#raven argentine

[ravenargentine]

[shahahsanpoetry]

The Library of Unspoken Sorrows

Beneath the lacquer of your cherry varnished lips, there rests a library of hundreds of shelves, each corner cradling a thousand and one verses of unspoken heartbreak groaning under the marrow of silence

In the azure flow of your glossy iris, I drift along the rivulets of your sultry stare, as mute choirs sing silent sonatas that swell the hollow belly of nightfall in Buenos Aires

Etched into the canvas of your wrists, I spot melancholy's scarry engravings, mere moments before they erupt into the starless Argentine expanse above us

And amidst the luminescence of your scarlet trauma, I peel back the flickering embers to unveil your fluttering yearning, your ravenous Rioplatense desire to feast on the yawning chasm left behind by destiny's blood-stained blade

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Tongues of the moon, Philip Jose Farmer

Broward rose, though he wanted to cling to the floor. Directly below them—or, perhaps, to the side but still underground—a white-hot "tongue" was blasting a narrow tunnel through the rock. Behind it, also hidden within the rock, in a shaft which the vessel must have taken a long time to sink without being detected, was a battlebird. Only a large ship could carry the huge generators required to drive a tongue that would damage a base. A tongue, or snake, as it was sometimes called. A flexible beam of "straightened-out" photons, the ultimate development of the laser.

And when the tongue reached the end of the determined tunnel, then the photons would be "un-sprung". And all the energy crammed into the compressed photons would dissipate.

"Follow me!" said Scone, and he began running.

Broward took a step, halted in amazement, called out, "The suits ... other way!"

Then, he resumed running after Scone. Evidently, the colonel was not concerned about the dome cracking wide open. His only thought was for the bonephone controls.

Broward expected to be cut down under a storm of bullets. But the room was silent except for the groans of some wounded. And the ever-increasing rumble from deep under.

The survivors of the fight were too intent on the menace probing beneath them to pay attention to the two runners—if they saw them.

That is, until Scone bounded through the nearest exit from the dome in a great leap afforded by the Moon's weak gravity. He almost hit his head on the edge of the doorway.

Then, somebody shot at Broward. But his body, too, was flying through the exit, his legs pulled up, and the three bullets passed beneath him and blew holes in the rock wall ahead of him.

Broward slammed into the wall and fell back on the floor. Though half-stunned, he managed to roll past the corner, out of line of fire, into the hallway. He rose, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he had not broken his numbed wrists and hands, which had cushioned much of his impact against the wall. And he was thankful that the tongues needed generators too massive to be compacted into hand weapons. If the Axes had been able to smuggle tonguers into the dome, they could have wiped out every Soviet on the base.

The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls quivered like jelly. Then....

Not the ripping upwards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening blast opening the rock and lashing out at him with sear of fire and blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same time.

From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock swelled. Then, subsided.

Silence.

Only his breathing.

For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed it just before it blew up the base.

From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.

Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.

Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling along, taking the giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a corner, was gone down a branching corridor.

Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward cautiously stuck his head around the corner.

He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running.

Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire, before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot in self-defense.

But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentine or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So...?

He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble catching up with him.

Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the distant corner of the hall.

When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one, he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of the officer of the two.

"Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy. "It's Broward!"

Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?"

Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a decimeter long in one hand. With the other hand, he pointed his .45 at Broward's solar plexus.

"I'm going to blow up the controls and the transmitters," he said. "What did you think?"

Choking, Broward said, "You're not working for the Axis?"

He did not believe Scone was. But, in his astonishment, he could only think of that as a reason for Scone's behavior. Despite his accusation about Scone's intentions, he had not really believed the man meant to do more than insure that the controls did not fall into Axis hands.

Scone said, "Those swine! No! I'm just making sure that the Axes will not be able to use the bonephones if they do seize this office. Besides, I have never liked the idea of being under Russian control. These hellish devices...."

Broward pointed at the corpses. "Why?"

"They had their orders," said Scone. "Which were to allow no one into the control room without proper authorization. I didn't want to argue and so put them on their guard. I had to do what was expedient."

Scone glared at Broward, and he said, "Expediency is going to be the rule for this day. No matter who suffers."

Broward said, "You don't have to kill me, too. I am an American. If I could think as coolly as you, I might have done the same thing myself."

He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Perhaps, you didn't do this on the spur of the moment. Perhaps, you planned this long before. If such a situation as this gave you a chance."

"We haven't time to stand here gabbing," said Scone.

He backed away, his gun and gaze steady on Broward. With his other hand, he felt around until the free end of the thin tube fitted into the depression in the middle of the door. He pressed in on the key, and (the correct sequence of radio frequencies activating the unlocking circuit) the door opened.

Scone motioned for Broward to precede him. Broward entered. Scone came in, and the door closed behind him.

"I thought I should kill you when we were behind the bank," said Scone. "But you weren't—as far as I had been able to determine—a Russian agent. Far from it. And you were, as you said, a fellow American. But...."

Broward looked at the far wall with its array on array of indicator lights, switches, pushbuttons, and slots for admission of coded cards and tapes.

He turned to Scone, and he said, "Time for us to quit being coy. I've known for a long time that you were the chief of a Nationalist underground."

For the first time since Broward had known him, Scone's face cracked wide open.

"What?"

Then, the cracks closed up, the cliff-front was solid again.

"Why didn't you report me. Or are you...?"

"Not of your movement, no," said Broward. "I'm an Athenian. You've heard of us?"

"I know of them," said Scone. "A lunatic fringe. Neither Russ, Chinese, nor Yank. I had suspected that you weren't a very solid Marxist. Why tell me this?"

"I want to talk you out of destroying the controls and the transmitters," said Broward.

"Why?"

"Don't blow them up. Given time, the Russ could build another set. And we'd be under their control again. Don't destroy them. Plant a bomb which can be set off by remote control. The moment they try to use the phones to paralyze us, blow up the transmitters. That might give us time to remove the phones from our skulls with surgery. Or insulate the phones against reception. Or, maybe, strike at the Russkies. If fighting back is what you have in mind. I don't know how far your Nationalism goes."

"That might be better," said Scone, his voice flat, not betraying any enthusiasm for the plan. "Can I depend upon you and your people?"

"I'll be frank. If you intend to try for complete independence of the Russians, you'll have our wholehearted cooperation. Until we are independent."

"And after that—what then?"

"We believe in violence only after all other means have failed. Of course, mental persuasion was useless with the Russians. With fellow Americans, well...."

"How many people do you have at Clavius?"

Broward hesitated, then said, "Four. All absolutely dependable. Under my orders. And you?"

"More than you," said Scone. "You understand that I'm not sharing the command with you? We can't take time out to confer. We need a man who can give orders to be carried out instantly. And my word will be life or death? No argument?"

"No time now for discussions of policy. I can see that. Yes. I place myself and my people under your orders. But what about the other Americans? Some are fanatical Marxists. Some are unknown, X."

"We'll weed out the bad ones," said Scone. "I don't mean by bad the genuine Marxists. I'm one myself. I mean the non-Nationalists. If anyone wants to go to the Russians, we let them go. Or if anybody fights us, they die."

"Couldn't we just continue to keep them prisoners?"

"On the Moon? Where every mouth needs two pairs of hands to keep breathing and eating? Where even one parasite may mean eventual death for all others? No!"

Broward said, "All right. They die. I hope...."

"Hopes are something to be tested," said Scone. "Let's get to work. There should be plenty of components here with which to rig up a control for the bomb. And I have the bomb taped to my belly."

[joooooy1705]

Two versions of Lucas as a bird

Common raven and Argentine magpie

[rhetoricandlogic]

‘Our Share of Night’ is a masterpiece of supernatural horror

Mariana Enriquez’s novel, her first published in English, uses otherworldly elements to consider Argentina’s violent history

Review by Hamilton Cain

February 5, 2023 at 8:00 a.m. EST

As political partisanship boiled over in the aughts, showrunner Alan Ball rolled out HBO’s “True Blood,” adapting Charlaine Harris’s pulp series about a coven of vampires — and the humans who love them — for the small screen, tapping horror tropes to plumb deeper truths surrounding xenophobia and desire. Excessive gore, spiritual angst, sexy bodies: They were all there for the audience, no holds barred. Moody yet hilarious, the show won an Emmy and a Golden Globe.

I frequently thought of “True Blood” as I read Mariana Enriquez’s masterpiece of genre mash-up, “Our Share of Night,” the Argentine writer’s first novel published in English. Lauded for her short fiction, Enriquez here slathers on supernatural conceits: How better to respond to that country’s violent history than with a shadowy sect teeming with wraiths and demons, a haunted house, a dynastic family that would sacrifice its own to maintain power? Make no mistake, though: “Our Share of Night” is a literary achievement, gorgeous and exacting in its execution.

Tall, blond and 30-something, Juan Peterson resides with his only child, Gaspar, in a spooky Buenos Aires mansion. “Our Share of Night” opens in January 1981, as the persecution of citizens has ebbed. Both man and boy are grieving the accidental death of Rosario, wife, mother and daughter of Mercedes, the stone-cold matriarch who shepherds a mystical, murderous cult known as the Order.

Born with a severe heart defect, Juan’s living on borrowed time. He’s volatile and sexually omnivorous, seducing everyone in his path, such as Rosario’s empathic half sister, Tali; his best friend, Stephen; and casual hookups. He’s also the sole medium between the Order and its deity, a ravenous Darkness that feeds on Argentines much as the fascistic government did in the 1970s. The cult has amassed a fortune, and Juan is a pawn in its game.

At the height of summer, he drives Gaspar to Puerto Reyes, near the Paraguay border, for the annual Ceremonial, a grisly ritual that mirrors the recent reign of terror. In a dazzling array of scenes, Enriquez dabbles in occult motifs, as when Tali, who reads tarot cards, is approached by a woman inquiring about her missing daughter: “Tali had seen her dead, drowned, and she’d said so. One of the many girls the military had murdered and thrown into rivers, their eyes eaten by fish, their feet tangled in vegetation: dead mermaids with bellies full of lead. Tali didn’t lie, she wouldn’t give false hope. The fathers and mothers of young people who had been disappeared by the dictatorship sought her out; they wanted, at least, to know how their children died, if their bodies were in a pit of bones or underwater or in a secret cemetery.”

Juan recognizes that Gaspar has inherited his gift, and he’s desperate to turn the boy over to the safekeeping of his brother, Luis, who had fled Argentina to escape the crackdowns. He cobbles together a network to protect Gaspar while occasionally surrendering to his inner sadist, beating and berating his son (and others) to salve the torment of the monster within. Scarred torsos, amputated limbs, wrists cut to the bone: These are the signatures of a man caught between genocide and the burdens of his fate. Juan’s a morally treacherous triumph of Enriquez’s towering imagination.

Gaspar thinks his father’s crazy. “I hope Dad dies once and for all and puts an end to all this and I can live with my uncle,” he notes, “and I don’t ever have to think again about locked rooms, voices in my head, dreams of hallways and dead people, ghost families, boxes full of eyelids. … I wish I could stop loving him, forget him.” Enriquez toggles between decades, between South America and Europe, filling in lacunae amid her characters’ biographies — Rosario narrates a lavish sequence from beyond the grave — while blurring lines that divide our world from adjacent realms. Her cinematic technique spans the globe: There’s a go-go, Carnaby Street vibe to her London flashbacks, for example.

The novel’s translator, Megan McDowell, won the National Book Award in translated literature last year for “Seven Empty Houses,” by Samanta Schweblin, a fellow Argentine whose themes dovetail with those of Enriquez. An American based in Santiago, Chile, McDowell has grasped the torch passed by luminaries such as Edith Grossman; translation, to invoke Grossman’s famous metaphor, isn’t merely copying one language over another, like tracing paper, but rather an act of creation unto itself. “Our Share of Night” teases out the nuances of Enriquez’s spirited, in-your-face style, political epic masquerading as satanic farce.

As Gaspar navigates adolescence, he feels the stir of attraction, his father’s son. “The girl let him light her cigarette,” Enriquez writes. “Gaspar looked at her legs. She had visible muscles. The lighter had illuminated her very dark eyes, lined in blue like a punk Cleopatra. … She said she thought Gaspar was a great name. One of the Magi.”

By novel’s end, Gaspar’s a Wise Man, weaving gingerly toward selfhood, fending off forces hellbent on his destruction. As the millennium approaches, he confronts his country’s brutal legacy and his affluent family’s role, the havoc colonialism has wrought in the Americas. “Our Share of Night” is not only a bloody valentine to the bonds between parent and child, but also an inspired evisceration of how the powerful prey on the powerless, often beneath the guise of democracy and freedom. As Mercedes opines: “Money … is a nation in itself.”

[honeyleesblog]

July 4 ZODIAC

An agreeable climate is the first and most significant state of bliss for that individual. Since they are incredibly touchy, with extraordinary strength and diligence, albeit very aloof. However long they conquer that lack of involvement, they can accomplish extraordinary action, show significant capacities, and achieve significant power. Fit for carrying on with work, they appreciate logical investigations and show strict inclinations. They likewise show critical expertise in manual work. They stay consistent with their life standards and objectives: they can be extremely cautious, far-located, and parsimonious. They are much of the time considered ravenous for that. Steady and persevering: they could in fact be savage. They have serious areas of strength for an of their own distinction, yet they frequently have next to no solidarity to show it throughout everyday life. His incredible aversion to mind-sets is joined with exceptional ambiguity. They likewise tend to dejection and experience influxes of despairing, with frequently damaging inclinations. It ought to be added that they are by and large intense, pleased and merciless individuals, with little respect for other people. What would it be advisable for them to desire? To assume command over their negative impulses that push them towards mercilessness. In the event that they can't do that, they could be in danger for life perils. What compromises them? Allow their foes to sort out against them, which will make them bomb in the last piece of their lives.

July 4 ZODIAC 

 Assuming your birthday is July 4, your zodiac sign is Disease

fourth of July - character and character character: astute, genuine, enthusiastic, touchy, proud, fastidious calling: dramatist, author, spy tones: cream, brown, beige stone: lapis lazuli creature: slug plant: Spiderwort plant fortunate numbers: 2,21,33,46,53,57 very fortunate number: 15 Occasions and Observances - July 4 Argentina: Public Day of Conjunction and Majority of Political Articulations, honoring the notable goodbye message to the late Leader of the Country General Juan Domingo Perდ³n conveyed by Dr. Ricardo Balbდ­n. Colombia: Illustrator's Day. Mexico: Acდ¡mbaro, Guanajuato. Supporter Holy person Celebrations out of appreciation for the Virgin of the Asylum of Miscreants. Venezuela: Planner's Day. Argentina: Rustic Specialist's Day, honoring the introduction of Dr. Esteban Maradona. US: Autonomy Day. fourth of July VIP Birthday. Who was conceived that very day as you? 1902: Meyer Lansky, Jewish-American mobster (d. 1983). 1907: Gordon Griffith, associate chief, film maker and American entertainer (d. 1958). 1910: Gloria Stuart, American entertainer, who played the elderly person in the film Titanic) (d. 2010). 1911: Mitch Mill operator, American artist (d. 2010). 1914: Roberto Escalada, Argentine entertainer (d. 1986). 1917: Manolete, Spanish matador (d. 1947). 1918: Taufa'ahau Tupou IV, Tongan ruler (d. 2006). 1921: Gდ©rard Debreu, French market analyst (d. 2004). 1922: Guillaume Cornelis van Beverloo, Dutch painter and printmaker (d. 2010). 1923: Bernard Loomis, American toy engineer (d. 2006). 1924: Eva Marie Holy person, American entertainer. 1925: Cathy Berberian, American artist lyricist (d. 1983). 1926: Alfredo Di Stდ©fano, Hispanic-Argentine soccer player and mentor (f. 2014). 1927: Gina Lollobrigida, Italian entertainer. 1927: Watts Humphrey, American PC researcher (d. 2010). 1927: Neil Simon, American essayist, maker and screenwriter. 1928: Giampiero Boniperti, Italian soccer player and chief. 1929: Darდ­o Castrillდ³n Hoyos, Colombian Ecclesiastical overseer (d. 2018). 1930: Mohamed Demagh, Algerian stone worker. 1931: Stephen Boyd, English entertainer (d. 1977). 1931: Sდ©bastien Japrisot, French producer (d. 2003). 1933: La Prieta Linda, Mexican artist and entertainer. 1934: Carmen Santonja, Spanish artist and arranger, of the couple Vainica Doble (f. 2000). 1935: Narciso Ibდ¡nez Serrador, Spanish theater chief. 1935: Dunav Kuzmanich, Chilean producer, scriptwriter and librettist situated in Colombia (f. 2008). 1937: Sonja Haraldsen, Norwegian blue-blood. 1938: Bill Wilts, American vocalist. 1939: Manuel Summers, Spanish producer (f. 1993). 1940: Miguel დ?ngel Estrella, Argentine musician. 1941: Hugo Henrდ­quez, Ecuadorian artist (d. 2012). 1941: Sergio Oliva, Cuban weight lifter (d. 2012). 1943: Alan Christie Wilson, American artist, of the band Canned Head (d. 1970). 1948: Renდ© Arnoux, French Equation 1 driver. 1949: Pedro Antonio Martდ­n Marდ­n, Spanish government official and financial specialist. 1949: Horst Seehofer, German lawmaker, serve leader of Bavaria. 1952: დ?lvaro Uribe, Colombian president somewhere in the range of 2002 and 2010. 1959: Victoria Abril, Spanish entertainer. 1960: Roland Ratzenberger, Austrian Recipe 1 driver (d. 1994). 1961: Ana Acosta, Argentine entertainer and humorist. 1963: Ute Lemper, German vocalist. 1965: Horace Award, American b-ball player. 1967: Vinicio Castilla, Mexican baseball player. 1969: Martin Schmidt, German judoka. 1969: Elena Arzak, Spanish cook. 1970: Alberto Ardines, Spanish drums, of the groups Avalanch and Sauze. 1970: Tony Vidmar, Australian footballer. 1971: Koko, a gorilla prepared to speak with signs. 1972: Nina Badriე‡, Croatian pop vocalist, agent of Croatia in Eurovision 2012. 1972: Marcel Curuchet, Uruguayan performer, from the band No te Va a Gustar (f. 2012). 1972: Alexდ©i Shდ­rov, Latvian chess player. 1973: Camui Gackt, Japanese artist, of the band Noxiousness Mizer. 1973: Jan Magnussen, Danish motorsport driver. 1973: Ana Marდ­a Orozco, Colombian entertainer. 1975: Tania Davis, Australian violist, of the Bond band. 1976: Daijiro Kato, Japanese bike racer (d. 2003). 1978: Emile Mpenza, Belgian footballer. 1978: Becki Newton, American entertainer. 1979: Renny Vega, Venezuelan soccer player. 1980: Marc Lieb, German motorsport driver. 1982: Vladimir Gusev, Russian cyclist. 1982: Hannah Harper, English pornography entertainer. 1983: Miguel დ?ngel Munoz, Spanish entertainer. 1983: Miguel Pinto, Chilean soccer player. 1984: Jazmდ­n De Grazia, Argentine model (f. 2012). 1985: Wason Renteria, Colombian footballer. 1988: Angelique Boyer, French-Mexican entertainer. 1990: Fredo Santana, American rapper (f. 2018). 1992: დ"scar Romero Villamayor and დ?ngel Romero Villamayor, Paraguayan footballers. 1995: Bautista Merlini, Argentine soccer player. 1999: Moa Kikuchi, model, entertainer, vocalist and Japanese artist.

[tempural]

animal requests from discord and insta :)

[wayward-delver]

The Unconventional Zoo of Little Nightmares

Little nightmares is a series of the cute, bizarre, and terrible. But moreover it thinks outside the box. So if I am thinking of animals, I should do the same.

(Disclaimer, I have nothing against these these species. Most of these descriptions are symbolic.)

Six is a Perentie/Goanna Monitor Lizard: Cold-Blooded, Cunning, highly unpredictable, ravenous, and exceedingly brutal hunters. They start out small, frail, and inconspicuous but given the chance, they will grow into something deadly. They can be bonded with, however, they’re empathy is difficult to reach.

Mono is a Honey Badger: Bold, single-minded determination, stubborn, faithful, and as brave as they come. Will stand up to even the most terrifying of opponents when their partners are in need.

Runaway Kid/Seven is a Spotted Genet: Clever, nimble, cute, timid, and unapologetically sweet. A pure cinnamon roll that doesn’t get the love it deserves.

The girl in the Raincoat/Veronica is a Meerkat: A smart, kind, resourceful, and capable survivor. But when alone and rejected, they’re without hope.

The Children of the Maw: (in order from left to right)

Refugee Kid/One is a Brown Hyena: A loner whose a lot braver than it looks.

Long-Haired Girl/Two is a Red Fox: Smart and reliable, looked to as an example.

Green Boy/Five is a Fennec Fox: It’s just a little pup.

Hunchback Girl/Three is an Argentine Tegu: Big, round, and beautiful.

The Pale City Kids:

Lollipop Boy is a Bear cub: They maybe fearful, but they’re only the one to beat back Bullies with one steady hand.

Bleeding/Pigtailed Girl is a Lab Rabbit: A determined survivor who doesn’t give up despite their ailing body.

Blanket/Ghost Child is a Flapjack Octopus: This was purely for aesthetics.

The Toddler is a Burrowing Owlet: A little bird not quite ready to fly, waiting in their nest to grow.

The Lady is a Red-Crowned Crane: A vain creature of high standards, her elegance and grace makes her stand out from the lower beasts. But with this beauty and power is tempered with fragility.

The Janitor/Roger is a blind Orangutan: Calm, creative, and distant. They likes to keep his world at arms length.

The Twin Chefs are hippos: From a distance, they seem doughy, cumbersome, and one foolish soul might say goofy. But they are far more temperamental and dangerous than they came imagine... and they will outrun you!

The Guests are Elephant Seal: The mental image speaks for itself.

The Granny is a Snapping Turtle: Impossibly old, lurking the deepest darkest depths. Patient and bitter, unwilling to let go.

The Hunter is an American Alligator: A nocturnal, swamp living, territorial, persistent, bear-trap predator with an itchy trigger.

The Teacher is a barn owl: Strict, uptight, and silent rage. No vermin escapes her piercing gaze, hearing their shrill means certain doom.

The Doctor is an upside down sloth bear: Huffing, puffing, seemingly gullible, but don’t be fooled. They are anything but comical.

The Viewers are Moths/Bugs to an open flame: Blind to their own demise.

The Patients are Taxidermies: Once they’re real living beings, now their fake replicas of skin, stuffing, and plastic. 

The Bullies are Monkeys, Kea Parrots, Cats, and Tasmanian Devils: Wild, playful, destructive, noisy, conniving, and cruel little beasts. They’ll take any opportunity to cause and mayhem when no one’s their to stop them.

Thin Man is a Maned Wolf: Not a real wolf, not even a fox. One of a kind, but is so easily forgotten.

The Pretender is a Cockatoo: Loud, boisterous, playful, pretty, vain, and incredibly proud. But secretly just as much destructive, irritable, and potentially cruel as the Bullies.

The Craftsman is a Gibbon: Nothing really to saw here, another long armed ape but not as cool as the Orangutan. 

The Butler is a Marabou stork: Silent and proper, carrying themselves with subdued pride. But their is anything but gracious to anyone but their mistress.

The Ferryman is a Wandering Albatross: A enigma at best, and haunting presence at worst. But in some ways could a blessing over a curse.

The North Wind is an Argentavis: A malevolent force, older than any other. Preying upon the weaker, with such power the “weak” are ill defined.

Mirror Monster is a Giant Squid: A faceless monster from the void.

The Nomes are House Geckos: Small, cute, completely helpless, and overall insignificant who while thriving will never the power to ever go beyond the shadows.

[aegor-bamfsteel]

Oh im so sorry you had to write all that, i meant if crows and ravens have a simbolic connotation in or between them, but i like that post! Izzy seems to have a great personality ❤ and is very informative about the intelligence of those birds! Where i live we don't have ravens or crows but very distrusful argentine parrots and other boring birds (no offence on them) 😂

You don’t have to worry about the length of my Izzy write up; my posts on animals usually get the most notes on this blog.

To talk about all the symbolism of crows and ravens in ASOIAF would require a novella. They even form part of a title in the series, with A Feast for Crows. But unlike dragons, direwolves, horses, or bears, they aren’t treated as individuals (except Mormont’s raven). Similar to ants, who often represent the common people (as per cappymightwrite’s meta), ravens and crows are usually treated collectively, because what they represent I guess is an erasure of individuality. They feast on dead people, pecking out their eyes first (the hallmark of a living person), and it doesn’t matter to them if the corpse was a king or a peasant, because dead meat is all alike. It makes sense then, why they are tied to Bloodraven, who is trying to get Bran to forget his humanity as BR did.

If I were an Argentinian Parrot I would be distrustful of strange humans as well due to the pet trade (though that’s hardly limited to Argentina). I’m sure there are other birds where you live that aren’t boring! Even in the city, there are pigeons, owls, seagulls, even migrating hummingbirds. While there may be no crows or ravens, you might see jays, which is a member of the same family (Corvidae).

[dear-indies]

Hello there! I hope you had a wonderful week :) I was wondering if you would be able to suggest some fem FCs for an approximately 25-year-old character of Latina, Native, or Afro-Latina descent? I don't use icons or gifs when I RP, so accessible resources aren't necessary. Thank you in advance!

Ashley Moore (1993) Cherokee, African-American, White.

Yalitza Aparicio (1993) Mixtec and Triqui Mexican.

Rosa Montezuma (1993) Ngäbe Panamanian.

Raye Zaragoza (1993) Akimel O’odham and Mexican / Taiwanese and Japanese.

Sofia Carson (1993) Colombian – including Arab [Syrian-Lebanese, Palestinian], Spanish, possibly English, possibly other.

Maria Alia (1993) Palestinian / Puerto Rican.

Simone Mariposa (1993) Afro Guyanese.

Shyrley Rodriguez (1993) Cuban.

Camila Queiroz (1993) Brazilian.

Sierra Ashkewe (1993) Mohawk Jewish and Ojibwe.

Raini Rodriguez (1993) Mexican.

Chianna Fisher (1993) Sicangu Oyate Lakota Sioux.

Hannah Marks (1993) Muscogee, Egyptian Jewish, Italian Jewish, Polish Jewish, Irish, and English.

Bruna Mascarenhas (1994) Brazilian.

Yindra Zayas (1994) Afro Cuban.

Samantha Boscarino (1994) Italian, Ecuadorian, Scottish.

Shayla Stonechild (1994) Metis of Blackfoot and Cree descent.

Autumn Rose Williams (1993) African-American / Shinnecock.

Khadijha Red Thunder (1994) Cree, African-American, Spanish.

María Mercedes Coroy (1994) Kaqchikel Guatemalan.

Alexis Raeana (1995) Lumbee - she/they.

Liniker (1995) Afro-Brazilian - genderfluid trans woman.

Julia Goldani Telles (1995) Mexican [Spanish, probably other] / Brazilian [Italian, probably other].

Kahara Hodges (1995) Navajo, African-American, Mexican and English.

Yorelis Apolinario (1995) Afro Cuban.

Stella Williams (1995) African-American / Mexican.

Javiera (1995) Chilean.

Eva De Dominici (1995) Argentine.

Stormie Perdash (1995) Shoshone, Bannock, and Chiricahua Apache.

Coty Camacho (1995) Mixtec and Zapotec Mexican.

Raven Morgan (1995) Cheyenne, Pawnee, Arapaho, Otoe, Missouria, and Muskogee.

Cierra Ramirez (1995) Mexican / Colombian.

Brianna Gurdzhyan (1995) Mexican [including Unspecified Indigenous], Syrian, Armenian, Russian, Spanish.

Valentina Sampaio (1996) Brazilian - trans.

Beary Becca (1996) Dominican and Cuban.

Marina Moschen (1996) Brazilian.

Georgie Flores (1996) Mexican.

Vitória Strada (1996) Brazilian.

Eva Noblezada (1996) Bisaya and Ilonggo Filipino / Mexican.

Brianna Hildebrand (1996) Mexican / German, English, Irish.

Wendy Sulca (1996) Aymara Peruvian.

I'm assuming you mean Native American but please send another message if you meant otherwise!

[ravenargentine]

How Ash sees himself even though he's an angel

[nearen]

Aberrant

A solitary moon, her full face held high in a cloudless night sky, rendered the clearing argentine. It was as though every tree and leaf was wrought of polished metalwork, motionless and gleaming. In the centre were gathered a ring of ornately-garbed figures in silk and silver. Three stood out most prominently, at the head, shrouding cloaks flowing from mantle and veil. Before them, a young man knelt in a bed of lilies, a short, open-sleeved tunic that shared a hue with the skies and left his tail bare.

Though he feared neither its betrayal, nor that of his ears, which sank low of their own accord into his mossy-green mane. His mood, his thoughts, they could know them for all he cared. They would know them. In front of him, nestled amongst the blooms, was a teal crystal around the size of his palm, and captured in its centre sat an unassuming seed that vaguely resembled an acorn without its cap.

Striding before him, one of the gathered figures knelt to claim the crystal—not without some hesitation. It was no use. Even as she brought it to her heart and held it against her breast, she knew its voice would not sing to her. Nor should it. She was tall and broad, her skin extensively scarred, with a warrior’s physique. It was plain she wouldn’t care to adjust to the path of a Greenseer, a discipline in which she had no training besides, though the most eligible acolytes, her sisters, had already been tested after the disgrace of her mother’s failure, and she was their last hope.

“This is a waste of time,” hissed one of the three most decorated figures. She was lean and wily, and she was old, but not ancient. The wispy curtain of hair that framed her features was braided with feathers and fur, featuring charms of bone and enamel woven into the tapestry. It was the story of her life, her triumphs and defeats, and she was of they who tended beasts of talon, tusk, and tooth.

“Just so,” intoned another even, measured voice. A dark, full, wavy mane of raven-blue hair cascaded down her front, braided at the back. Her posture was the straightest, and throughout it all, she stood the tallest despite her height falling far short of the silent of the three beside her. “Though it must be done, lest we never hear the end of whispers that the true bearer was never afforded the opportunity to attune.”

The silent one clenched her fists, bared her teeth. She wasn’t listening. She was staring intently at her youngest daughter. It didn’t matter how long it took. The girl could yet be shown the ways. All she had to do was resonate with the worthless stone. Yet she shook her head without turning to face her mother—and the fierce disappointment crinkling her old, furious features—and set the stone down before the son of the Ihnana matriarch.

“This is an affront to all that we are,” she said at last, trembling in rage. Her voice was deep and brassy, and for her advanced age and hunched stature—for she seemed to be the eldest of the trio—she looked like she could split any present in two with naught but her bare hands. “The stone belongs with us. *To us*. Never has one family held two stones before. Never has a seedstone resonated with a manbefore. My sister did not perish for this disgrace.”

Lifting his head, the man brought his teal gaze to the Shehbe matriarch. At first his stare was empty, devoid of expression, though it soon started to sharpen.

“As you can see, this is the will of the Frostwillow,” spoke his mother calmly. She gestured to his hair, and the new buds nestled amongst them. “The changes have already taken place. Once a bond is established, there is only one means by which it can be severed.” They all knew it, though it bore repeating. Zhri was uncharacteristically gentle nonetheless. They had all lost a dear and treasured relative, though none of them had providence spit in their faces quite so openly as it had the newly-anointed matriarch who was denied her line’s sacred heirloom.

“Let it be done then,” she spat through closed teeth. “Let him be cut down. I will do it myself.” As she drew a sleek glaive, so did every woman present save for the other two matriarchs. A moment of tension thickened the cool night air. The Shehbe matriarch paused, but she kept Zhri’a in her sights. She snarled. “There will be war between us if this is not done. I know he is your son, but the balance of power can’t be allowed to fall in your kin’s favour so steeply, Zhri.”

Zhri hadn’t raised a finger to defend her youngest, nor did the man react to the threat. His fate wasn’t for him to decide, and he raised his chin high almost as if to welcome an attempt at slitting his throat. The woman looked largely unfazed by the display, though her thoughts were impossible to read behind that impassive mask.

“We’re not killing the last male born to us. The Goddess wouldn’t grant us another if we did,” said the third of the matriarchs, her patience audibly wearing thin. “There can’t be war, either. Our cubs must know peace. We have already sullied the sacred bond in living memory. And you all know well my mother found absolution for that in her sacrifice, though we can’t let it come to pass again.” She regarded the imposing figure of the armed Shehbe leader warily. “Act with wisdom. Your warriors will die on their feet if you do this. Vanity’s not worth the blood price.”

“Vanity?! This is a grave offence and an ill omen! That power belongs not in the hands of a boy! The ways of Greensight were always ours!” the elder behemoth growled. Zhri interrupted them both with a raised hand.

“We will discuss reparations and allowances. I cannot make the Shehbe whole, but your voice will carry the appropriate weight in our council, and though Zhri’a may hold the Shehbe seedstone, you are still matriarch. Let us conduct ourselves with dignity, and lead by example.”

And yet they squabbled over trinkets. Zhri’a closed his eyes and tuned out the discourse as his clan’s leading figures led the forum in determining what was to be done with him. The stone had found its way into his hands, and he allowed the song of the forest to drown out all else, his ears primed to pick out just one voice in that ancient chorus.

[adequate-shadow]

Hey lovely people that like The Raven Cycle <3

I think you would like the argentine short story "The Circular Ruins", by Jorge Luis Borges

It has dreams, dreamers and cycles.

[fictionfromafar]

My favourite fifteen fabulous novels published in 2021 from around the world

While the worst of lockdown is hopefully behind us, the restrictions in place early in the year certainly opened up the opportunities to read more this year. I hope you all found the chance to do so. Here are some of the books that I particularly enjoyed reading this year which I have listed in alphabetical order by the author’s name.  While I have read some books set in Britain and the USA, I have preferred to focus on books set in other parts of the world. Where the book is a translation, the translator’s name is given:

Girls Who Lie by Eva Björg Ægisdóttir, translated by Victoria Cribb, Orenda Books

2021 has been a record year for the number of translated titles from Iceland, I have read 8 yet this is my favourite. Ægisdóttir showed fantastic promise with The Creak On The Stairs but solidifies her reputation as one of the finest crime writers in Europe as she harnesses the atmospheric settings of her country without being reliant upon them, she uses multiple time periods effectively, develops her characters’ traits and builds suspense without an implausible body count in this story of the investigation of a missing woman. 

Brickmakers by Selva Almada, translated by Annie McDermott, Charco Press

Argentine author Almada has been at the forefront of the rise in popularity of Edinburgh-based Charco Press and her third novel for the publisher tells the story of a family feud in a small rural village. We follow the legacy left to Pajaro Tamai and Marciano Miranda by their fathers who have left them predestined to clash at some time in a very claustrophobic and masochistic setting. A book of extraordinary tension. 

The Untamable by Guilermo Arriaga, translated by Frank Wynne and Jessie Mendez Sayer, Maclehose Press

The longest book I’ve read this year, but also one of the most rewarding, this story is superbly written. The Amores Peros screenwriter captivates in this coming of age story of Juan Guillermo living in the barrios of 1960s Mexico City. Juan has to tackle both criminal gangs and Catholic fundamentalists as he seeks revenge on the murder of his brother Carlos and the subsequent loss of his entire family. 

In The Shadow Of The Fire by Hervé Le Corre, translated by Tina Kover, Europa Editions

An epic historical fiction novel set during the time of the Paris Commune. It features a criminal investigation but it is so much more than that, as it captures the sounds, smells and tastes of life in a crumbling and anarchic capital city. The idealisms, the solidarity and the imagery feel so real and so captivating while the deaths of which there are many are so bloody. 

The Corpse Flower by Anne Mette Hancock, translated by Tara Chase, Crooked Lane Books/Swift Press

Published in the UK in March 2022, Danish author Hancock’s debut is the first Kaldan and Schafer Mystery and a gripping psychological thriller. I have read many Nordic Noir stories this year, yet I really felt this story went somewhere that very few other stories do - and I don’t just mean the French locations that some of the characters appear in. It’s a compulsive read and I’m already keenly awaiting a follow-up.

Silent Parade by Keigo Higashino, translated by Giles Murray, Little Brown

While Bullet Train may capture the attention of the critics, it would be wrong to overlook Higashino’s finest novel since The Devotion Of Suspect X. Police detective Kusanagi is forced to bring his personal friend Detective Galileo into the case of the discovery of the body of a missing teenager in a plot that places a honkaku mystery within a contemporary setting.

Lightseekers by Femi Kayode, Raven Books

Inspired by a true story, Lightseekers follows developments after three young students are brutally murdered in a Nigerian university town. It sees investigative psychologist Philip Taiwo hired by one of the boy’s father’s in order to discover the truths behind their deaths. Taiwo discovers a very different location where he has to discover whether it was tradition and superstition or economics and jealousy that were the prevailing factors.

No Honour by Awais Khan, Orenda Books

A beautifully written story where sixteen-year-old Abida has to leave her village in rural Pakistan due to breaking age-old rules that the inhabitants have to stand by. She has to move to the overpopulated and dangerous city of Lahore where her life continues to take a downward spiral. No Honour highlights the contrasts in modern-day Pakistan where Abida’s father Jamil has to try to rescue his daughter. 

Velvet Was The Night by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Jo Fletcher Books

Known more for her speculative fiction stories rather than crime fiction, New York Times bestseller Moreno-Garcia pays homage to earlier Mexican writers such as Rafael Bernal with this superb story set in Mexico City in 1970. It focuses on oddball outsider Maite, whose wealthy neighbour disappears suddenly, and criminal for hire Elvis. This is a delightfully easily readable book that disguises quite a complicated plot. 

Oxygen by Sacha Naspini, translated by Clarissa Botsford, Europa Editions

This is such a memorable book that follows the arrest of a man for the abduction and fourteen-year detention of a young woman as the story follows the impact of one man’s crimes on those he leaves behind. Luca has to live everything that his father has done but he faces obsessions of his own. Laura was imprisoned for years but has to adjust to freedom again while her mother had started to rebuild her own life. Oxygen ventures where so few novels go. 

The Foreign Girls by Sergio Olguín, translated by Miranda France, Bitter Lemon Press

This is the second in the Veronica Rosenthal series focussed on a hard-living Buenos Aires-based journalist.  Rosenthal encounters two European girls while on a break in northern Argentina. When they are both found dead she has to discover the reason for their deaths in a complexly plotted story that focuses on the common occurrence of femicide that has sadly blighted Olguín’s home country. 

The Transparency Of Time by Leonardo Padura, translated by Anna Kushner, Bitter Lemon Press

The stories of retired Inspector Mario Conde can often be seen as a reflection on the contemporary state of Cuba as a whole and are always absorbing reads. This time Padura expands the story to include some imagery from the crusades and the Spanish civil war while Conde is required to assist the investigation of two murders apparently causes by the theft of a statue. 

People Like Them by Samira Sedira, translated by Lara Vergnaud, Raven Books

A beautiful Alpine location sees the terrible massacre of a family of four. Told from the view of the killer’s wife, Anna Guillot is made to reflect on what drove her husband to carry out such an unimaginable act. Sedira’s English language debut is a compelling story that effectively examines how a toxic combination of low self-esteem, suppressed racism, class envy, and financial tensions can change the behaviours of a seemingly ordinary man. 

The Scorpion’s Head by Hilde Vandermeeren, translated by Laura Watkinson, Pushkin Press/Walter Presents

This fast-paced thriller is the first English language release by a prolific Flemish writer. A contract killer suddenly has a conscience when he is tasked with killing a young woman and her son. Soon the hunter becomes the hunted as he looks to protect them and break up the organisation he has long been part of.  

Punishment Of A Hunter by Yulia Yakovleva, translated by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp, Pushkin Vertigo

Set in 1930s Leningrad, detective Vasily Zaitsev is given the responsibility to investigate a set of apparently unrelated murders, later on, he discovers missing works of art. Within the backdrop of Stalinist purges he has to try to maintain the trust of his superiors while knowing he cannot trust those who are supposed to be working for him. In spite of an unusual setting this is a highly rewarding story. 

Please check out my reviews of these titles.

Here are another 15 books that I really enjoyed:

Hotel Catagena by Simone Buchholz

The Other Mother by Michel Bussi

Riccardino by Andreas Camilleri

The Measure Of Time by Gianrico Carofiglio

The Assistant by Kjell Ola Dahl

Repetance by Eloísa Díaz

The Butterfly House by Katrine Engberg

The Commandments by Óskar Guðmundsson

Bullet Train by Kotaro Isaka

Into The Mouth Of A Lion by A B Kyazze

All Human Wisdom by Pierre Lemaitre

The Secret Life Of Writers by Guilluame Musso

Cold As Hell by Lilja Sigurðardóttir

The Doll by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

Geiger by Gustaf Skordeman

Let me know your favourites!

[twstdaydreamer]

Twisted Wonderland OC

“Morse Moriya Morrison”

“I do believe that I do not need to defend myself to the likes of you.”

General Profile

Full Name: Morse Moriya Morrison

Japanese Name: モールス モリヤ = モリソン

Nicknames: perceptive stupid, henchman, she-devil, boss, mistress, Morse-chan, Morse-san, evil mastermind, Morrison-kun, Napoleon of Crime, Morry, Triple M, koebi-chan, trickster, etc.

Biographical Status

Specie: Fey

Gender: Female

Birthday: June 6

Star sign: Gemini

Age: 16

Height: 156 cm (5′1)

Hair color: Silver white

Eye color: Argentine silver

Alignment: Lawful Evil

Dominant Hand: Left

MBTI: INTJ-A

Homeland: ???

Relatives: Dire Crowley (adoptive uncle), Sherry and Siege Sheridan (distant cousins)

Personal Status

Likes: Sherry, eating junk food (much to Vil’s horror), books, coffee, planning crimes, analyzing, mathematics, procrastinating, ciphers.

Dislikes: Talking, dancing, parties, technology, dresses, all food aside from junks, anything that has something to do with physical activities, drawing, people calling her short, boredom,

Interest/Hobbies: Hoarding trinkets, reading, stargazing, mystery, murder, teasing Sherry Sheridan and her new found toys in NRC. 

Talents: Singing, playing guitar, martial arts, gifted analyst, planning a flawless murder, battle tactics and stratagem, persuasion, deceit, deciphering any codes and ciphers.

Strength: Observant, flexible, intuitive, perceptive, competent, exceptionally intelligent, flexible, inquisitive, dedicated, work well under pressure, adaptable, quick learner, abstract thinker.

Weakness/Flaws: very insensitive, short-tempered, deceitful, eccentric, dense when it comes to everyday life, too stubborn, can’t remember names well, a lot of hidden insecurities and worries, sore loser, rude, prideful and unruly at times, will do everything to achieve her goals even if it means using others.

Professional Status

Occupation: Student, criminal mastermind (former)

Bases of Operation: Night Raven College, House of Cards (former)

Dorm: Ramshackle

School Year: First year, student no. 20

Class: 1-A

Best Subject: Mathematics, Magic Analysis

Worst Subject: Flying

Club: Light Music

Unique Magic: The Valley of Fear - Morse can materialize her victim’s fears and use it against them. If she decided to use her unique magic in advance level, she can physically replicate the persons from the victim's past that cause them traumatic experiences. Morse noted that this is not a type of illusion-based magic.

General Status

Favorite Color: Black (because of Sherry)

Favorite Food: Junk foods (chips, gummy bears, etc.)

Least Favorite Food: Vegetables (especially carrots)

Appearance: Morse has bright cat-like argentine eye that constantly glimmers with curiosity when something piqued her interest. She has wavy butt-length silver white hair with several strands framing her face. As a fey, Morse has a pair of pointed ears and canines. She is petite and quite short in height. She prefers wearing light-colored and loose clothes.

Personality: Morse was an extremely intelligent individual. She’s calculative, perceptive and observant of everyone and is very particular of her surroundings. According to Azul himself, her cunning intelligence that could outwit him is what makes her so dangerous. Morse is highly accomplished in the fields of strategies and mathematical formulas. Although it was said that her tactics could always lead to multiple victories, upon miscalculating something, she doesn’t take it very well (a sore loser). Due to her nature that couldn’t properly understand emotions, Morse can come up as insensitive, rude and very, very blunt. She has no hesitation in using others as her stepping stone to achieve her goals and her unconventional, underhanded methods in solving her problems often lead to others hating her greatly--although she no longer cares.

Quote: “Age is just a mere status, not a limitation that shackles you to do things you want to. No matter how young or old you are, you can make a difference. Like the small pieces in chess, you can also change the flow of the game.”

History: coming soon~

Fun Facts

Morse hates talking to anyone, so she just let her ipad do the talking for her. But her words was always written after her namesake, the Morse Code. Ace, Deuce and Grim always forced her to speak to them without codes.

She have a white bunny stuffed toy named Moran which she carries everywhere. She said it was a birthday gift from Crowley.

Morse lacks the sense of taste, thus she developed the complete hatred of food. She is fond of junk foods though, claiming that she loves how it crunches between her teeth even though she cannot taste it at all.

Morse keeps a diary, journalizing all of her adventures and pranks.

She has astraphobia: the extreme fear of thunder and lightning. She's also not fond of storms and rain. She gets jittery and panics a lot. 

According to Crowley, “her right eye can see through everything but reflects nothing. On the other hand, her left eye is just an empty hole.” She blatantly refused to tell anyone why and how she lost it.

Everyone would often see her wearing a pair of earphones when walking, listening to music.

Her taste in music was always soft rock and acoustic, much to everyone’s surprise.

My first Twst OC! I hope you like Morse as much as I had fun writing her! You guys can asked me question about her (or interactions). Also, I twisted Morse from Sherlock Holmes's nemesis Professor James Moriarty (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

He's evil...and so does she (▰˘◡˘▰)

I'll make Sherry and Siege's profile soon! They were twisted from both Sherlock and Mycroft, the Holmes brothers, but in my case, they were sisters lol.

[embersrevived]

CAWtemplation & Raven Reminiscence

In a world of mendacious, corrupt individuals with the intent to beguile,                              Exists a towering enigma bearing auburn curls and an enrapturing smile.

Argentine orbs that take one back to a less dreary, nostalgic day,                                          Brimming with kindness do those pondering pools of gorgeous grey.

And lithe, lengthy limbs that secure the sobbing soul within their warm embrace,                Gloved fingertips gently cupping one's tear-stained cheeks and trembling face.

If Orpheus and and Aesculapius had a hypothetical and spiritual son,                                  It would be this swashbuckling, elusive goof, yes, he would be the one.               

............

............

...........

‘Tis been an eternity since,

I last saw this corvid prince.