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heauxplesslydevoted · 4 years ago

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Survivor’s Remorse (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Set after the events of chapter 11, Naomi isn’t handling things as well as she thought she would.

Tags: @takemyopenheart @aylamreads @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @kaavyaethanramsey @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @paulfwesley @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @mvalentine @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey

~v~

Naomi getting discharged into Ethan’s care seemed like a natural next step for them. After their nighttime confessions while quarantined, it sort of went without saying that they’re together. If it was up to Ethan, she’d simply move in with him as well, but for now, he is content with cohabitating until she’s recovered fully and cleared to go back to work.

To say the past few days have been exhausting is the understatement of the year. Most of the time, Naomi has a hard time believing it was even real, as it still feels like she’s sleepwalking through it all.

She’s been home for approximately 3 hours and she still doesn’t know how to feel. Ethan’s apartment is quiet, especially since he’s not even here, having run off to the grocery store. Between working 16 hour days in a hospital, living with 4 other people, and being a patient for the past 3 days, getting poked and prodded around the clock, Naomi is no longer used to quiet. It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

So to soothe the impending anxiety, Naomi has been in Ethan’s living room, his speakers blasting some upbeat pop song that’s currently on a Top 40 chart. She can’t place it, but it doesn’t matter. She just needs background noise.

The music is up loud enough that Naomi doesn’t even hear the front door open. It isn’t until she feels another presence in the room does she look up and see Ethan standing in his mini mud area, dropping off his keys and coat.

“Hey!” Naomi instantly grabs her phone and turns down the music, her cheeks flushing as if she’s been caught. “Sorry I had it up so loud.”

“It’s fine, it wasn’t that loud,” Ethan assures her. “I just expected you to be resting. I thought you were tired.”

She is tired, but she feels restless. “I’m off of work indefinitely, I’ll have plenty of time to sleep.”

Ethan drops off his reusable grocery bag in the kitchen and quickly washes his hands before heading to the living room. He drops a chaste kiss onto Naomi’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Naomi shrugs, unsure of how to answer such a loaded question. “Same old, same old.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow at the non-answer, but he doesn’t push it any further. “Well, are you at least hungry?”

“Starving.” Between the gross hospital food and the crippling nausea, food was the last thing on Naomi’s mind. But now that she’s feeling a bit better, she’ll welcome anything Ethan gives her.

“I’ll get started on dinner. How does French onion chicken and rice sound?”

“Amazing. Do you need any help?”

“None at all,” Ethan says. He doesn’t want Naomi lifting a finger while she’s under his care. “Just sit back and relax.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Naomi announces, standing up. “Is it okay if I use yours?”

“Of course. There are spare towels in the hall closet. But uh, fair warning, I didn’t know what type of bath products you enjoy, so I went overboard.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, I think I bought everything I could get my hands on. It’s all in the guest bathroom .”

True to his word, Naomi finds an incredibly large gift basket sitting on the counter of the guest bathroom. It’s filled to the brim with shower gels, bath salts, shampoo, conditioner, lotions, loofahs, and other goodies that will take months for her to go through, all in her favorite scents: coconut, jasmine, and raspberry. It’s very over the top and the products are clearly more luxe than what she’d buy at the Target downtown, but her chest warms at the obvious effort he’s put into it.

Ethan’s en-suite is the same as she remembers from all of those months ago, the first time they slept together. Extremely minimalist with only a few of his grooming products. Naomi is almost certain he doesn’t appreciate the freestanding claw foot bathtub nor the large waterfall shower as much as he should.

Once she gets the water started, gathers all of her products and she’s fully in the shower, Naomi doesn’t do anything except stand directly under the shower head, taking a moment to collect her bearings. She closes her eyes, but instantly regrets it.

As soon as she’s plunged into the darkness, she’s back in the Senator’s hospital room. The hissing sound of the canister rattles around in her brain, the sense of panic in her voice, the ice cold rage in Travis Perry’s voice, the retching sounds of everyone vomiting relentlessly all play through her mind on a torturous loop.

Her eyes fly open, as does a hand to her chest, and in her peripheral, she notices it. The slimy, black oil they were all assaulted with. Naomi looks down, and it’s all she can see, as thick as it was all the days ago, coating from head to toe.

A gasp catches in her throat and she stumbles back, knocking over a few bottles in the process, but she doesn’t care. There’s only one thing on her mind: getting clean.

She turns the water up as hot as possible. She doesn’t bother with any shower gel, she simply grabs her loofah, and scrubs. The spongy material is coarse against her skin, and it’s perfect in this moment because that’s what she needs, and she digs it in as roughly as she can.

Scrub.

Naomi can still feel the poison. It’s on her skin, in her hair, lingering on her skin. Bobby’s face flashes across her vision once more, absolutely drenched as he took the worst hit, and it only fuels her further.

Scrub.

Her throat tightens, due to the extremely scalding temperature of the water, but instead of turning the water down, Naomi thinks about the tightening sensation she felt when she thought she might asphyxiate in the hospital.

Scrub.

“Dammit!” She doesn’t even realize she’s said the expletive aloud, so caught up in what she’s doing. “Just come off already!”

The concept of time has been lost completely, and Naomi doesn’t know how long she’s been standing in this same spot, methodically scrubbing and rinsing, rinsing and scrubbing. But it’s no use. No matter how much she tries, all she can see is the fucking poison. It’s past surface level, she can feel it in her blood, thrumming as it courses through her veins.

Scrub.

“Naomi?” It’s a different voice, Ethan’s. He heard the bottles fall off the shelves and ignored it, but he can’t ignore the fact that Naomi is yelling at someone or something. “Are you okay in there?”

He raps his knuckles against the door a few times, and when he doesn’t receive a response, his hand goes to the doorknob, twisting it slightly to see if she locked the door. She didn’t. Being courteous, Ethan knocks once more and when Naomi still doesn’t say anything to him, he opens the door to the en-suite and walks in.

Ethan doesn’t know what he expected to see on the other side of the door, but Naomi scrubbing her skin nearly raw under a stream of hot water was not it.

He throws the shower door open, ignoring the steam that billows out, and turns off the water. “Naomi! What on earth are you doing?”

“It won’t come off,” she cries.

“What won’t come off?”

“This damn maitotoxin! It won’t come off, no matter how much scrubbing I do. I want it off! I want it gone!”

Ethan watches as she throws down her loofah and just starts clawing at any piece of flesh she can get her hands on: her face, her chest, her arms, her neck.

Deciding enough is enough, Ethan grabs a large bath towel and wraps it around Naomi’s petite frame, holding down her arms so she can’t mutilate herself further.

“No,” Naomi argues, shaking her head, and she struggles against him.

“Rookie, breathe,” Ethan commands. He loosens his grip slightly and uses one hand to tilt her chin up so they can look at each other. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me. Listen to my voice.”

“You’re not in the hospital anymore,” he continues, struggling to keep his voice even and his emotions in check. “You’re with me, you’re in my shower. The toxin is gone, it’s not on your skin, it’s not in your system. You’re clean and you’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

He repeats the last sentence over and over and over again, until it’s a chant. Eventually Naomi’s body loosens up and she allows him to support some of her body weight. Eventually, they sink to the floor, and Ethan cradles her close to his chest.

Naomi doesn’t know how long they’ve been in this position, but the world is finally coming back into focus. Her senses are her own again, no longer controlled by pervasive memories, and the first thing she smells is Ethan’s cologne, and she feels his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns on her back.

The silence they’ve been plunged back into is deafening, and now she’s faced with the crushing weight of her reality.

“I almost died the other day,” Naomi says, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s a fact she’s always been cognizant of, but even more so now that the adrenaline has worn off. Holy shit, she really could’ve been dead, cold and in a grave right now.

“But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, but...I was so c-close.” Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and she doesn’t have the energy to do anything about them.

“But you didn’t,” Ethan repeats, his voice coming gruffer than usual. He doesn’t want her dwelling.

“But Bobby did. And he leaves behind an entire family that loves him.” She can still see his lifeless body on the cold hospital floor, convulsing and gasping for air. “And Danny did. He was one of my first friends at Edenbrook. He was the only nurse who had my back after Landry spread lies about me. He and Sienna were…” her voice trails off as she’s unable to finish her sentence. “Sienna probably hates me.”

“Trust me, Sienna could never hate you. I’ve never seen a more steadfast and loyal friend.”

Naomi flashes back to all of her not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts to get Sienna and Danny together. After all of Sienna’s troubles with Wayne, she wanted nothing more than her best friend to be happy, and now Naomi has ruined it for her.

Another sob bubbles up in her throat and she can’t push it away. “She doesn’t h-hate me n-now, but wait until the shock wears off and the resentment starts s-setting in. This is all my f-fault.”

“Naomi, this is not your fault,” Ethan argues.

“I should’ve never poached Ed from Mass Kenmore. I s-shouldn’t have gone running guns blazing into his suite. I should’ve called more security other than Bobby to help-p, I should’ve w-waited for y-you. I should’ve called the police. I should’ve have b-been able to talk Travis down.”

Ethan clears his throat before speaking, trying to keep himself in check. If Naomi is going to be okay, he can’t let his own emotions selfishly take over. “Travis had it in his head that Ed needed to pay for what happened to his brother. No one on this earth could have stopped him from doing what he did. It’s not your fault, and you’re no less of a person for not being able to stop a psychopath. No matter how strong and formidable you are, you are just one person, and I am refusing to let you carry the weight of that burden by yourself.”

Of course deep, deep, deep down, the logical part of Naomi’s brain knows it wasn’t directly her fault, but the illogical part still feels incredibly responsible for the events that played out at Edenbrook.

Naomi sniffles, the heat of the shower now gone and a shiver racks her body. Ethan notices it instantly, and in a show of strength, he scoops her out of the shower, carrying her back into his bedroom.

He finds the warmest clothes he can get his hands on, a worn Johns Hopkins sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that are entirely too big on her. He ushers her into bed, pulling the soft duvet over her.

“You’re not getting in too?” Naomi asks, and Ethan picks up on the slight panic in her voice.

“Yeah, I just need to change out of my clothes, and I’ll be right back.”

She watches as Ethan quickly discards his work clothes and he slides into bed next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Naomi huddles closer to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

“My hair is going to be a disaster once it dries,” she mumbles against his skin. Her curly hair demands a very strict routine.

“I’ll help you.”

For the first time in the past 72 hours, Naomi manages to laugh. The image of Ethan trying to detangle and properly moisturize her hair is hilarious, and now she has to see it. “I’d like to see you try.”

“I should get back into the kitchen. I know you’re really hungry and dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

Silently protesting, Naomi’s fingers dig into his arm, willing him to not leave. She doesn’t want to be left alone, especially not for something as trivial as dinner. She pulls away so she can look him in the eyes.“Can we just lay here for a little while longer?”

“I’ll stay here for as long as you want me to.”

“You promise?”

Ethan nods and places a soft kiss on her lips–they’ve made a pact to be as tactile with each other as possible, both in public and in private. After the events of the last few days, what’s the use in hiding how they feel about each other? “I promise.”

#playchoices #choices: stories you play #choices: open heart #open heart 2 #open heart #ethan ramsey #dr. ethan ramsey #ethan x mc

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years ago

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forty six: stick and stick

yesterday's dessert is some kind of chilled lychee soup containing what i initially thought was exactly two lychees but turns out, i have just discovered, to be two lychees and a fuckton of nata de coco. for the uninitiated, nata de coco is a kind of compact jelly-like substance made from fermenting coconut water, a fact that i learned of fifteen seconds ago despite the fact that i have been inhaling nata de coco like a vacuum cleaner with a broken power button since primary two and probably even before that. the initial metaphor i wanted to make here was one for how we often overlook the bright spots in life because we are too busy focusing on the lychees, but perhaps the real takeaway here is that we should stop looking altogether and look things up on google every once in a while.

day six: i've figured it out. breakfast comes with some kind of fruit juice (typically orange or apple), lunch is accompanied by a liquid-based dessert like red bean soup or cheng teng, and dinner is served with a side of fruit. the same kind of protein is never brought out twice in the same day, which means a white dory afternoon will be followed by some form of the chicken, and a chicken-based afternoon will never lead to a chicken-steeped evening. vegetables. which usually means broccoli and/or cauliflower (good) and other times means carrots.

when i was a child i hated carrots because they didn't taste like crunchy water but instead had a mild and disgusting sweetness to them alongside the distinct taste of something that had risen from the earth like a mushroom or a zombie. my father would force me to eat them whenever they appeared in the wild, that is, in restaurants and at friends' houses, and i would cry and throw a tantrum and then he would hit and/or scold me, deploy the well-worn battle tactics of asian parenting, et cetera. 'just pretend you're eating something else,' my mother would reason with me very reasonably. 'yeah, well,' i would say with the kind of eloquence only an eleven year old who's read too many books from the young adult section of the library possesses. 'no.' and then i would cry and throw a tantrum and if my dad wasn't here i'd go pour myself some milk and sulk in a corner of the living room. if he was, well, you know.

so there are a number of ways to cook carrots. this presupposes of course that one cooks one's carrots, something i will humbly allow because if you eat carrots raw then you are a rabbit or a furry and i will never acknowledge your existence no matter how many fursuits you buy me. returning to the matter of the non-heathen population, you can either cook carrots very slightly by means of such technologies as 'the boil' or 'the steam', or you can cook them a lot by means of such technologies as 'the boil but harder or 'some kind of pan-frying, preferably with onions'. my point is carrots can be made to neither taste nor feel like carrots. if you have ever had japanese curry i'm sure you've had the experience of putting something chonky in your mouth and discovering that despite the deceptively similar mouthfeel, that was not a chunk of potato, but the carrot. carrots that can pass for other vegetables are not true carrots in my mind and therefore have rights. carrots that look and taste and do wushu like carrots do not have rights.

the carrots that sometimes appear in the bento boxes which some kind soul i have never had the luxury to speak to because i am in government-mandated quarantine due to potential exposure to covid while flying halfway across the globe delivers to the little table propped up outside my room at eight, twelve, and six o'clock every day do not have rights. they are barely boiled and completely unsalted, unflavored, unwanted, unicorn. they are not submerged in a homicidal sea of sauce. and worst of all, they have the mouthfeel of a fist-sized clump of dental floss baked in an oven at medium heat for five hours. to put it more bluntly: the mouthfeel. bad.

you may be thinking at this point that i am throwing away all of the carrots, but i'm not the kind of loser you think i am; i am an even greater loser. i am the ultimate loser, the loser of all losers, which actually makes me a winner, which cancels out the loser accusation, which means i am probably a real human being, and if i don't eat my fruits and vegetables my digestive system will digest itself or my primary five science teacher will be disappointed in me. this is how you eat carrots. you shove all of them in your mouth in one go like hamsters do with their mouth pouches, pinch your nose shut, and then chew like a madman until you can swallow without ripping your throat open. this doesn't erase the mouthfeel problem. but at least it solves everything else.

a confession: i fear that i will give in to my cowardice. it is day six and i have figured everything out but there are eight days to go, and history has proven that eight days can change the effective composition of the world. i know as little about myself today as i will tomorrow, and yet we try to establish the parameters of our lives regardless, plotting the graphs over and over again until our mouths are green with mildew and our skin is clear as glass, revealing veins pulsing with blood, oxygen, nutrients, whatever else secondary school biology imparted to me. we can only learn how to live life by living it, after all. so it's all right if you don't always want to look back over your shoulder. your neck might snap off, you know? you're right to be afraid. but give it a try sometimes. put that carrot in your mouth.

07.08.21

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jimmymcgools · 4 years ago

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Idk if you’re still doing the fic meme but would love to hear your commentary on the afternoon scene at white sands!

i definitely am! ♥️♥️♥️ and so excited to get to talk about white sands. this turned into an extra long one, too, so brace yourself.

fic commentary meme and my answers 🙌

this whole afternoon i’ve been trying to remember how i picked white sands. it must’ve been looking through photos of new mexico on tumblr? i can’t think of any fun origin story for it at least, and i definitely had no idea that it’d end up being such a turning point in the story. white sands! it stands in for so much now.

He realizes that the haze he saw from afar was actually the white sand of the dunes, picked up by the wind and left hanging in the air like a fine fog. this specific detail is something i noticed on google streetview more than any photos

so hazy!

The artwork in the visitor’s center had depicted mammoths and giant sloths in the grasslands around the lake, lush and vibrant. there’s a bunch of those streetview bubble things actually inside the white sands visitor’s center, so i snooped around in there. zooming in and reading all the info boards like a tragic version of a real tourist.

It’s finer than any sand he’s ever felt—more like flour than anything, and it’s completely cool to the touch despite the afternoon sun. i really wanted to capture the tactile feeling of being in this place, and luckily a bunch of tripadvisor reviews had described the feeling of the sand well enough that i could give it my best shot!

“So I guess there used to be a big lake here,” Kim says, staring out over the edge of the dune. alternate take: kim and jimmy visit camp green lake and dig holes every day and eat raw onions.

He wiggles his bare toes in the sand. “Fists with your toes,” he says. Kim chuckles. “Better than a shower and a cup of coffee.” kim and jimmy the movie nerds! jimmy probably should’ve done this as soon as he landed in abq, huh? at least he’s doing it now. the secret to surviving.

youtube

“I wonder if Chuck’s ever been out here,” he says gonna go ahead and make that a definite “no”, jimbo.

The first time I was just dumb and eighteen,” Jimmy says. “I was off and on with her all through high school ahh the infamous marriages. i wanted to preserve the vibes of like, stupid romantic-at-heart jimmy, especially because by now i had settled pretty firmly into an acb jimmy who looks at kim wistfully like 😍24/7, so i needed continuity with that. i think i actually included them in the cicero chapter, but “mr and mrs kimberly wexler” “do you make 25 foot signs? no!?” legal pad boy 100% seems like someone who was filling notebooks with a girl’s name in high school.

i like the idea that he did some dumb, grand, drunken, romantic gesture while they’re all cutting loose in vegas. something that doesn’t look nearly as cool as he thinks it does.

i have a little timeline for jimmy’s life, and so i knew that i could sync this marriage up with roughly the era his father loses the store and then dies. i liked the idea that this and other circumstantial changes happened and the teenaged relationship just couldn’t weather it.

“College of DuPage,” Jimmy says, and he holds up his fist. “Go Chaps!” jimmy’s college years!! this is so interesting to me! did someone in his family really encourage this? was this an earlier attempt to get on the straight and narrow? all food for thought. either way, he didn’t go far from home, unlike chuck.

Me and Lisa…we were pretty good. For a long time. She did theater jimmy should’ve just been a theater kid. get in a spotlight, get those eyeballs on him.

“And the worst part is, I introduced them! Because he was dating Mom,” Jimmy spits i think i saw someone else use this somewhere, and i wish i could remember who, but as a way to tie in the step-dad thing from brba it appealed to me. i think ruth has that same playful/theatrical side to her as jimmy, so i liked that connection here, too. also it’s just so horrible and dividing

She folds her lips inwards and studies him, then tilts her head and gives a little smile. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this in your stupid sombrero hat.” i hadn’t planned this at all when i had jimmy buy the dumb hat in the last chapter, but it ended up working well -- kim deflecting from the serious moment with some lively hat talk, jimmy loves hat talk, the perfect distraction

The white sands seem almost to reflect it, becoming nacreous with pink and yellow and orange, taking on the color of the world above. as a little metaphor for jimmy, here. he’s just reflecting everyone around him.

The brim of the hat casts a diagonal stripe of blue shadow over her face. ahaha oh god i had forgotten i’d included this sledgehammer-subtle parking garage scene reference

“I’m not ashamed of being from there,” Kim says crisply. She shakes her head as if to shake that thought of her mind. “Not at all. But I wanted a blank slate. i always go into writing a scene like this planning for her to reveal more than she does, but it never feels believable. but i wanted to make that distinction between her hiding red cloud and her being ashamed of where she was born. i don’t think it makes sense for kim to be the latter.

“I guess they just wanted somebody to listen to them. But it bugged me. Like they expected me to fix the weather for for them, too, in between bagging their groceries.” this seems like a very kim trait to me. that rather than just listening and nodding along to these farmer’s chatty complaints, she feels like it’s on her to fix everything, when of course it isn’t, and i doubt any of these customers would expect it to be. “There was a time when I thought I could get married,” she says. “It even seemed almost inevitable. Like getting wound up so tight and then released on a path. i think it was a friend who made this connection, but imo kim does this in bcs too. especially when you think about her career path at HHM and how it’s going in s1/s2, or her time with mesa verde. to her credit, she breaks off the rails eventually in those situations, but she does seem to ride these tracks long past the point when it’s clear she’s not on a good route. i guess you could say that about her relationship with jimmy, too? depending on how fatalistic (and maybe reductive?) you want to be.

The sky around it glows amber. West, he thinks. “But you weren’t stuck in Red Cloud,” he says. and kennedy’s head faces west, faces the future.

he pauses for a moment, eyes drawn to the long shadows cast backward by the two of them, rippling over the white dunes. They stretch away so far they seem to vanish before they end. something about this image seems perfect for the two of them. maybe that’s just the dumb jimmy romantic in me talking. kim and jimmy’s shadows dipping over the curve of the dunes, out of sight, before they end.

hell, this got LONG! i’ll end with this quote i took a screenshot of in the visitor’s center. better call saul, anybody?

#asks #commentary ask meme #kingofthelampoon #better call saul #a controlled burn

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etheralisi · 4 years ago

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𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

A03

𝙼𝚢 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝

𝙴𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝙸𝚜 𝙼𝚢

𝙼𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢

~ 𝚄𝚗𝚔𝚘𝚠𝚗

-------

He never forgets.

The feeling of his body being torn limb from limb, muscles stretching and convulsing, tested to their very limits, before feeble connections give way and his skin sheds, layer by layer, cell by cell. He peels like an onion, flakey, tear ducts long since run dry from his seemingly endless bouts of harrowing screams. It’s a pain of unimaginable levels, so excruciating he’s pretty sure parts of him have gone numb. But where he can feel it, pain tears through him like butter, always managing to climb to a new height of agony, and then when he thinks it can’t get worse, a step above that. And it hurts. Oh how it hurts. Burns like a star gone supernova. A raw energy that extends beyond his very boundaries of a self.

Dipper’s twelve, only twelve, and his life is flashing before his eyes. He’s alight with his last burning embers, soul aflame, and fighting for every second of life, every lick of fire. His spark kindles and hisses, a stubborn thing, the will of a boy who just wants to live. To reach the age of thirteen, so close, so very close, but always just a stretch ahead.

It’s a doomed battle.

Where the triangle prods, slithers his slimy existence into him, a small segment of himself freezes, crumbles into a cold amounting mass of something. Every fleeting moment is a moment where something is lost, forgotten, ripped away from him because the universe is just this unfair. It won’t play the game by the rules, will make up new exceptions as it goes, reality warping anew around his frame as he falls to a fate he never even wanted.

Dipper screams for a loss of a feeling he can’t recall, feels his throat run raw until there’s no vocal chords to scream through. He’s self-destructive at this point, ripping through his mind to find the perpetrator and let him squirm.

Bill is a virus, an infection that reeks of chaos and death and violates his very essence. Dipper’s memories crumble at the triangle’s presence, leaving nothing but dust and ash, and the trickling of Bill’s oily ooze as a residue, an unwelcome tenant where Dipper resides. It’s unsettling, and wrong, wrong, all wrong. Wherever those tendrils touch, reach into his own infinity of a mindscape, vast and now oh so barren, they succeed in taking something he’s never even been aware of having. They take and they take, and he’s left with nothing but loss and pain as if it’s all he’s ever known.

The pain, it’s all very clear, white hot as it tunnels through decaying marrow. Dipper’s a falling empire left to ruin. A bridge quaking on its foundations, creaking as the joints give way under rust. Nothing can ever cross safely again, repair now a far forgone option, because he knows it, there’s no coming back from whatever the heck he’s been plunged into. Any second and he will collapse, fall into the cavernous abyss below.

He would rather burn this bridge and push Cipher into the ruins.

Fierce determination fuels his tunnel vision, the screams of no, no, no. This won’t be his end, and he absolutely refuses to abandon his post. He stands his ground, even as he breathes his last breath, even as he feels his lungs shatter. A power surges from within, a fierce struggle from a captain who refuses to abandon ship. His death is imminent, irreversible at this point, fate from the very second he struck that flimsy deal for the laptop. But here, perhaps he can soften the blow, he would rather stare death in its skeletal face than hand himself over to the enemy.

He refuses to bend to the will of that triangle, will not play his game and fall into his hands as putty ever again.

If Dipper dies, Bill goes with him.

The decision is made. The last chord is plucked, and the bridge collapses. Bill — or the measly thing he’s been reduced to, desperate enough to claw into a child’s mind — cackles until he doesn’t. His silence speaks louder than words.

He knows what Dipper’s done. Caught him in Bill’s blindspot, bested by a kid who’s determined to see this through to the very end.

And to the end they shall go. A body is decimated, a clearing all but incinerated, and a triangular demon thrown into a cycle he has never meant to enter.

For a moment, a mere second, Dipper is limitless. Just a being. An entity with a lack of self. He only knows he exists, is something, means something, and it’s this feeling he clings to with every ounce of his nonexistence.

He knows not what he is, or who, but a familiar warmth pulls at him, strings of wool and comfort.

He wakes before he realises what waking is. Exists before he can wonder how. Sees before he realises he shouldn’t. Lives before it hits him he isn’t really living at all.

By all means, he should be dead.

Dipper sits on borrowed time, spins on clock hands of a clock that isn’t really his at all. An existence that belonged to a dying demon, Bill's expiration date, Bill’s sand timer. Bill who’s unleashed more chaos than thought possible with that spur of the moment decision.

The memory is a tarring mark on him. Ingrained so deeply in his mindscape it burns with a flame impossible to extinguish. A mocking thing, a reminder of his refusal to let his own flames die.

He never forgets.

Not when Mabel’s there, coaxing him with a stream of ‘it’s okay’s and ‘it’ll all be fine, see’s, and any other such hollow words, each disguised as fuzzy warm sweaters, because they both know, deep down, it’s very much not okay. Phantom pain laces his fibres — he doesn’t know what he even is anymore, he’s a something because pain can’t come out of nowhere — twitching in fits and starts of muscle contractions. It’s reduced to an ache of a memory, nothing more than a dull tingling throb. But he pushes through, shoots a smile of empty despair.

His eyes do all the telling. They’re not even brown anymore.

They’re both just kids, dealing with his death-not-death with hugs and tears. Promises that’ll snap and break beneath his touch, as his world comes clattering down around him at the speed of the supernatural becoming natural.

He never forgets.

Not when the truth emerges, a smack to the face even when he saw it coming. He’s a demon. Just like him. The thing he hated most.

It brings a whole other meaning to ‘you are your own worst enemy.’

Dipper abhors it.

Abhors the teething through bleeding gums, the wings that protrude from his back as two black stubs, the way his blood drips molten gold, loathes his claws that tear at flesh, cag on Mabel’s wool and shred her favoured clothing. But the pain is only mild in comparison to that, the moment that changed it all.

He never forgets.

Not when Mabel meets Henry, not when the triplets are born, not when he wrecks his brother in law’s life with a wave of eldritch flame. The Woodsman arises, a being of the forest sculpted by his own spur of the moment decision.

He’s doing the same. Exposing someone to a demonic power that creates something else entirely. Something not quite human. He weighs Henry down with antlers and served hands, a burden his brother in law should never have to carry.

He can never quite forgive himself for this. Much like the deal for Mabel’s soul, the decision saves a life, but it leaves scars rooted deep.

He never forgets.

Not when Mabel’s there, buried below mounds of dirt, little more than letters on a fast dissolving rock. His tears ebb away, too late to stop the ones that eat at the polished stone, acid on her grave. Grief consumes him in roaring waves, the what-ifs just as haunting as his presence, a strange ghostly boy clinging to a grave like his last anchor. Had Bill won, all those years back, that could have been him too. The Mystery Twins reunited by death.

Maybe, in the end, Bill wins anyway.

He never forgets.

Not with reincarnation after reincarnation. He watches over them, his ever growing family too until he becomes but a rumour. A protector of a family, even when his identity to them as a Pines is lost. He remembers why all this is happening, why he lives as he does, and it all links back to that moment.

He never forgets.

Not even when Bill’s soul emerges once more, a phoenix from the ashes, threatens to spill into the waking world and reclaim his domination plans centuries later. Nor at his second failure.

Dipper’s there, stuck with a cursed existence, a hatred that will never truly simmer down, fierce raging anger for the very demon who stuck him like this.

He never forgets.

It’s a pain that lingers from a body and life long lost, the death of a child and the birth of a new demon. Of Alcor. The memory stands there, in the eye of his storm, coals on his fire, a fuel for his unadulterated rage. Of all the memories he has, this is the one that stays, the pain and frustration hitting somewhere that all those happy memories can’t. It’s a second for the life of a demon, barely that. A speck of his immortal life.

But for him, the memory lasts an eternity.

He can’t forget.

#Transcendence au #Bread fic

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kyunsies · 4 years ago

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i was tagged by my lovely lil fam @memehyungwon @pansynight @theyoungflexer ;; i love u all dearly!!!!!!

rules: answer these questions and tag 5 mutuals

1. Flowers or chocolates? flowers!!

2. Between day and night I prefer: day

3. My favorite drink: WATER (more specifically sparkling water) (even more specifically la croix or san pelligrino hehe)

4. Between sunrise and sunset, I prefer: mmm i can’t choose :( i love the sunrise bc i wake up pretty early naturally but ALSO i have a lil series here on all the sunset pics i take and they’re beautiful so :(( gotta go with both!!!

5. Between dogs and cats, I prefer: dogs, i think i’m allergic to cats LOL

6. The vegetable I hate the most: eggplant, raw onions, cucumber, cauliflower......i could go on and on i hate how picky i am kfsdfjsdfjs

7. My favorite sound: kyun’s VOICE,,,,,and maybe the ocean (even tho i’m afraid of it)

8. The first thing I notice about people: their teeth/complexion (i have crooked teeth so when someone shows me a bright smile??? love that!!!)

9. Would you prefer horror or fantasy? i love horror movies but there hasn't been a good one in a really long time (idk why collectively as a society we need to hire The Worst actors/actresses EVER for horror film ugh) so i guess i’ll say fantasy :^)

10. I’d want to be stuck in a lift with: my best friend or my teammate or someone who is strong OR all of the above together :’)

11. What city or town you’d like to live in? it’s been a dream of mine to live in chicago!!!!!! chicago has everything: beach front (lake michigan is so big you can’t even see the shoreline from across the lake so it might as well look like an ocean), the big city life, also a really nice suburban area........you literally have everything <33

12. What I value most in life: to be happy and also like, to love and be loved ;; being in love (not even romantically) with your friends and family is the best feeling in the world idk,,,,,life is so beautiful no matter how many things go wrong no matter what how lucky are we to live on earth and experience love and pain and happiness and sadness and all of life’s lil ups and downs :’)

13. If I could learn any skill, it’d be: hemming my own clothes ;; im so short i don’t fit into anything dfjskdfjsdfj but also i would love to learn how to improve cooking !!!

14. Between the beach and the mountains, I prefer: beach AND mountains its impossible to choose

15. I’d love to get married in: a church lol (call me a prude religious person) but all of my aunts had beautiful weddings in beautiful churches and :’) im not saying i want an expensive wedding or anything but!!!!! i just love weddings lol

16. My hidden talent: i can raise my eyebrow??? idk or i can do a one-handed cartwheel but that’s not really hidden i guess

17. If I could bring anyone back to life, I’d bring back: jesus, and i’m not even lying i wish the world would be a better place ;____;

18. Why? we are in SHAMBLES hehe like i know we all should learn from mistakes and all that but i think collectively as a human race we need like,,,,,,,,a big ‘ol group hug <33

19. Rainy or sunny day? sunny but!!!!! i only like rainy days when a) its not windy b) it’s not humid and c) when its just plain ‘ol RAINING like no thunderstorms or super cells that will turn into tornados idk how to express the fear i have for severe thunderstorms :(

20. Who’s the real model of your life? momma bear!!!!

21. How I relax after a hard day: watching any form of monsta x content on yt, or a recent interest is learning about korean cuisine like i follow these 2 channels on yt where these couples make homemade korean food and i just think everything looks yummy and i would like to either try it sometime or make it sometime on my own!!!!!!

22. I like the way I look: absolutely not lol

23. My most favorite facial features of myself is: ehhh maybe my eyebrows

24. My most favorite part of my body is: i don’t really seem to have a favorite body part but ill just say i have a lil mole on my ring finger and i always joke around with my friends that when i meet my soulmate and he puts a ring on my finger that mole will glow gold or something LOL DO U BELIEVE ME NOW WHEN I SAY I AM A HOPELESS ROMANTIC <33

25. If I could change anything about my body: well to start i wish i was taller LOL

26. If yes, what’s it: my height i want longer and slimmer LEGS

27. If I could change something from my past: my whole uni experience

28. How many piercing I have: 4?? two on each ear!

29. I like makeup? i like makeup but i hate what “influencers” have done with it like,,,,,,you don’t NEED the newest jeffery star palette pls go at your own pace i feel like it’s just CONSUME and then okay what’s the next hottest thing that looks like everything else on the market :’)

30. I wear make up everyday: heck no

31. My skin type is: combination in the summer but dry in the winter

32. My skin tone: tanned? i don’t have a deep chocolatey skin tone but, it just looks like i have a tan all the time

33. My hair color: dark brown

34. My height: 4′11″ so i think that’s only 149 cm lol

35. My age: 21

36. My birthday: december 4

37. My best friend: my roommate + my teammate + plus some other uni friends <33

38. I have a pet or more: none sadly :(

39. If I don’t, I’d like to adopt: YA my dream pup is a greyhound !!!

40. Video games or social media: social media i hate hate hate video games

41. I’ve visited outside my country: canada + dominican republic + jamaica + mexico but i would love to go to europe

42. I have an innocent/dirty mind: both honestly lol

43. Someone proposed to me or asked me out? nah

44. If yes, then I liked it and accepted or the opposite: nah

45. Do you follow some celebrities’ fashion: no, i thin fashion is unique to the individual so there’s no point in copying :)

46. What do you think about your fashion sense: i like it and i feel comfortable in what i wear!

47. You found someone copying your fashion: my fashion is simple so if someone dresses simple then we have the same BRAIN <33

48. Can you do your makeup properly: yes

49. You go or used to go with makeup to school: i used to in grade school/junior high bc i had really bad acne but now i dont care anymore :D

50. What color suits you best? neutral colors + cold accessories

51. Finally, how is quarantine going? it could be better but it's not terrible!! i go back to school this weekend sooooooo oof

tagging: @ckyunoirs @softhyungkyun @xphenomenon @sohcean @hohyuk and anyone else who wants to do this (and ofc feel free not to as well!!)

#tagged games #you know how long this took me?? LOL its okay these are always fun !!#i hope u are all doing well sending u lots of love and hugs <333

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ladykeane · 5 years ago

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hi! i just read the fic 'clausura' on ao3 and i really liked the premise so could i request something with reg helping bertie through a panic attack in the bertie's blog verse? i've been having quite a few recently and i wish i had someone like reg to help me through them. thank you!!

Prompt (finally) filled! I hope you don’t mind Nonny, but I switched the script and had Bertie help Reg instead.

I try not to put too much real world strife into this series, but I think COVID-19 is too invasive to ignore. Wash your hands, follow medical advice, and keep calm and carry on. Also practice good mental self-care if you don’t have a household Wooster to do it for you!

‘Who was that Scottish chappie, Reg?’‘Bertram?’‘You know, the one who always banged on about schemes and gangs and aglets, or something.’It took me a moment to detangle the meaning of my beloved’s question.‘You may be referring to the poet Burns, and the oft-quoted excerpt of his poem “To A Mouse”:“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,an’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, for promis’d joy!”’‘That’s it. Someone ought give him an editorial spot with The Independent.’‘I fear it would be a posthumous one, Bertram.’‘Oh. Shame, that.’

I suspect that Bertram was musing on the peculiar times that we curently find ourselves in: a land of toilet paper scarcity, face masks, and widespread uncertainty. He had just come home from a foraging trip through the local supermarkets. Though he looked somewhat the worse for wear, had scored a few bags of root vegetables, some bulk wet wipes, and a good four kilograms of cat litter. His Code of the Woosters had driven him to volunteer for the onerous task. I quickly moved to prepare a pot of his favoured Darjeeling.

My own onerous task for the day had been an earlier phone call to my mother, informing her that the intricate and expensive planning that we’d gone through for my wedding to Bertram would, for now, amount to naught. The immediate future was a grey fog, and no-one could say for sure when it would be safe to re-schedule the ceremony.‘Was Rani alright when you phoned?’ Bertram asked, casting an errant shred of packing foam from his hair, before scrubbing his hands raw under the kitchen tap.��She bore up. She wishes to give the catering company a very stern phone call for their refusal to refund our deposit. But as she is currently so busy at the medical centre, I doubt she will find the time or energy.’'I imagine the old girl has her hands full with panicking tabloid readers, eh?’'Quite so, Bertram. She told me that more of her time has been spent counselling healthy young people with the sniffles, than administering to her truly vulnerable patients.’'Blackguards. May they all run out of loo roll!’'Indeed.’We then passed a more sedate afternoon over our laptops. Bertram meticulously tended to his famous blog, while I prepared some documents for a fastidious client, keen to protect her assets against the variable economic climate. The cats, who were quite pleased with our increased presence in the flat, snoozed together on the tabletop between us.As I rose for a second cup of tea, I considered their purring, languid forms. Not for the first time, I urged myself to maintain my my sangfroid. It was in unsettled times like this that my reputedly cool demeanour was truly put to the test. While I would not confess to being a total control freak, I do appreciate order and consistency a great deal. It is the environment in which I best flourish, and I confess that the mounting chaos around us had been persistenly pricking at my nerves.

As I poured the remaining tea, I recieved a phone call from an unknown number.'Hello, this is Reginald Jeeves.’'Good afternoon, Mr Jeeves, I’m calling from Bethnal Green Medical Centre. I understand that you are a co-worker of a Mrs Beatrice Akinyemi?’'Yes, she is a paralegal at my firm.’ I felt my insides begin to clench.'Have you been in contact with Mrs Akinyemi within the last fourteen days, sir?’'I saw her at the office just a few days ago.’'I am obliged to inform you that she has recently tested positive for COVID-19. Given your recent contact, you and your household will be obliged to self isolate for a minimum of fourteen days, and monitor the onset of any symptoms. Have you or any of your houshold members experienced a high fever or persistent coughing?’My words stuck in my throat, and my heartbeat accelerated.'Sir?’'Is Bea alright?’'She last reported some mild flu-like symptoms, but she is not currently in a critical condition. As she is not in a high-risk category, her prospects of a full recovery are good. Can you please confirm if you or any of your household have been experiencing related symptoms?’’…No.’'Are any of your household members over the age of sixty, or do they have a pre-existing autoimmune condition?’'Paul… he’s not in my household, he is my co-worker. He and his husband are-’'We will be contacting Mr Seppings, to advise him of this development.’'Thank you.’'Should you develop any symptoms, your household will need to remain in self-isolation for a further fourteen days. Please refer to the NHS website to keep up to date with any developments. And do try not to worry too much. These are necessary precautions, which are in place to minimise the spread of the virus. You and your colleagues will likely be fine, long-term.’I nodded tightly, unable to find further words.After an uneasy pause, 'Have yourself a good day, Mr Jeeves.’ The line went dead.

The last I had seen of Bea had been last Friday, shuffling listlessly out of the office doors, laden down with a loot of groceries. She had two loud, hungry teenage sons at home.I thought of Paul and Anatole. Both were ex-smokers, their lungs still in the process of repairing decades of damage. I thought of my mother, swamped with desperate patients, a face mask clamped over her mouth.

I was suddenly unable to get enough air into my own lungs. My throbbing hearbeat seemed to overtake everything, pounding in my throat and my ears. I gripped at the kitchen counter with trembling clawed fingers. What was worst was the blank terror in my mind, my inability to think my way out of the paralysis. This godawful panic had saturated its way through my whole body.

The kitchen door opened behind me, Bertram bearing his own empty teacup.'Reg…?’ His voice was delicate.I tried not to sob as I felt tears escape my eyes.

After a few moments, his slow, slippered footsteps approached, and he softly draped his slender form upon my back. His arms slipped around my waist, and he rested his head on my shoulder. With my sharp, jagged inhales, his curls began to tickle my face.I could feel his own breaths, deep, even, tender. His body was a reassuring weight, and his hands began stroking up and down my arms.

'Come with meAnd you’ll beIn a world of pure imaginationTake a look and you’ll seeInto your imagination…’

We’ll beginWith a spinTravelling in the world of my creationWhat we’ll see will defy explanation…’

As he sang, my heartbeat gradually slowed, falling in time with the unhurried tempo he had set. The tear tracks dried on my face.I found my words once more. 'Willy Wonka, Bertram?’'Well… you look like you could use some chocolate.’

He sat me down, and presented me with a family block of Cadbury’s along with my refreshed tea.'That was Bea’s GP. She has tested positive, so we must isolate for the next two weeks.’'Ah, well.’ He broke off a large piece and popped it in his mouth. 'It was bound to happen to one of us, sooner or later. Knowing Bea, her immune system’s already got the dratted thing running scared. Have you called her?’Tightness constricted my throat again, and Bertram was surprisingly astute. He rested his hand on mine. 'She’ll be alright, I promise you. So will the others. Anatole’s arsenal of garlic-heavy dishes will will be a formidable first defence, for one thing.’

I exhaled heavily. ’…I haven’t had such an episode of panic since secondary school.’ I felt a layer of shame now pressing upon my ravaged core.Bertram tsked. 'Oh, I got panic attacks all the time at Eton. Must have been all the stress from constantly dodging my house master’s fury. It always helped to cocoon myself in bed. I hope that the spindly Wooster corpus provided a passable impromptu shock blanket for you!’He laughed lightly, then his gaze settled on mine. I was pulled into a lengthy embrace. He spoke no more, instead imparting all that I needed through his sweet, balmy presence.

***

'You wouldn’t believe what a help my Simon has been,’ Bea told me, her congested voice even more distorted through the phone. 'Made a pea and ham soup last night that was actually edible. He even found a carton of my favourite ice-cream at the back of the Tesco freezer!’'So your appetite is still sound?’ I questioned.'Yeah, just have to deal with this bloody cough. Otherwise, staying in my PJs and binge-watching telly all day has been quite the holiday. The doc told me I’ll likely recover just fine.’'I am relieved to hear it.’'You just make sure you’re looking after yourself, Reg.’ Her tone had turned stern and auntly. 'Though I’m sure that that Bertram of yours is nursing you well proper. Do as he says, alright?’'I will be sure to.’'I’m gonna start on season 3 of “The Crown”, now. I promise I’ll keep spoilers to myself. Talk soon, love.’'Take care, Bea.’

I hung up, turning my attention to Vasily, warm and pliant in my lap. I scratched his ears and he purred deeply.'Dinner will be ready in about five, Reg,’ Bertram announced from the kitchen. 'Is beans on spelt toast with sauted red onions alright?’I chuckled to myself. 'That will be superlative, my shaman.’

#fanfic prompts #bertie's blog #jeeves and wooster #jooster #covid-19 #competent!bertie #h/c #panic attack

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the-lovely-little-witch · 6 years ago

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Cold curing broth

I have the worlds worst cold and I’m trying anything to help alleviate it. Today I made a delicious broth that I thought I would share with you.

Ingredients:

- 2 cups water

-1 teaspoon chicken bullion

- 2 tablespoons onions (dried or raw, I used dry)

- 1 clove garlic, minced

-1/4 cup barley

- 1/2 teaspoon lemon peel

- 1/4 teaspoon ginger

Simmer all ingredients on medium to low heat untill onions are soft and translucent and the barley is soft. Mix regularly. After about 15 min of simmering turn off heat and and let liquid cool. Blend if desired, I did this so that my garlic wasn’t so chunky.

Over all it was very tasty and very soothing on a sore throat. It was a little salty however so I would cut back on the bullion if you don’t like salty things. Onions and garlic both have natural infection fighting properties so they make a great ( and yummy) cold fighting aid, and lemon peel is choc full of vitamin c. Ginger is also a champ at tackling colds and small flu like ailments. I like treating minor things with natural remedies and I can’t wait to make this again tomorrow! It’s warm and soothing and super yummy.

#the lovley little witch #witchblr #witchy #pagan #witchcraft #herbalism #herbs #natural #food #medical

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ramblingrybo · 4 years ago

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Hyacinths? You’ll need some hair lacquer

I have an intimate knowledge of hyacinths. The same can be said of strawberries, potatoes and cocktail onions. It was what we picked or sorted in the fields and factories of Boston when I was young. In those days, most casual work was connected to agriculture and there was plenty of it. It might have been mind-numbing but it guaranteed a ready source of income with which to buy comics, records, guitar strings or cigarettes, depending on your age.

I started working on the land when I was ten. A double decker bus would pick us up after school from the scout huts near Skirbeck church and take us to the fruit fields of Frampton, four miles away. The bus would be crammed with hyper-active school children, harassed young mothers and short-tempered grannies with ill-functioning hearing aids. Nobody talked; everybody shouted. This was punctuated by the odd slap and scream. It was pure bedlam.

When we were finally released from this uproar upon our arrival, all you could see were endless rows of bobbing rumps. All you could hear was the distant growl of a tractor and the trilling of skylarks in the vast skies above us. Within minutes, we were picking our own row, filling a bucket in exchange for a few pence and then repeating the process, more slowly each time. At first, you would start to pick with fast pecking hands. Very soon, however, any sense of urgency would disappear, quickly replaced by a mechanical lethargy until finally a state of paralysis set in. This was reflected in the shape of the body, from bent to crawling to completely inert. Some people, however, took this one step further. One summer, we found Gonk’s younger brother, Rabbit, curled-up asleep in one of the furrows. However, for the rest of us, three hours of routine picking left us with an aching back, knees covered in mashed strawberries and glazed eyes.

All soft fruit work was piece-work but at least with raspberries and gooseberries you didn’t have to stoop so far. That was the good news. The bad news was that you had to pick with prickles or thorns for company. Raspberries were bearable although the fruit was so delicate, it was like picking soft meringues - easily squash-able. Gooseberries, on the other hand, were savage. Trying to pick gooseberries quickly while only wearing a pair of Marigolds, was like feeding your hands into a factory loom. It was only the regulars who made any money. They could strip a bush within seconds and fill a wicker basket within minutes. I was so impressed the first time I witnessed it.

‘Wow, that’s amazing. I just tried to do that and left a lot of skin behind.’

‘You know why they’re so good, don’t you?

‘No.’

‘It’s the gloves they’ve got. They have metal palms. You could strip the barnacles from the bottom of a boat with a pair of those.’

Soft fruit piece-work was for the beginners. If you wanted to guarantee full time work for the holidays and enjoy a weekly pay packet, you needed to join a gang. I was lucky. As a fourteen year old, I found Maggie. She was an experienced ganger who didn’t suffer fools gladly. A strict disciplinarian, Maggie hated lateness, sloppy work and anybody answering her back. She had an acid tongue, skin as leathery as an old saddle-bag and a forearm smash that could stun a mule. If you toed the line, working for Maggie was a cinch. If you didn’t, you could be harangued, physically assaulted, summarily dismissed or, worst of all, find yourself walking all the way home from Spalding, a tedious and exhausting trek of fourteen miles. Work could be anywhere in the south of Lincolnshire. We would get picked up at 7a.m. in Boston and be working in the fields of Bicker, Pinchbeck, Dogdyke, Cowbit or Moulton Chapel by 8. The van which picked us up was held together with bits of bailer twine and wire - a description which could also be applied to some of the regular workers whose company we kept every holiday. Moose was one of them. He was a huge, kindly man with the strength of a cart horse but the brain of a child. Poor thing believed anything we told him. His trousers were always at half-mast, he sported a basin haircut and lived in a shed behind his mum’s council bungalow.

Most of the work was picking potatoes which is back-breaking and relentless. We prayed for the tractor with its plough to break down. When it didn’t, we had to pick two-handed to keep up although heel and toeing could lighten the load considerably. This entailed stamping on the potatoes to bury them with the heel of your boot and then scraping back with the toe to cover the evidence with soil. Well-practised proponents of this skill could tap-dance a whole row of potatoes out of existence. Many of the best workers were women who could work for hours without a break. As most of them smoked and kept their cigarettes in their mouths while picking, many of them sported nicotine stains on their upper lips. As a result, lunch times in the van could be a bit of a trial for the rest of us. Watching a nicotine stained woman eating a fried egg sandwich was not an appetising sight. Many a slice of pork pie was returned to a lunch box, uneaten.

Sometimes we were released from the retches and furrows to work on tractor-drawn potato harvesters, machines which harvested the crop and allowed sorting to be carried out on a mobile conveyor belt. A line of us would pick out the rotten or damaged potatoes. Once again, it was relentless work but at least we were standing up. The only problem came in really hot weather when the fields were dry. The harvester would create dust storms which meant that we had to wear hats, goggles and scarves to protect heads and faces. Looking like flying aces from the First World War, we baked, lost all sense of hearing and dreamt of ice-cold drinks.

Promotion came at the age of sixteen when we moved from the fields to the factory. Thinking we had finally made it, we got jobs at Johnson’s Seeds, working in the bulb packaging department. Little did we know, however, of the suffering which lay ahead. At first, our daily routine was a doddle. No rain, decent breaks, a canteen, good pay. And the work? Undemanding, if a little dull. My job was to load crocus bulbs into a mechanical hopper which vibrated back and forth and graded them. It wasn’t difficult - a bit of lugging, pushing a couple of buttons and some prodding. And repeat. But then we switched to hyacinth bulbs and for the next few weeks our lives became a living hell.

We should have heeded Beryl’s warning on the Friday afternoon.

‘Hyacinths on Monday. You’ll be needin’ some hair lacquer, lovey.’

I waited until she had gone before turning to Gary.

‘Hair lacquer? What’s she on about?’

‘Search me. It’s probably the medication.’

‘You reckon she’s off her trolley?’

‘Must be.’

A further clue was provided first thing on the Monday morning when we arrived at the hoppers. Eric, the manager, was positively buoyant. Chortling to himself, he winked at Stuart, the foreman, and both of them began to rub their hands together like two football supporters eagerly anticipating a cup final.

‘Come on, then, what are yer waitin’ fer? Git them machines runnin’ and them hyacinths tumblin’.’

And we did. And five minutes later, we were scratching crazily at our necks, throats and scalps and emitting high-pitched wails like the noise cars make when they are being crushed slowly in a scrapyard with a giant iron claw. Very quickly, any exposed skin was red raw and nasty welts had been scored by fingernails into our flesh. We jigged and flailed like members of a religious cult while Eric and Stuart rocked with laughter from the safety of their office.

And what was to blame for this sudden change of behaviour? Sounds implausible I know but it was the waxy skin on the hyacinth bulbs. You see, it breaks down into small flecks when it is tossed about in a hopper. These flecks become airborne and alight on the open pores of necks and throats and cause extreme irritation. The only way of preventing this is to apply a thick coating of hair lacquer to the skin to block the pores. Rather than being off her trolley, Beryl had been trying to protect us. What we took to be the mutterings of a mad woman were, in fact, the kind words of a co-worker.

We didn’t make the same mistake twice. On our way home, we called in at the chemist’s.

‘Five tins of hair lacquer, please.’

‘Blimey, young man, it’ll set like cement if yer use that much.’

If it was possible to protect against the effects of hyacinth bulbs, the same could not be said of cocktail onions. These were what we ended up sorting and grading in the factory job which took us through our college years. It wasn’t that they made your eyes stream. We soon got used to that. No, it was what lingered afterwards which was the cause of much embarrassment. You see, the smell of cocktail onions stays for days, not only on your clothes but on your skin as well. Baths, deodorant, after shave, all were useless in the struggle to remain fresh and wholesome. A weekend trip to the cinema with your girlfriend could be a fraught affair. In the warmth of the auditorium, the smell of onions returned with a vengeance, seeping out of bodily pores and crevices.

‘What on earth is that smell? It’s not you, is it?’

‘No, of course, not.’

‘Have you had a bath today?’

‘Yes, I had a long soak.’

‘Can you lean away a bit?’

‘That OK?’

‘Actually, can you sit over there?’

Even when we had left the job for good, we were haunted by the odour. Working in a cocktail onion factory might have been good money but it didn’t half play havoc with your love life.

So, there we have it. The trials and tribulations of working in the fields and factories of Boston as a pupil and student in the late 60s and early 70s. And its legacy? A life-long admiration for anybody working on the land and an appreciation of the choices which were made available to me in my own life.

Next time: ‘On the Verge of Orchids (or Where did I put that Herb Paris?)’

#fruit picking #land-gangs #potato picking #agricultural factories #hair lacquer

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chilly-territory · 5 years ago

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Uchouten Kazoku 2, chapter 1 (part 1 out of 3)

And this is the more interesting thing I mentioned.

The Eccentric Family: The Nidaime's Homecoming (Uchouten Kazoku: Nidaime no Kichou) by Morimi Tomihiko

Chapter 1 (part 1/3, pages 7-29) The Nidaime's Homecoming

There is nothing to do except to live an amusing life.

First, how about setting to do just that.

I'm what you would call a tanuki living in modern Kyoto, but too proud to be a mere tanuki, I admire tengu from afar and love imitating humans. There is no doubt this trouble-inviting disposition is something that has been passed down from our distant ancestors through generations, and my late father referred to it as our 'idiot blood'.

My father, Shimogamo Souichirou, was known far and wide in the city of Kyoto and its surroundings as the Nise-emon [*1], that is, the head of Kyoto's tanuki society, and even tengu respected him. If Souichirou had been a tanuki possessing just a little more good sense, he wouldn't have ended up in humans' tanuki hot pot as a result of picking a fight with the Kurama tengu. However, he was able to leave numerous legends behind precisely because he was a phenomenal idiot who danced on the brink of a pot.

"My idiot blood's doing," he used to say.

I came into this world as the third son of said Nise-emon, Shimogamo Souichorou, in the Tadasu forest.

A genius shows from childhood, they say, and I showed myself as a perfectly healthy and furry problem child of the tanuki world even before being able to stand steadily on my four paws. Starting with my attempt to smoke out Hesoishi-sama[*2] of Rokkakudou with pine needles, I bizarrely changed into anything and everything, from a bottle opener to mounted peacekeepers[*3], and meddled in tengu and humans' affairs alike, having bought a lot of displeasure as Yasaburou the reckless lad. However, as a tanuki in whose veins the idiot blood inherited from my father flows, how else could I live? There is no path for me other than that of a fool.

In other words, an amusing thing is a good thing.

And thus, I begin this furry tale that started on a certain day in May when spring was in full bloom in Kyoto, spreading fresh smiling greenery to all the 36 peaks of the Higashiyama mountains where I, a tanuki, lived an amusing life, as always.

〇

Ever since being a baby tanuki, I'd always loved May that never failed to get my idiot blood bubbling with excitement.

The forest puffing out with vibrant new leaves resembles a tanuki, don't you think?

On that day, I exited the Tadasu forest, humming to myself as I walked along the riverside of the Kamogawa river with the spring breeze streaming around me. Having shapeshifted into a gorgeous woman with blond hair and blue eyes, I took no small pride in my skin-deep beauty, parading myself along the Kamogawa river and bewitching the living daylights out of some idiot students passing by.

My destination was a certain apartment in the apartment building Masugata just behind the Demachi shopping district.

Despite the refreshing spring breeze sweeping through every back alley and street of Kyoto, that shabby apartment stayed gloomy like a stale permanently laid-out bedding never left out to air.

In that apartment lived a life of alternating lulls and explosions of rage Akadama-sensei, an elderly semi-retired tengu. Having an imposing name of Nyoigadake Yakushibou[*4], he used to be a great tengu ruling over the whole Mt.Nyoigadake in the past. However, having suffered defeat in the turf war against the Kurama tengu, he was exiled to behind the Demachi shopping arcade, becoming a shadow of his former self, his dignity as a tengu vanishing like mist.

"Hello, hello, sensei, it is I, Yasaburou, and I humbly came to call on you."

When I called out to the back of the four and a half tatami mat room, "Oh, it's you, Yasaburou," came an answer in a displeased voice.

"Oh, sensei, are you in ill humor today, again?" "I never once have been in good humor since taking my first bath as a baby." "Here you go again saying such things... better take a look here: a beautiful girl is here for you. Please behold this hair, golden like the finest Miwa soumen[*5]." "Don't flaunt your cheap shapeshifting tricks before me, they make me sick!!

Leaving the foodstuff in the kitchen, I entered the four-and-a-half-tatami mat room and found sensei sitting cross-legged on the laid-out futon in stains from Akadama port wine and scowling at a stone on a zabuton of gold brocade. It was a pebble about as big as a human’s clenched fist, gray and completely ordinary.

"Ohh, if it isn’t the keystone of the tengu hot pot!" I said. "As long as they have this, even a complete fool like you can make a hot pot." "...What a mean thing to say."

To make a tengu hot pot you fill a pot with water, add tofu, kujo green onions, Chinese cabbage and some chicken meat, then throw in that stone that sensei had and let it all boil. It's delicious if you eat it with seasoned ponzu, but without the keystone, you won't get the flavor of the authentic tengu hot pot even if you use the same ingredients. That keystone was truly a priced possession and a seasoned veteran that had been wandering from one hot pot to another in Japanese cuisine restaurants of Kyoto for a long time, and each time it was thrown into a hot pot, it would ooze the umami of countless hot pots. Another stone was entrusted to a traditional Japanese restaurant near Koudaiji temple and was currently in the process of ripening.

Although, in Akadama-sensei's opinion, since the tengu hot pot was a recipe that implied cooking in deep mountain valleys, making the authentic tengu hot pot without letting the clear air of mountains dissolve in it was impossible in the first place. Making it in this apartment where the only things that could dissolve in it were dust and tanuki hair would only result in a poor imitation no matter what you did. Though if served said result, sensei would still eat it with appetite - tengu were really troublesome creatures like that.

"I humbly thank you," I said, accepting the keystone with appropriate reverence and heading to the kitchen to start preparations for a hot pot. "Yasaburou, tell me, are you still into hunting the likes of tsuchinoko?" "Would you like to come along, too, sensei? I plan to head to Nyoigadake tomorrow."

When I suggested that, sensei only snorted from his small four-and-a-half-tatami mat room, "What foolishness. You take after Souichirou in all the silly ways."

〇

By the time we'd almost finished eating the hot pot, the sun outside had already set.

I patted my full tummy, while Akadama-sensei puffed on his tengu tobacco, looking quite satisfied. The ascending trail of purple smoke drifted around the conical shade of the lamp like a tiny dragon.

"Days sure have gotten longer, wouldn't you say, sir?" "Another tedious day I've lived through." "By the way, sir, have you received any letters from Benten-sama?" I asked, and sensei threw a suspicious sidelong glance my way. "And why would you want to know that?" "Why won't you tell me, sir?" "What a persistent little scrub. How is my correspondence with Benten any business of yours?"

Benten was Akadama-sensei's beloved disciple whom he had educated in the ways of tengu with utmost care.

With her tengu-like raw power Benten overwhelmed authentic tengu, with her beautiful face she bewitched humans, and with her repulsive habit of eating tanuki hot pots she made Kyoto's tanuki shudder in fear of her. Who could have imagined back when Akadama-sensei had abducted her as she trotted along the bank of Lake Biwa that she would come to the fore so rapidly?

The one who incited me to help her trap Akadama-sensei and subsequently made him fall, ultimately causing his ruin, was also Benten. And not only that: she also made my father into a tanuki hot pot and ate him, and she never left attempts to do the same to me at every opportunity. Despite all of that, she was my first love, so it was complicated. "Is it that bad that I'm a tanuki?" I asked her. "Of course. I am a human, after all," she replied. Every time I recalled that conversation, the fur on my butt felt itchy.

It was dazzling April when Benten declared that she would cross the ocean.

I heard of that on one early morning when I was taking a stroll along the Kamogawa riverside together with Benten who leaped from one sakura tree in full bloom on the bank to another, indulging in a cruel game of shaking off all the petals from them without leaving a single one. "Why? What brought this on so suddenly?" I asked as I chased her in the storm of sakura petals. Seated on the top branch of a sakura tree that was left completely naked, she gazed with amusement at the petals dancing in the air and falling to the bank. "Well, I'm bored," was all she said.

"Yasaburou, make sure you take care of sensei for me. I might write a letter if I feel like it."

After spectacularly scattering sakura petals in Kyoto, she proceeded to use her charm on a tycoon in the port of Kobe to board a luxury liner, embarking on a round-the-world cruise. Akadama-sensei was only informed of Benten's departure after the ship had already set sail and when it was already too late to chase after her even if he tried.

Since having departed on her voyage impressively without any money she had yet to come back.

Occasional letters from Benten were the only consolation to sensei's heart. The fact that Benten, of all people, took troubles to write letters already being a reason enough for deep gratitude notwithstanding, those letters clearly lacked in effort so much that it was plain to see coldheartedness oozing from between their lines: even if she wrote something, it was but a couple of lines at best and simply the symbols of 〇 or X at worst. Despite that, Akadama-sensei, always sincerely looking forward to such letters, would read the few lines with meticulous attention, as if licking each of them, then carefully store the letter in a Chinese jewel-box and cherish it as if it were an imperial treasure from the Shousouin treasure house[*6]. One of the reasons why I made a habit of duly visiting sensei's apartment on a regular basis was because I hoped to snatch an opportunity when sensei would be drunk off his gourd to read Benten's letters.

Staring into the now empty pot, Akadama-sensei groaned, "Benten, plague take her, appears to be in England at the moment. Curse her for going to such a remote place."

Sensei fished out the Earth's globe out of a pile of junk, spun it and found England. "What, it's this tiny little thing?" he commented. "To hell with this world pleasure tour, she's just wasting her talent, much to my chagrin! Even though what she should be doing is devoting all her energy to walking the path of sorcery and someday succeeding her mighty master, that is I." "I wonder what she is doing there right about now." "Hmph. Probably eating some English tanuki, I would bet. Wouldn't you?"

When asked that, I recalled the words of my lovely natural enemy, 'Because I love you so much that I would eat you.' My idiot blood that made me look forward to the return of my natural enemy who betrayed her teacher, devoured my father and tried to eat me was frankly too much of a nuisance even to myself.

"You look lonely, Yasaburou." Sensei stared intensely at me. "All because Benten's not around. Bull's eye, right?" "Ahaha. I have no idea what you are talking about, sir." "You never learn your place, do you. Don't think she'd show any mercy to the likes of tanuki," sensei said, plucking his nose hair. "...But if you want to jump into a pot of your own volition, I won't stop you."

〇

That spring, I was obsessed with hunting tsuchinoko.

In the world of humans, there is a saying 'An idle brain of a small man is the devil's workshop'. It means that if a fool has more time on his hands than he knows what to do with, nothing good will come out of it. In the world of tanuki, there is a similar proverb, 'An idle brain of a small tanuki is the devil's workshop'. So let's just say that according to worldly wisdom, even the world itself would be better off if I searched for tsuchinoko rather than cooked up the devil's work for him. Initially, I started my tsuchinoko hunt because of my late father's influence, but there is no doubt that said father of mine was so in frenzy to search for tsuchinoko in his youth because he had trouble finding outlets for his buzzing idiot blood.

The term 'tsuchinoko' refers to a strange very short but wide type of serpent, a UMA with an ancient origin that was featured in the Illustrated Sino-Japanese Encyclopedia[*7] under the name of 'Nozuchi snake'. Even long before I was born, the fever of trying to find this cryptid had invaded the tanuki world. The rumor has it that in the times of my father's Sturm und Drang youth, 80% of his ventures was spent on tsuchinoko-related adventuring. The root of that passion for the romanticized dream was, without a doubt, the idiot blood flowing in our veins, and there were even tanuki in our family who ruined themselves over tsuchinoko.

However, my mother couldn't be farther from understanding the appeal of the nigh unattainable dream that tsuchinoko represented.

"That tsuchinoko of yours, is it anything like takenoko[*8]?" she asked. "Not in the least, mother." "But it's edible, at least?"

When I showed her a drawing of how tsuchinoko was supposed to look, "Oh, so it's just a weird little snake. I bet its meat is all tough," she declared. My mother was insistent on seeing tsuchinoko only as food. "Not tasty. Not tasty at all!" "I keep telling you I'm not going to eat it." "If you're not going to eat it, then why search for it?" "I guess the romance of hunting for a dream goes beyond your understanding, mother." "Come to think of it, I seem to remember that Sou-san also searched for that thing when he was young. It's so exasperating, really. Weird little tanuki do get fixated on weird little things!"

With that, my mother shapeshifted into a handsome young man and headed off to the Takarazuka Revue[*9].

As to me, I tried inviting my second elder brother dwelling on the bottom of a water well in Rokudo-chinouji temple to join my tsuchinoko hunt. But my brother said, "Even supposing we did find tsuchinoko, I'd wind up getting swallowed whole. Because, you know, it's a snake, and I'm a frog." I couldn't argue with that.

At the time, my eldest brother was very busy, often going to Nanzenji temple. All because he was moving behind the scene to revive the Nanzenji Temple Tanuki Shogi Tournament that the previous head of the temple and our father had collaborated to hold in the past. Shogi was our father's hobby, but then again, so was tsuchinoko. My eldest brother, however, had a tendency to place more cultural importance on shogi than on tsuchinoko hunting. "Stop chasing around something as dubious as tsuchinoko," he started lecturing, which made inviting him out of question.

In the end, I organized the Tsuchinoko Expedition Team with my not exactly eager younger brother Yashirou as its other member. The founding leader was our father, I was the second generation leader, and team member number 1 became my younger brother. We were on the lookout for a team member number 2 in and around the city of Kyoto.

〇

The next day after my paying a visit to Akadama-sensei, our Tsuchinoko Expedition Team set out, infiltrating the forest from the Shishigatani valley and proceeding to wander around the foot of Mt.Nyoigadake. The forest wearing fresh green swelled like a sponge that absorbed clear water, with the wind, nice and cool at its core, rustling between the numerous pillars of light shining through new leaves.

"Nii-chan, it smells like spring, right?" "Hey, keep your eyes peeled. We have no idea where it might be hiding." "But, nii-chan, I have to wonder if tsuchinoko really exists." "It's precisely because we don't know for sure if it exists or not that it makes this dream-hunting worthwhile."

Since tsuchinoko is a UMA steeped in mysteries, for its capture one must employ equally mysterious techniques, or so my pet theory went. Going about it the normal way wouldn't work, as there could be no doubt that all the obvious methods had already been tried by someone. The approach that looked to me like it could be useful was summed up by 'If you do this, what would happen?' So we set a trap of a gourd filled with cheap sake and a hard-boiled egg sprinkled with some Ajinomoto salt[*10] in the shade of a tree. We also documented in a field notebook any suspicious traces we had found in the forest.

Although I hatched a plan to teach my younger brother the beauty of tsuchinoko hunting and eventually raise him into a proper member of my team, all he did was going on and on on the bothersome subject of electromagnetism, not showing the least bit of interest in the dream adventure that tsuchinoko represented and that was happening right at the moment. As the last straw, he finally took out a reference book from his clasp-adorned pouch-shaped backpack and started reading it while walking, like a veritable Ninomiya Sontoku[*11] for all the world. If only he spared just one percent of that enthusiasm and directed it toward tsuchinoko hunting... Seemingly completely oblivious to that earnest wish of mine, my kid brother, "Nii-chan, genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration," had the gull to throw Edison's famous quote at me.

"That's wrong, Yashirou. Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% foolishness." "Then when do you work hard?" "...You just wait for your destiny." "But, nii-chan, I don't think that's the way to live." "You cheeky little Edison!" I started teasing, when the forest's trees suddenly stirred, as if jolted by an invisible giant.

And then, the whooshing sound as if the very air was being rent asunder started getting closer.

"Something's flying our way, it's dangerous!"

The moment I hugged my brother's head and bent over, covering him, something came flying in from the sky, tearing through the canopy of fresh leaves and crossing over above us. Sunlight filtering through the trees swayed furiously, and torn off leaves rained all around us. Then, with a sharp thud reverberating in the pit of my stomach, everything went quiet.

We cautiously lifted our heads.

Right above us, in the top branches of a large tree covered with new green, there was stuck a velvet-covered chaise. Its red velvet sparked most bewitchingly in the light streaming through the leaves.

"Nii-chan, could it be a tengu stone?" my little brother murmured.

〇

Tanuki called the phenomenon of unlikely things falling from the sky 'tengu throwing stones'.

Be it tengu's prank or simply them accidentally dropping their possessions, among all kinds of things that rained from the sky in the past were, for example, fuda talismans, small gold koban coins, wine casks and colored carps. My mother said that when she was still little, cotton candy fell from the sky near Sajoukobashi bridge, and near Mt.Funaokayama there resided a tanuki collector of tengu stones who even eventually opened a private museum for exhibiting them. Back when Akadama-sensei was still active and flying through the sky, there was a time when he rounded up all of his tanuki apprentices and sent them on a search for something he had dropped.

Since a few days ago, the topic of some modern-looking tengu stones falling from the sky became a hotly discussed subject, and I was aware of it.

Said stones were all diverse and truly gorgeous articles, like silver tableware polished to a shine, a seasoned violin fit for a maestro musician, a bathtub with metal legs and Persian carpets that looked ready to fly through the sky, among others. A custom tracing back to the Edo period stated that so long as tengu didn't come out and claim ownership, a tengu stone would come in possession of the one who picked it up, so you could see why Kyoto's tanuki were so excited about the recent fallings.

In accordance with tanuki's finders keepers rule, this velvet chaise was to become the Shimogamo family's possession.

My brother and I went through quite a bit of trouble getting said chaise off the tree.

When I experimentally sat down on its red velvet, my behind experienced such fluffiness that I had this majestic feeling as if I was a guest of honor in an ancient and honorable Western-style house. Even the faint moldy waft in the air smelled classy to me. That was enough to make even us sons of a distinguished family ourselves let loose a sigh of admiration.

"The level of comfort is too high, so high, in fact, that it feels like my butt's disappeared on me," opined my little brother with seriousness. "This is amazing. It's probably what antique is." "Mother will be pleased if we bring this home." "Very well. Starting now, the Tsuchinoko Expedition Team will proceed to carry this chaise home. Team member number 1, take the chaise by the rear end at once." "Roger!"

We lined on the both sides of the chaise with it held between us and, with a great deal of effort, proceeded along the foot of Nyoigadake. The grand chaise clearly boasting historical weight was just as grandly weighty physically, proving to be a heavy load for the slender arms of modern tanuki kids lacking in strength. "Nii-chan, my arms are all tingling," voiced a feeble complaint my kid brother. "They're tingling because this is a tingling mountain," said I. "That's lies, this is Mt.Nyoigadake," he rebuked, and I laughed.

After a while, my brother murmured uneasily, "Nii-chan, won't we get yelled at for coming all the way here to search for tsuchinoko?" "And who's gonna yell at us?" "Isn't this the Kurama tengu-samas's turf?" "As if we could search for tsuchinoko if we were worried about some guys like the Kurama tengu! Besides, the whole area around Mt.Nyoigadake is our Akadama-sensei's turf to begin with. Although he was ousted from here in a tengu turf war, sensei's still greater than the Kurama lot. Those Kurama tengu are just small timers compared to Akadama-sensei." "'Small timers', huh?"

All of a sudden, the chaise got heavier, unbearably so. It didn't so much as budge when I pulled. "Yashirou, are you holding it up properly on your end?" I asked and when I tried to take a look over my shoulder, a voice resembling an owl's hooting at night said near my ear, "Hoou hou". The moment a cold breath trickling against the side of my head sent a chill down my spine, I got seized by the neck.

"You've got quite the mouth on you, little punk. What parts are you tanuki from?"

A man in a blackish business suit swooped down on the chaise's armrest and grabbed me by the neck.

I ducked my head before saying, "Oh my, oh my, if it isn't a Kurama tengu-sama. How are you doing this fine day?"

〇

I and my little brother were escorted by that Kurama tengu to the site of bonfire lighting taking place during the Daimonji festival[*12]. The transformation of my brother whose balls shrunk up literally and figuratively came undone, and he reverted back to his tanuki form, then got seized by the scruff like a cat.

Back when Akadama-sensei ruled over Nyoigadake and its surroundings like he owned them, he used to parade his tanuki apprentices around calling it 'practical drills'. Sometimes he took us as far as Mt.Iwayasan or Lake Takaragaike, but generally we would wander around Nyoigadake that was sensei's own backyard. On this site of Daimonju bonfire lighting, the tanuki would shapeshift into the Genji and Heike clans and wage an imitation Genpei war [*13], so it brought back memories.

"This way, follow me."

Like the Kurama tengu arrogantly ordered, I began climbing the slop dotted with fire pits for lighting the bonfires that formed the 大 'dai' character.

Looking back as I trod on the young green grass, I saw the brightly-colored townscape of the Kyoto city expanding below against the backdrop of the mist-covered sky. This canvas was truly a sight worthy of a tengu to behold.

On the slope halfway up the mountain, there stood a red and white stripped parasol like what you'd find at an ice-cream stand by the poolside, and under it 4 Kurama tengu, encircling a round table, were engrossed in playing hanafuda [*14]. Among them were those who wore a business suit complete with a tie in a proper and neat fashion, as well as those who popped a vein in their temples and rolled up their sleeves. Every time they threw the cards on the table, a jingling sound could be heard as if small coins were being scattered. After all, tengu were hot-tempered creatures, and when they got into a game too much, they would end up tearing or biting hanafuda more often than not. For that reason, the tengu hanafuda cards were made of steel.

The tengu that brought us called out to one of his companions, "Hoou hou, Reizanbou."

The one to answer him was a tengu in a white dress shirt and sunglasses.

"Hoou hou, Tamonbou. Why did you bring the likes of tanuki here?" "They were saying insulting things about us, and I thought it can't be allowed to pass." "I see. Indeed, it's our job to educate tanuki, after all. So, what kind of insults were they throwing?" "'The Kurama tengu are just small timers', according to them."

The Kurama tengu, seated at the round table, burst out laughing, still clutching the hanafuda in hand. That tengu laughter massed together like an ominous dark cloud and took flight, riding the wind blowing across the slope.

These Kurama tengu were the same ones who once upon a time ousted Akadama-sensei and occupied Nyoigadake, that is, five out of the ten retainers under direct command of Kuramayama Soujoubou. They were Reizanbou, Tamonbou, Teikinbou, Getsurinbou and Nichirinbou [*15], but they all were so alike like acorns from the same tree that it was impossible to tell which was which by looking. It was no wonder that during the meetings on Mt.Atagoyama, Akadama-sensei never passed up an opportunity to ridicule them by saying 'Look at 'em mountain acorns putting on airs'.

Groveling on the firebed as the spring breeze swept over me, I said, "I humbly stand before you sirs as the third son of Shimogamo Souichirou, Yasaburou. And this is my little brother Yashirou." "Famous! Famous!" the Kurama tengu cheered, their hanafuda jingling.

"So you're Yasaburou, of the Shimogamos, huh!" "He's Benten-san's favorite, apparently," "Wait, wait, wasn't there a fool of a tanuki by the name Souichirou who fell into a pot?" "Oh, I remember that tanuki!" "He was a tanuki who never knew his place. All because Yakushibou spoiled him rotten," "That senile old fool was always like that. All pleased and self-satisfied with being worshiped by the likes of tanuki," the Kurama tengu were saying audaciously one over another.

The sunglasses guy, Reizanbou, bit on his paper-roll cigarette and sneered, "Yakushibou sure is a lucky fool. No matter how low he falls, tanuki still keep taking care of him. We'll look after Nyoigadake and the area around it, so tell him to bite the dust with an easy heart for me."

"With all due respect, please allow me to humbly explain."

With this, I got up and started spouting sophistry in a rapid fire torrent.

"I will not deny that I called the Kurama tengu-samas 'small timers'. But it seems the Kurama tengu-samas, living the lofty life of rightful kings of the skies, are not aware of the finer nuances of lowly tanuki's speech. The thing is, our tanuki language tends to adapt to keep up with the times and words change their meanings accordingly. So the term 'small timer', formerly one of slight used to refer to someone unimportant or petty and small like an acorn, nowadays means pretty much the opposite, that is, 'great', 'mature in style' and 'gentlemanly', thus having turned into a wonderful compliment. So as you see by no means tanuki mock you sirs esteemed Kurama tengu-samas."

The Kurama tengu kept their silence, too dumbfounded for words, only their hanafuda jiggled quietly. When Reizanbou pulled down his sunglasses, his upturned eyes were laughing.

"I see, that's one curious tanuki all right." "A too damn talkative tanuki, for sure, never knowing when to shut up, and I don't like that," said Tamonbou, grabbed my furry little brother by the neck and hoisted him up high in the air. "Well then, well then, I wonder just how far will this one fly if we throw him?"

Suddenly, the Kurama tengu looked energetic and pumped up, the hanafuda plinking and chinking.

"Let's make bets on whether he'll make it over the Kamogawa river or not!" "This is much more fun than playing hanafuda!" "What should we bet? A mountain? A valley?"

In the past, my father, Nise-emon Shimogamo Shoichirou, shapeshifted into Mt.Nyoigadake itself and gave the Kurama tengu, who were picking on our master, the scare of their lives. It became known as the scandal of fake Nyoigadake - a glorious example of recklessness deserving place not only in the chronicles of the Shimogamo family but also in history of the whole tanuki world. However, what was a historic triumph for our household, to the Kurama tengu was none other than a historic stain on their name, and it was partly for defying Kurama that my father ended up falling into the Friday Fellows Club's pot.

A wise tanuki would learn from this anecdotal story and get through their skull that defying tengu would bring nothing but harm upon them. After all, tengu were made to bully tanuki. And bullying was what made them tengu.

"What's the matter, Yasaburou?" asked Reizanbou. "Got anything to say?" "With all due respect, sir, when my kid brother is bullied, my seizures start acting up..." "Seizures? What are seizures?" "Uuugh, it's no use. Kurama tengu-sama, please watch out!"

I got on all fours, groaning all the while, and inflated my body. Tightening your butthole and psyching yourself up was the secret to shapeshifting into something big. In the blink of an eye, my four feet became massive like the columns of the Parthenon, and my swelling back turned white as if smeared with mortar coating. My nose grew in length, rapidly extending toward the blue sky above. I had shapeshifted into a white elephant.

The Kurama tengu had to have some bitter memories about white elephants after being chased about by one in the past when my father tempted them into coming to Nyoigadake. While their attention was distracted by the resurfacing humiliating memories, my kid brother took advantage of their momentary confusion and, by twisting and turning, slipped out of Tamonbou's hold, then proceeded to make his escape by rolling down the slope like a true tsuchinoko.

"Stop it, stop it, Yasaburou. What foolishness." Reizanbou grimaced in displeasure. "We're not fond of elephants. Return to your former form at once. Or else..."

It was at that moment that a travel suitcase that came flying in at a terrifying speed from the direction of the far away western sky crashed right into Reizanbou's face. Truly a blow from Heaven. As if dragged along by Reizanbou who got knocked over without another word, the rest of the Kurama tengu fell to the ground one after another, their parasol blown away, hanafuda jingling uselessly.

"Baon baon, what happened?"

Raising my long trunk, I gazed toward the western sky.

The one who came flying down as if smoothly gliding from the spring sky was an English gentleman.

T/N:

[*1] Nise-emon (偽右衛門): the 2nd season subs translated the title as the Trick Magister. 'Nise' means imitation, fake, phony, in other words has to do with tricking people which is what tanuki are good at. [*2] Hesoishi of Rokkakudou (六角堂のへそ石): the 2st season subs translated Hesoishi (lit. Bellybutton Stone) as the Center Stone because that hexagonal stone is supposed to represent the very center of Kyoto and the temple where it's located is called the Chouhouji or Rokkakudou (lit. Hexagonal temple) [*3] Mounted peacekeepers (平安騎馬隊): a mounted unit of Kyoto Prefectural Police that was established in 1994 to commemorate 1200 years since the relocation of the capital (jp wiki) [*4] Nyoigadake Yakushibou (如意ヶ嶽薬師坊): Nyoigadake (alternative reading is Nyoigatake, but the novel specifically gives the reading 'Nyoigadake') is a mountain that's part of the Higashiyama mountain range. Mt.Daimonji (that's part of the Gozan no Okuribi festival shown in the anime) is part of Nyoigadake. Yakushibou is a given name ('yakushi' is archaic 'doctor' and -bou you'd be seeing again as it's a suffix for male tengu names) [*5] Miwa soumen (三輪素麺): fine white noodles, a local specialty produced in the Miwa region, said to be the birthplace of soumen noodles, of Nara prefecture with the center in the Sakurai city. (jp wiki) [*6] Imperial treasures of the Shousouin (正倉院御物): wiki [*7] Illustrated Sino-Japanese Encyclopedia aka Wakan Sansai Zue (和漢三才図会): is the first Japanese illustrated encyclopedia published in 1712 in Edo (wiki) [*8] Tsuchiko and takenoko (bamboo shot) share the same word-building pattern, namely take-no-ko (lit.a child of bamboo) and tsuchi-no-ko (lit.a child of soil) [*9] Takarazuka Revue (宝塚歌劇団): a theater troupe based near Kyoto and famous for women playing all roles, including male ones, and flamboyant costumes and such (wiki) We saw Tousen imitate them as the 'Prince in Black' in the 1st season. [*10] Ajinomoto (味の素): a food corporation most famous for its so-called Chinese salt (wiki) [*11] Ninomiya Sontoku (二宮尊徳): a 19th century reformer and economic thinker who is typically depicted as a boy walking with a bundle of firewood on his back while reading a book. You can frequently find his statues at Japanese elementary schools as an exemplar of diligence and studiousness. [*12] Daimonji festival (大文字) or Gozan no Okuribi (五山送り火): depicted twice in the anime (wiki) [*13] Genpei War (源平合戦): a 12th century national civil war (wiki) [*14] Hanafuda (花札): lit. 'flower cards' (wiki) [*15] Reizanbou, Tamonbou, Teikinbou, Getsurinbou, Nichirinbou (霊山坊、多聞坊、帝金坊、月輪坊、日輪坊): -bou is a tengu male name suffix and the rest of their names mean literally 'spiritual or sacred mountain', 'all hearing', 'imperial gold', 'round moon' and 'round sun' respectively.

#uchouten kazoku 2 #uchouten kazoku nidaime no kichou

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dvbermingham · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 1: Hamachi

Chapter 1: Alonso

I was coming off one of the worst weeks of my career. My former boss, whom I knew only as Takuto and for whom I’d worked for about six days, was stabbed in more than two places on his torso, and once in the neck region. I found him splayed out like a starfish on the sidewalk down a side street with no street sign. There was a distant sound of running through puddles, and I swear I heard a muted trumpet echoing off the brick apartment buildings somewhere down the block.

As a bodyguard, finding your boss in a pool of his own blood, is generally hailed as the end of your shift.

It was rough. I always thought of myself as a natural guarder of bodies. I get very attached to bodies, whatever type they may be, and if I’m assigned to guard one, well, that protectiveness comes out and I get very difficult to peel off.

I tried not to fault myself too much. I didn’t have much time to get to know Takuto, it being a truncated work week and he living high on the untrusting meter. I gleaned through my investigatory talents and the brief synopsis from Alonso, that Takuto was a chef at a restaurant, probably a Japanese restaurant. I heard words like chirashi and P&L on more than one eavesdrop. Apparently in this particular field of work, this kind of thing happens. People in high places, especially ones in the high-stakes food and beverage community, often get violently replaced. Something about the number of knives at hand, the ambient heat of any given kitchen, the stress of maintaining fish at the right temperature.

That kind of thing did not deter me. Violence comes with the job. Why would someone hire a body guard if their body wasn’t in some kind of perpetual state of risk. It kind of goes without saying.

In the short time I knew Takuto, I hadn’t been given much insight into who his enemies were, what kinds of valuable assets he possessed, any of that sweet detail that might make my job easier. I got the impression that Takuto didn’t know either. He seemed like a man who hadn’t quite found his footing in his new job, an apprentice turned chef turned sushi-alderman in a manner of hours. He seemed like the kind of many who needed some thorough body-guarding, but without that information, the job was nothing more than looking scarier and more aware than you really are.

You’d have to ask Alonso personally if you want to know why he hired me. God knows he wouldn’t explain it to me. He simply said, “I know talent when I see it.” I was in the middle of a také course, miso soup included. I had become a big fan of sushi. I found the formality of the dining experience balanced me out. The beauty and grace of every aspect was a welcome vacation from my normal life. Plus such fish were high fatty oils. Perhaps you’ve gathered by now, perhaps you haven’t, but I promise, if you were to pass me on the street, you’d bet your life that I’m the kind of guy that likes his fatty oils. You might even say I look like a guy who deals exclusively in fatty oils. They’ve always held a special place in my heart. Maybe that’s why I was hired.

This was 1996, in case you couldn’t tell. Sushi was still an elusive cuisine in America at this point in history. The country hadn’t rediscovered its craft culture quite yet — the nineties had us all in a climactic frenzy whose origins dated to the fifties, probably earlier, but definitely at least the fifties. The factory processed food system had triumphed over its communist cousins, whose food system was undoubtedly just as factory-based but was somehow different, I’m not sure. Either way, we won, and in celebration we pumped our money into deep fried hot dogs and bloomin’ onions and all-you-can eateries and tuna melts. Not to say I have anything against those particular items. In fact, I choose them because they more or less define me as a consumer.

Sushi was just one of those things that flew under the radar. No one really trusted raw fish, they didn’t rate rice quite as high as bread and pasta, and wasabi was feared for its potency. It just so happened that a sushi bar opened up right across the street from my apartment. Me being the type that needed extended breaks from Dexter, presently my only companion and also my cat, I had the habit of trying any restaurant or bar I could find.

I was only one of a handful of people who frequented this establishment, whose sign simple read, in dull red lettering, Fishy Smell. Nor was it the best neighborhood for such a restaurant. People of that ilk, my neighbors at the time, didn’t have my unique brand of open-mindedness. It was almost as if they were attempting to deter people from eating there.

Still the sushi was good. The chef clearly took his job very seriously and treated me with respect. I did get the overall impression that they were somewhat nervous about opening a restaurant in that location. Whether it was the crime, the degenerates, the filth on the streets and sidewalks, the noise from the fire-escapes and roofs where in the heat of summer the chronically claustrophobic congregate, and how all this would influence the delicate nature of their fish, or something else, a concern uniquely Japanese, a concern about culture and its export. I won’t brag but I did some research after my third or so meal in Fishy Smell and it turns out for most of history the Japanese were not particularly inclined towards cultural imports or exports. Such a recent and drastic reversal, I suspected, might cause a few of their more traditional citizens some mild anxiety.

While the rest of the country remained in their comfy, all-American reveries, the elusive world of the sushi magnates began to form before my very eyes. Perhaps America was right to dabble in a California roll once a year, perhaps at a holiday party, and leave it at that. Perhaps they sensed that the sushi underworld was still afoot, and that stepping into an authentic sushi restaurant, and I believe I’m quoting Newsweek here, was one of the most dangerous things you could do in 1996.

As I was saying, I was in the middle of my také course, I think on my mackerel (one of my favorites re: fatty oils), getting eyed in a characteristically cryptic manner by the chef, when a well-dressed fellow walked through the doors. He was a regular, always sat in the end seat at the bar, far on the other end away from the door, and who always had a different guest with him. The chef greeted him with deference, seemed to serve him with a particular air of fear, as if at the slightest moment of disappointment, he guest could put down his chopsticks, walk outside, and shutter the restaurant, closing it forever and suffocating the staff and public unfortunate enough to be trapped inside.

So that night, as I was sitting alone at the bar, drinking a beer and reading a book on mythology, a topic to which I returned rather frequently, eyeing my mackerel, best for last. The bar was empty — it was near closing time, and it was raining outside. At about 9:30, just as I was about to pop that little nigiri in my mouth, the door opened and the regular, the fellow, enters the restaurant, then locks the door from the inside.

I sat up. My antennae told me to. I do sometimes find myself trapped in places, but never like this. The chef and waitress disappeared. The man approached me, all smiles. In New York, this is a definite sign of danger. “Hi,” he said, his voice deep and velvety. “I’m Alonso. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”

I made a face that said, sure, what else am I doing. Alonso took the stool next to me and began talking. didn’t have to say much to get the idea across. He had people who needed bodily protection, which was precisely the kind of protection I offered. I didn’t really care at that time of my life who I guarded, what they did for a living, the kind of people they tended to anger to a point of needed protection. That kind of information couldn’t really be trusted coming from well-dressed sushi bar patrons anyway.

“So what do you think,” he said after his spiel.

“You’d be surprised how many people in New York have offered me per-diem jobs as their goon or thug or even a pair of legs, a pair of shoulders, an extra set of eyes, a quick change of clothes. It sounds like you’re just looking generally for an all around frightening kind of presence in any given situation.”

“You catch on quick.”

“With nine millions people running around with their own agendas, sometimes people need reminding that their own agenda’s don’t align with other more powerful agendas. Guys like me tend to fill that job role well.”

The conversation went on. Alonso liked to talk. He liked to get you to see things from his side of the story. But since this is my side of the story I’ve decided I won’t give him any more space. If I do, we’ll be here all night. Suffice it to say, I was interested in money at the time and didn’t have a lot of use for myself other than precisely what he was asking of me. I could start the next day.

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