Paris because “ the sun was shining when your wife left you” is his best line in the entire movie and he gets his ass kicked by Menelaus immediately afterwards. I like how, despite being a coward, Paris is a sassy little shit. 

Something i need to add about these brothers is that the Director’s Cut adds a better perspective on Agamemnon’s care for Menelaus. There are many short hints, especially after Menelaus’s death, that show how he actually cared for him. I think that this small glimpse should have stayed in the final version. Even when Agamemnon is a piece of shit of the worst kind and his brother was not very different, it is nice to see him caring for something else than his own imperialist desires from time to time and to get a real family vibe from those two.

Achilles and Patroclus 

Before starting with this two i want to clarify that i am fully aware of the very different interpretation their relationship got in this movie. I heard that the romantic approach was explored in Troy: fall of a city. I haven’t watched it yet, it is on my to watch list and at some point i will do it. Now, speaking of what we have seen in the context of the movie, i have to say that i love the adorable family bond they have since the first scene they share. This is by far my second favourite family bond in the film. 

As i said before i have a weakness for family relationships and tragedies regarding them are the biggest pain i can imagine. I don’t have anything against romantic Achilles x Patroclus, i just enjoy a lot the family approach it took here. First, i think it happens because i saw the movie far before reading any piece of trojan war related fiction and second because I happen to enjoy seeing family bonds more than romantical ones. My basic example for explaining this is the complaint I had over Kili x Tauriel and how it kinda shifted the focus of the previously established family story of the Line of Durin. If i have to choose between  a family or a romance story of any kind, I will always end up more interested in the first option because i relate to and enjoy those better. 

In this version, they are cousins with a very brother like relationship. I feel like here Patroclus acts like a little bro that hero worships Achilles. We know that his parents died and Achilles took care of him but we don’t know when that happened. What we do know is that his protection is the only aspect Achilles feels responsible for in his life. His bond with him reflects the best and the worst of him. It displays his softer and his most terrible side. Without paying close attention it looks like the romantic subplot with Briseis is the part of the plot that is supposed to show his soft side and, partially, it does but i think that job is already done earlier with the introduction of Patroclus. The story with Briseis serves mainly as support of what was already established there. The kindest, more human side of Achilles is clearly there when you look at his interactions with Patroclus. 

One of the main reasons why i enjoy this relationship so much is because, plotwise, it serves as a perfect point of encounter for the two main heros’ characterizations. Despite all the effort the storytelling makes in pointing out the many differences between Hector and Achilles, these two apparently opposite men share the same limitation. Hector’s goal is to protect his country, Achilles’s goal is immortality through fame, but both find themselves lost when their reckless younger relatives endanger themselves and both react the same way. When Paris was at instants of dying by the hands of Menelaus Hector had to choose between saving him or letting him get killed for the good of Troy. The man who serves as paradigm of honesty and sacrifice, the most noble hero of the story, broke the agreement and killed Menelaus. He broke a pact and gave his enemies an even better excuse for war that will doom Troy because his brother’s life was at risk. Achilles’s madness over grief for Patroclus fits so well family related in this particular narrative because it originated in the same feelings. Paris and Patroclus may be opposites, one being a coward and the other the embodiment of reckless courage, but both become the limit of tolerance for Hector and Achilles. At the end, both heros are driven by love for their families. In this version where Hector and Paris have this strong bond that works perfectly as a mirror for Achilles and Patroclus, it fits so well for them to be family. The chain of deaths unleashed with Patroclus’s death becomes a natural response to the bonds previously mentioned between the four characters involved. Everything becomes a big family tragedy and that is devastating. 

One more comment i will make about them is that i also love how some of Achilles’s friends add some more sweet or happy hints to some scenes. Eudorus, despite the formal servant-like way in which he speaks to Achilles, gives me a long time friend who is almost family vibe. Of course, i have to mention Odysseus here as well. Patroclus and Achilles sparring scene has an amazing chill domestic fun tone and he adds even more fun to the moment once he arrives. They are the most likeable greeks of the movie and you get such a friendly feeling of them. I live for these guys. The main scene they shared is the happiest of the film. 

Bonus mentions 

The Director’s Cut has a lot of scenes that help you understand some of the characters' motivations and lots of them are family related. One small scene I wish really hard the should had kept is the one in which Priam explains the reasons for his deep religious devotion. He listens to the high priest’s terrible advice and ignores his son’s wiser words not because he is a nice but dumb and inept king. He believes Apollo saved Hector from a disease when he was a baby boy. There is a reason for his blind, sometimes naive, faith in Apollo’s protection.Other cut out moment with a similar meaning is the one in which Andromache tells Hector she lost seven brothers in a previous war. She is tired of losing people, her husband is all she has. Having this in consideration her story turns even more tragic. 

I could mention a few more characters and moments but this is getting too long so i will end it here. I think it is enough for the topic i wanted to write about and the only main character i feel i skipped a bit here is Priam but i had talked enough about the trojans and how much i love them so i think it is enough. 

I enjoyed writing this, as fast as i can i will upload the general post for family relationships i’m working on and i’m thinking of making a special one like this for lotr.  @hrisity12​  I tag you as i always do in all my Troy content. 

Thanks for reading this ramble i intended to keep short but, as always, ended up longer than i expected. 

[naturepointstheway]

Faith in a Futile Hope (Life is Strange 2; Parting Ways)

Post Parting Ways ending, takes place up to fifteen years after the events at the border. May or may not have a second part. Daniel attempts to look for his brother in Mexico, knowing all this time that the plan is doomed to fail from the beginning.

Also, constructive feedback well-appreciated; using this as testing grounds before AO3, just to see if people think it goes too fast or too slow or something’s missing. (Also, to see if anyone catches what Sean’s trying to do with his drawings he’s sending to Daniel.)

All I can think of to tag is @msmooseberry, but hmu if anyone else wants to be tagged in future LIS2 fics as well. :) 

When they take off Daniel’s ankle bracelet shortly after his 21st birthday, naturally, his first instinct is to take off to look for Sean in Mexico—and he would, but he resists.

He’s smart—he knows this is exactly what the government expects him to do—

So he doesn’t.

(The hell it’s hard not to just buy a plane ticket and go.)

Instead, he fantasises about the day he reunites again with his brother—he’d find him the moment the plane’s wheels hit tarmac, the moment he exits the terminal, and all would be well again.

(Sean still sends letters to Beaver Creek—all redirected now Daniel’s moved back to Seattle. Shit. What’s worse—Sean clearly refusing to imagine Daniel perished in the 2020 plague, or Daniel never being able to assure him for real?)

He has faith that Sean still loves him—even after Daniel leaving him alone at the border—but where is he? Faith and fantasy alone cannot guarantee him ever finding Sean in Mexico.

(He believes anyway. It’s what keeps his hope alive.)

He can wait another year.

He can.

Fuck, it aches to walk past travel agencies or see internet ads boasting cheap holiday plane tickets. He could walk in, or click an ad. Just one step or click and—

And he would cave in, he would book a plane to Mexico on the spot.

And so he doesn’t.

A year passes.

He’s now twenty-two—

And still he resists.

God. It’s torture.

He blocks all travel websites, avoids streets where there are travel agencies. It’s so bad, he’d sooner pass a church that looks eerily like the one in Havenpoint, than trust himself to walk past any travel shop.

Only one envelope from Sean this year—

A drawing—

Of Cassidy and Hannah with a herd of rather adorable-looking llama-like animals behind them.  Underneath, Sean had written: “Vicuñas! Warm and fuzzy and stupid adorable.”

It’s not cold comfort, but nor warm and fuzzy, knowing at least Sean isn’t entirely alone. That at least he can see the old gang from Humboldt County.

Lukewarm. Lukewarm comfort.

He lets the weeks and months plod on by, he buries himself deep into his first year of university.

A degree—he really doesn’t care much for his studies (Cs get degrees, as the saying goes), but at least it keeps him distracted enough from just flying off to Mexico.

And so another year passes.

 Twenty-three, he still doesn’t quite let himself go yet—

Maybe they’re still watching and waiting, expectant. But it’s been two years, hasn’t it? If he goes, he might not end up leading them straight to Sean.

But…what if he did?

It would be his fault, his doing.

They’d capture Sean, throw him behind bars, probably for life.

All thanks to Daniel.

So he resists, still. The agony is beyond unbearable.

But there’s no way he’s leading the government to Sean—he doesn’t trust them, ankle bracelet or no ankle bracelet.

At least Chris is there to distract him—he’s always there for him. Thank god.

Maybe he’ll go next year, but not this year. It’s too soon, too early.

He wakes up with a start on August 15th—Sean would be thirty now.

Thirty to Daniel’s twenty-three.

He’s never felt so old in his life. He’s twenty-three, and Sean has missed out on being there for all his milestones (so far anyway), for all his teen years.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of other people who still had their older brother around. If only he’d never taken Sean for granted.

“I took you for granted, and I’m sorry!” Those words from so many years ago still haunts him.

Unlike Sean, he can’t say sorry for doing the same too.

If only he knew where Sean was now.

If only.

Another couple of drawings and a little photo from Sean: the drawing of a glorious waterfall catches his eye, and he practically frames it on a wall, it’s that stunning. Underneath is written: “Angel Falls—the highest waterfall in the world.”

The other drawing is of a group of adorable little monkeys (“Capuchin monkeys” is written underneath) feeding and resting together. It’s actually quite sweet.

But it hurts all the same. At least Sean’s not wasting his life in a 9-to-5 job that has, amazingly, not yet stolen Daniel’s soul.

It hurts. And he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a healthy dose of jealousy too.

Still, he waits, biding his time still, waiting for the right moment to go.

And so another year flows on by.

 Twenty-four, and he still doesn’t know where Sean is, though he knows he must be alive somewhere.

For Daniel receives a couple of photos and a drawing; the photos both have generic blue skies and tropical greenery in the background, nothing that would identify him as being in any particular country.

The drawing—coloured in this time—is of a couple of yellow flowers; one has a little bee perched on a petal. Underneath are two words: “Ipê-amarelo.”

So where is he?

Is he in Mexico?

How will Daniel find his older brother again?

What plan does he even have beyond “take a plane to Mexico”?

How is he going to do this?

These thoughts stress him so much he gets the old nightmares again.

Of cults, of Lisbeth, of Sean with glass in his eye, of borders and vigilantes who hunted them.

Of being trapped in burning churches, being forced to endure punishment for his “sins”, of being trapped in a prison cell and not knowing where he is.

Chris insists that he has to go to Mexico, if not to give him some peace of mind, to give him something in his search. Surely by now, the government has moved on.

Chris tells Daniel he hates to see him in so much internal torture over going to Mexico or not—and he must. It’s not healthy for him to keep forcing himself to stay here in the USA, always wondering, never searching.

Sean would not want him to torture himself like this—

The road is scary, and Daniel is too comfortable in his little corner of the USA to venture outside.

He’s not like Brody, nor his mother, nor his brother—he has little desire to brave it out and travel.

The traumatic journey from Seattle to the border of Mexico all those years ago hadn’t helped matters at all.

But if he stays here, he’ll forever wonder if Sean is in Mexico, or elsewhere.

And so maybe Chris really is right, he really should go to Mexico.

If but for the peace of mind, to let him go on the journey he has to go on. Even if he doesn’t find Sean, at least he’ll know he tried.

So he finally caves in. He books a plane for next year—2032.

 It is now 2032—he goes in August, books in a holiday for two weeks, the second-to-last day not-so-accidentally coinciding with Sean’s birthday.

Surely, two weeks is enough time to drive around Mexico (he can rent a car and just drive around the place), and somehow run into Sean.

Mexico isn’t a big place, at least not compared to the United States. But Daniel wonders if Sean is even still in Mexico; it’s been fifteen years, he could have gone anywhere.

Surely he’s wandered far from Puerto Lobos by now—maybe he’s just as likely in Canada as he is at the tip of South America, where only the wide cold ocean separated him from Antarctica.

But at least for now he has to believe, has to hope that Sean’s still somewhere in Mexico. It’s a big, big planet, and he doesn’t know if he has enough bravery to go through dozens of foreign countries just to look for his brother.

It was one thing for Sean to look for him in Nevada—at least that was a place, one next door to California—but at least he’d had an idea where Daniel was at the time.

Now? Daniel may as well throw three darts at the world map and pick the first three countries to try to look for him.

Mexico was as good as any place to start—it made sense anyway, seeing as Sean had always wanted to go there.

He could only hope that he wasn’t about to waste two weeks and a few grand only to find no sign of Sean.

 He lands at Aeropuerto Internacional de Ciudad Obregon, and it isn’t the most flattering of places, the little town where he ends up staying for a couple days, but at least he’s here in Mexico. The buildings are sparse and plain, and there is little greenery to see, but the sky is as blue here as it is in Arizona across the border. The houses make him think of matchboxes and lighters and little motels huddled away in some isolated corner of Nevada.

If only he could have taken his own car down here, but he couldn’t, so he’d had to rent one for a fixed price per day—at least his office job back in the States paid him enough to be able to afford this. He can’t exactly live in it like he’d seen people do, but it gives him something to work with regardless.

He can’t help the anxiety that overwhelms him as he navigates a language not his own, but a language that was his father’s and his brother’s. Part of him wants to smack his past teenaged self for refusing to ever learn Spanish, after his brother had tried to use him to cross the border. Instead, he had learned French, much to his grandparents’ delight—both had learned French as high-schoolers back in the day, and were more than happy to help him out, even if they were a little rusty.

Now French was next to useless here in Mexico, and Daniel doubts that Sean was in France or in some other nation like Canada where French was one of the main languages.

Ironically, Chris had been the one to learn Spanish—he would’ve been a very useful presence right now.

Nevertheless, at least Daniel is in Mexico, and Puerto Lobos is not far away, Daniel being able to make his way northward, toward the same border Sean had crossed so many years ago.

Maybe he’s in Puerto Lobos, he hopes, even if some part of him tries to reason that after fifteen years, he might not even be there anymore. Or…maybe he’s moved somewhere along the coast?

Mexico was a bigger place than he had realised: perhaps its small size compared to the US had somewhat tricked him. Its border alone touched four states from west to east: California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. It wasn’t exactly a small island nation stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

But no way Daniel was going to give up—and so he made his way up the west coast, the Gulf of California appearing and disappearing from view depending on what road he ended up on. Maybe, just maybe, he would see Sean along the way.

He can’t help but stop for a good part of a day at Punta Chueca, walking barefoot in the warm sand, the sun hot on his shoulders (it was tank top weather), sitting down at midday to have lunch, and then—fuck it—might as well have a swim too. At least he’d brought along swimwear just in case. He ponders the island of Isla Tiburon, which looks so close he imagines he could just swim right across to it. And he wonders if Sean might be on this island too, but he wants to stay on the mainland, keep going up the west coast.

It’s sort of a blessing that the places he passes through are so small, and it shouldn’t be that hard a task to find Sean, if he was still here. And that was a big if.

At least he’s now less than a day’s trip away from Puerto Lobos.

 Puerto Lobos greets him with soaking sunshine, lulling bright blue ocean that melts into the cloudless sky, and a tan, sandy beach that seems to go on forever. It is a lot smaller than he expected it to be; somehow, Sean had made it sound like this big, wide world where he could just get lost and never be found again.

Instead, it’s a little village, perched on the coast of Mexico, forever gazing out at Baja California that appears nothing more than a hint of land like damp watercolour smudged across a blue canvas. There is one little hotel here, with just a few rooms and one staff member who does all the things, but Daniel doesn’t mind. At least he can stop here for a day or so, and drive up and down Puerto Lobos to look for Sean.

He doesn’t know why it disappoints him so deeply when he doesn’t find Sean at all—he’d even shown the photo to some people, and they’d all shrugged or shook their heads, not recognising the man with the black glass  eye. Did Sean even still have a black glass eye, or had he replaced it with another colour, or even something that more closely resembled his remaining eye?

It doesn’t take long before Puerto Lobos’ width and breadth is exhausted in his search, but Daniel doesn’t let himself give up—yet. He still has another week or so; nevertheless, he spends the self-same night just staring at a map of Mexico, drawing with bold marker how far he’s been now.

It isn’t that impressive. It’s barely even much of the west coast, and this fills him with a sense of something dropping into the pit of his stomach, and he lets his head rest on the map, closing his eyes, feeling he could just fall asleep here from sheer exhaustion and burn out.

I can’t possibly search all of Mexico in two weeks…how am I supposed to search the world?

He wishes that Sean had at least sent a hidden address to their mom’s P.O. Box, but then he might have forgotten it, or hadn’t wanted anything more to do with Karen. Daniel had asked Jacob through Sarah Lee again and again, but Sean had never sent him an address either.

Nobody, not even their mom, seemed to have an idea where Sean was—not even a cellphone number to call.

It really, really wasn’t helping at all—and he knows now that it would take nothing short of a miracle to find him; if he can’t find him in Puerto Lobos of all places, then where the hell could Daniel look for him?

He doesn’t go any farther north than Puerto Lobos—he doubts that Sean would’ve wanted to be anywhere near the border.

And so Daniel returns to Ciudad Obregon, and he has but a few precious days left to venture southward this time, but with less enthusiasm than before.

He’s not going to find Sean.

He’s never going to find him here—

He could be anywhere in Mexico or the world—if Mexico felt so vast and endless now, how would South America, much less North America and Canada, then feel to Daniel?

This planet is just…way too big.

The towns south of Ciudad Obregon remind him again of the ones he’d seen farther north, and agriculture dots the landscape everywhere he looks. Daniel is sure Sean would never live in many of the little villages he passes through, but he keeps his eyes out anyway—

And suddenly, it’s time to go home—

He hadn’t even covered the entire west coast of Mexico.

When the 15th August comes around, Daniel has given up the search, and instead chooses to spend his day around Playa Huatabampito.

He wishes he could enjoy the palm trees, the setting sun, the lapping waves, and soft, cooling sand as much as the beachgoers here.

But he cannot, because now it’s all over.

It’s over.

Two weeks.

He had failed to find Sean.

All that money he’d wasted on a childish hope, a fantasy only found in fairy tales and fiction.

Today was Sean’s 32nd, and Daniel had failed to be there to surprise him for his birthday.

What a stupid, foolish man he was, to have fallen for his own naïve hopes and dreams—

The dream he’d find Sean in Mexico was as real as any he ever experienced in sleep. He’d fallen for his own stupid naivety, so gullible to believe and fall for his own convictions.

Of course he wasn’t ever going to find his brother. Mexico was way smaller than the USA, but that didn’t mean he’d find Sean any easier. Fuck. He could be anywhere on the fucking planet.

Would Daniel have to search the literal ends of the world for even the tiniest hopes of ever finding Sean? How many years could that take?

Either way—he had failed.

Maybe it would have been better if he’d never tried.

He should give up—there was a reason reunions between long-lost relatives happened only in movies and children’s books. Besides, would they even recognise each other now? He’d forgotten Sean’s voice.

Daniel stares out at the watery sun sinking into the distant horizon, drowning in the ocean, helpless. The otherwise soothing rhythm of the lapping waves does nothing to console him. It only hurts, thinking how in another time, in another life, he could’ve been here—or hell, in Puerto Lobos—enjoying the warm Mexican summer with his brother, perhaps even sharing a beer and pizza together.

But no.

He was alone now.

He’ll never see Sean again. Ever.

Daniel fumbles around for the sketchpad and pen he’d been carrying around since he’d landed here in some stupid hope that just having them in his backpack will give him la suerte—the luck—he needs to find Sean.

Placing the sketchpad on his crossed legs, he opens it to a new blank page, settling back against the lone palm tree behind him. He clicks the pen, a stark image of a lone little wolf cub howling at a bright full moon burning in his mind’s eye. After a few false starts, he begins sketching, the ghost of a wolf form emerging on the page. The world around him collapses to the wolf, like it was the only thing in existence, but for the whoosh of lapping waves, the wind striking his bare arms, and the soft warm sand under him.

When he finishes the sketch, he taps his pen on the page, thinking of a title to go with it. After a few seconds it finally comes to him, writing three words under the wolf’s little paws:

“The Lone Wolf”.

He stays very still, staring at the lone wolf cub howling at a cold, uncaring full moon. A drop of water blots the wolf’s front paw. He tears out the page, closing and dumping the sketchbook on the sand next to him.

“I—I wish I knew where you are. But now I know. I’m never gonna find you.” Daniel swipes his hand over his eyes. “You could be anywhere—and—we wouldn’t recognise each other anyway, right? I don’t even remember your voice anymore, Sean. I’m not even sure how to feel about that.”

It’s weirder still to think that the last time Sean had heard his voice, he still had the high lilt unique to a child’s. Or that his face was forever ten years old in his memory.

Daniel had grown into a full adult man, and yet, in Sean’s memories, he’s forever frozen in time as the ten-year-old he’d left behind. Sean had never seen him grow up into teen-hood, never had the chance to tease him when his voice broke, nor joke that he’ll never be as tall as Sean, nor ever make fun of the scant “beard” he managed at best. He never even saw him dress up for his first prom, go on his first date, discover his sexuality, or even graduate. To his surprise, his high-school graduation had felt bittersweet—yes, his grandparents and even his mother had been there, but…it was still not right for Sean to be absent, to not be there to be proud of him, to see him graduate high school.

Whether prom or graduation, he’d have given anything to have had Sean around.

Now, Daniel had not only robbed himself of having his older brother around, he’d also robbed Sean of watching him grow up into the young man he is today.

God.

It’s—

It’s enough to make him want to scream at the unfairness, to shout “Why?!” at the deaf, mute fates, to make him want to sob until his throat is raw, until his tears dry up and leave him an exhausted, shaken mess.

And so he—

And so he curls up into a ball, pressing his lower back into the tree trunk, pulling his knees up to his chest, burying his face in his arms, only the silent shuddering of his shoulders betraying his state. He feels the paper flutter from between his fingers, but doesn’t care. Let it fly over the sand, roll into the waves, disintegrate in the foam—like he cared.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He’d never, ever see Sean again.

It’s not like he can repeat his teen years over again, so what was the point? He was twenty-five, what more could Sean miss, short of engagement and marriage and graduation from university?  

What even was the point if Sean wouldn’t even see him cross the stage for his undergraduate degree? If Sean would never see him marry the love of his life? If Sean would never see him promoted in some nebulous dream career?

They’d all be tainted with the knowledge he had robbed Sean of seeing him grow up, seeing him succeed in life—

All because of a second of impulse, a moment of panic, of not wanting to hurt anyone else—not even the policemen at the border who would have killed him and Sean without remorse.

And now he knew: he had no choice but to give up.

And now tomorrow…

Tomorrow, he will return to the USA, none the wiser about Sean’s whereabouts in Mexico, let alone the whole world.

[blastoisemonster]

Kodomo No Omocha’s Sticker Album Highlights (Merlin, 2001, Italian)

Let's keep talking about retro japanese cartoons, shall we? I've done some posts lately in which I reviewed Game Boy games based on comics or animations from Japan, with the intention of covering series that I either used to watch as a kid or recall being popular during the GB and GBC eras. A lot of these games have never been released outside Japan, so it's also an occasion to gather up some imports and see what Italy has missed on. There's actually a particular cartoon I wanted to talk about since the start of this research, but unfortunately it seems it has never recieved any videogame adaptation. But hey, this is my blog, and I can talk about whatever I want! >:C Also I suddenly remembered my Fandom tag has been created purposely for non-gaming objects. >.> So, let's look at some stickers while I tell you the tale of Rossana.

Rossana can be best described as the soap opera that spawned a second wave of nipponic hysteria among every single italian person under 20 during the very last period of the 90s. It's like The Bold And The Beautiful looked at Pokèmon and said "yeah, I want something like that.". Its popularity hit even harder my personal view of the world as the plot starts with the protagonists attending the last year of elementary school... which is exactly what me and my friends were doing, multiplying the relatable factor tenfold. This cartoon took everyone by their necks since its first episode: it was broadcasted on what was, at the time, the best and most popular italian channel for children entertainment, and heavily advertised before starting, so we knew exactly when to tune in to catch it. The day after the first episode, school looked like a different place. Everyone in class was chanting the opening at the top of their lungs; boys were acting like the male protagonists, all girls mimicked the main role Rossana, the more artisticly inclined ones started doodling the characters anywhere possible, including textbooks and homework. Teachers were in tears. I had watched the first episode and found it amusing enough to keep me entertained, so for some period I fully partecipated in the general enjoyment of the cartoon. Then, I started missing episodes (when you missed something on TV during the 90s... it was gone!) and upon returning to it, I found the plot had become much more complex and centered on sentimental intrigues, of which I never gave a toss about, so I jumped off the hype train while others still followed it until the end.

As it is usual for these productions, Rossana was another anime based on a manga series; the original work is titled "Kodomo No Omocha" (which literally means "Children's Plaything"... yeah, I too find it a tad creepy), drawn by mangaka Miho Obana and serialized by Ribon from 1994 to 1998. It tells the story of Rossana Kurata, a child actress (an idol in the original story) trying to balance her career with a normal kid's life by going to school and having normal friends: however, her class is anything but normal and she finds herself often fighting against the biggest bully of the school group, Hayama (translated as Heric in italian). As the story progresses, though, Sana understands Heric's complex and at times completely inappropriate attitude is a result of a troubled childhood, having lost his mother at birth and being bullied by his older sister and completely ignored by his father. Willing to help him out, Sana befriends him and starts to develop even deeper feelings, also sharing her own troubled past: she had been actually abandoned as a newborn and adopted by Misako, a famous writer. New characters are introduced along the way, among which the child actor Charles, Sana's schoolmate but also colleague which the girl will work alongside during a trip to the States, and Funny, an extremely extroverted kid that will at first become close friends with Sana, but that will, at some point, steal Heric's heart, leaving Sana to deal with heartbreak and jealousy. Despite the story being drawn in an energetic shojo style and the episodes showing many hysterical/demential jokes along the way, Kodomo No Omocha is a dramatic story centered on overcoming past secrets, venomous feelings, and describing the difficult shift from childhood to adolescence.

The original 10 manga volumes got adapted for animation in 102 episodes, which broadcasted on TV Tokyo from 1996 to 1998. In Italy, the anime got imported first with the direct title "Rossana": it was aired in its entirety during all of the year 2000, and yes, all the 102 episodes got translated! Unfortunately, the channel wanted to make Rossana completely targetable to little kids, which meant that many plot elements had to undergo heavy censorship. The result was a comedy/demential series that at times showed a sentimental route, and for the rest felt very cut, like it was hiding something. This was no Chou Gals!-styled localizaion effort: scenes were edited or completely deleted, names and terms translated losing all context, graphics and objects concerning japanese culture got zoomed out, some episodes even aired randomly without following the original order, and finally the ending got cut, leaving it as an open cliffhanger. Kodomo No Omocha is, originally, marketed towards an adolescent audience, but kids are a much more profitable target, so a lot of the original plot points went away: Sana no longer thinks of Rei (her adult manager, called Robby in italian) as his boyfriend; it's never mentioned that her actual mother abandoned her in a park after giving birth at only 14 years old; and many instances in which some kids (Heric, but also Komori in later eps) practice self-harm or have suicidal thoughts are cut in their entirety. And yet, despite this general mangling, the story managed to become popular anyway, gaining three reruns, some video distribution on VHS and DVD (both cut, for unknown reasons, after the 20th episode), and an opening with lyrics that will never leave the minds of an entire generation. The manga got translated only after 2002, getting marketed instead for its actual audience and going for a literal translation of its original title: "Il giocattolo dei bambini - Rossana" got published by Dynit in its entirety, however I'm not sure wether it underwent the same censorship measures of the cartoon or it was left to a more faithful state.

The hype about Rossana was interestingly lacking of any substantial, original merchandise imported from their origin country; instead, every gadget we had about the anime was produced by italian companies and it consisted in the usual cheapish stuff sold in order to cash a quick buck on popular media. We had school supplies such as bags, pencil cases and diaries, decorated stationary, and the never-missing sticker album. This last merchandise, aptly featured in this post, is what I remember most since everyone was trading doubles at school; the blindingly hot pink package has also burned a permanent image in my mind. Published by Merlin in 2001, Rossana's abundantly pink album could contain 204 stickers; be them glossy, holographic, single or combined, it adds up as quite a large selection considering that all images shown were nothing more than screenshots of the cartoon, with album pages filling up a description of episodes shown, or giving a little more insight on the general plot. At least my previously reviewed Pokèmon album showed interesting action poses by Sugimori and doubled up as a Pokèdex, but I do recognize the latter can count on a much more substantial franchise. What Rossana's album excels in, though, is its value; remember when I said a completed Pokèmon album was only worth a few bucks? Well, a completed Rossana album goes instead for nothing less than a hundred euros on secondhand markets. Even the single stickers, if sold in lots, can become a pretty penny, and still sealed booster packs can range from 30 to 70 euros depending on how many you're selling. I can already picture italian readers going through their cupboards to see if they still have this relic intact! As for me, I was too focused on Pokèmon during that period to care about filling up another sticker album, so I had completely skipped that. And no, I'm not gonna spend 100+ euros on an album just to make a Fandom post: what you're seeing here are all images collectors have shown to the net.

It's interesting to notice that Merlin tried to cash in on the anime's popularity even beyond the sticker album itself, by advertising even among the album pages an upcoming periodical (monthly I suppose?) magazine almost all centered on the cartoon, but trying to double up as a typical girls' magazine with pictures of boybands, various articles, and the always present and equally emberassing mail section. For some reason I have very vivid flashbacks of me going through the pages of the first volume: probably some friend brought it at school, they had it lying about at their house, or I may have bought it along with other girls then left it to them. This mag was nothing particular and doomed to be shortlived: you can't keep a single anime series relevant forever, and it was apparent that arguments tried to always pull Rossana into context when in reality it had nothing to do with the articles. It seemingly disappeared after its second issue, and got buried under the sheer abundance of more relevant girly mags, among which the legendary Cioè.

All in all, Rossana’s shout of livelyhood was probably short, but loud enough to have shook the heart and soul of many of us, especially in this country. It’s apparent that companies wanted to keep the profit margin as high as possible by not importing any substantial japanese gadget about Sana and opting instead for printed publications or cheapy stationery; however, apart from dolls, plushes and general toys, even Japan didn’t seem too keen on releasing actually peculiar stuff dedicated to the franchise. The most technological gimmick I found is a toy audio recorder, of which I can only find a few images online and not even one single listing so I can get and review it. Maybe I’m just sour no one ever thought about doing a Game Boy adaptation, because I’m sure it would’ve been a major hit among girls here. Oh well, can’t change the past... but surely you can remember it. :)

[marryat92]

The Phantom Ship, the wrap-up

If it seems like it has been an extraordinarily long time since I have posted a book review here, I’ve been reading The Phantom Ship at a glacial pace. Other books and projects have occupied my time; and one of the perils of tearing through Marryat’s complete works is that I keep wanting to re-read my favourite ones, like Frank Mildmay and Jacob Faithful. 

It doesn’t help that The Phantom Ship is a deeply mediocre book. If I had to rate it, I’d give it two-and-a-half stars out of five: don’t read this one unless you’re a Marryat completist or tracking down every version of the Flying Dutchman story. As usual with Captain Marryat, the quality is uneven, and a few moments really shine. One of these is the chapter that contains the story “The White Wolf of the Hartz Mountains,” which is also the first appearance of a female werewolf in Western literature. The monster is brilliantly ghoulish, and one theme that I enjoyed throughout the book is that supernatural beings can mingle unnoticed in human society. Sensitive individuals might find them creepy or foreboding, but they are otherwise unmarked.

Although the Flying Dutchman story feels like an ancient myth, in Frederick Marryat’s lifetime it was a more recent development. Wikipedia credits the first print reference to the story to a book published in 1790— only two years before Marryat was born. Numerous versions of it were published in the early part of the 19th century, or made into popular theatrical productions. I was frankly surprised by how many Flying Dutchman variants were made, many even using the title “The Phantom Ship.”

Marryat published his version of the tale in disjointed installments, first serialised in the New Monthly Magazine in March 1837, then in February 1838, and finally from February to August, 1839. Alan Buster suggests that the hiatus was probably caused by Marryat’s American trip that produced Diary in America (Buster, Captain Marryat: Sea-Officer Novelist Country Squire). It probably didn’t help the cohesiveness of what is already a very derivative story, even if the character of Amine is, as Buster describes her, “Marryat’s most spirited and independent heroine.”

Rather randomly, I came across a competing penny dreadful version of the story that was published in approximately the same year as Marryat’s adaptation.

According to the British Library, this was published circa 1839 by Thomas Peckett Prest (1810–1859), a prolific writer of penny dreadfuls. Marryat is not only a clumsy writer of historical fiction, best at retelling events from his own life and times, he had to compete with a cut-rate version of the Flying Dutchman saga.

If there’s one overarching villian in Marryat’s story, it’s not demon ships or werewolves, it’s the Catholic Church. He takes a forgiving view of pagan sorcery but wicked and corrupt Catholics seem to grow more obnoxious and harmful throughout the narrative, eventually resulting in death and ruin for the main characters. The horrors of the Inquisition in the Portuguese colony of Goa are memorable, and I found myself raging against the unfairness of it all, as much as I’m aware that Marryat is definitely biased. 

The colonial practices of the Dutch East India Company are not shown in a favourable light, and it occurred to me that the huge popularity of the Flying Dutchman story in the English-speaking world in this time period could be interpreted as a way of criticizing the abuses of the British Empire. A cursory search shows that there is a lot of scholarly analysis basically saying this exact thing. The doomed Captain Vanderdecken is a figure of imperialist greed, and in some versions of the story that make him irredeemably evil he’s a slave trader.

The plot hook of Vanderdecken’s living son searching for his cursed father to rescue/redeem him seems like it would be ideal for Marryat, who loved to explore troubled father-son relationships, but the opportunity is wasted. We get very little Phantom Ship and a whole lot of meddling priests, Dutch East India Company business, colonial warfare, supernaturally annoying cursed pilots, and a tedious amount of shipwrecks and gales. (Normally when Marryat writes about storms at sea his verisimilitude is compelling, but it happens so often in this book as to be groan-worthy). 

Whenever Marryat writes about southeast Asia I have to wonder if he’s drawing from his experiences in the First Anglo-Burmese War, and there are a lot of Indonesian locales in the book including Ternate and Tidore. Malay people use kris daggers in The Phantom Ship (spelled phonetically as ‘creezes’), just like in The King’s Own, and in another bizarre similarity they dip the daggers in “the deadly poison of the pine-apple.” (The King’s Own states that “the creeses of the pirates had been steeped in the juice of the pine-apple, which, when fresh applied, is considered as a deadly poison.”)

Surely Marryat knew that pineapples are edible?! European peoples had been aware of pineapples for centuries before his time, and eating them too. Looking into this poison pineapple story, the most I could find was an 1899 book by Rounsevelle Wildman, Tales of the Malayan Coast, from Penang to the Philippines. Wildman describes a process of creating poison kris daggers that involves pineapple juice, but the pineapple juice is not the poisonous agent (that would be arsenic dissolved in lime water). I can only assume that Marryat heard some tale about forging a kris, and due to poor translation or another misunderstanding, he came away with the impression that pineapple juice is deadly. (This still doesn’t explain how he reconciled this knowledge with people eating the fruit).

Marryat is no long-hauler like Charles Dickens, and he can only get so many hundreds of pages into a story before you can almost viscerally feel him getting bored with it. He was obviously eager for The Phantom Ship to end, and not going to expend any more energy giving the characters a more peaceful and happy conclusion. His next novel, Poor Jack, is one of his best, which makes The Phantom Ship feel even more like a half-hearted attempt to cash in on a trend in Flying Dutchman stories while Marryat was preoccupied with travel writing and personal affairs (like his legal separation from his wife, which was also finalized in 1839).