#there's something about that atmosphere that just somehow helps to restore my faith in humans

[combinado]

Auļi, Suitu sievas, Suitu vīri, Suitu dūdenieki, Ilža, Otto Trapāns, Tarkšķi, Vilkači - Ozoliņi

[the-voice-of-hell]

The Septagram

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PART SEVEN:

PARADISE

“And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.  In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him:  And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads.

And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.

And he said unto me, These sayings are faithful and true: and the Lord God of the holy prophets sent his angel to shew unto his servants the things which must shortly be done.

Behold, I come quickly: blessed is he that keepeth the sayings of the prophecy of this bookTM.”

                                     TMAvailable soon on Amazon Kindle!

***

The Queen was in control again, The Septagram was hers, and Seattle was done.  The pink lights of faded halos lit, the orange light of Abalaam’s flaming corpse, and the white light of Amduscias filled the cavern adequately.  Goat boys started to surround people, to lean on them, but Bymaan commanded them to stay their hands.

She straddled the neck of her camel - her throne - and commanded everybody’s attention with hands orant.  “Today I have paid the price for sins of my past.  I mistreated my wheels, Bybaal and Abalaam.  Let me not repeat those sins today.  My judgment is mercy.  Jennifer, Sergio, stand before me.”

Jen grumped at the goats and they quailed away from her, as the two of them approached the Queen.  Amduscias fell in beside them, despite his earlier treachery against Jen’s cause.  She looked at the unicorn in consternation, then back to Bymaan.

The Queen said, “I wanted our shared blood to count for something, I wanted a chance for us to live together in love.  But I can see now that will not be possible.  For your crimes, you must be banished forever from The Septagram.”

Jen wanted to protest, to say Seattle’s name, but she knew it was over.

Bymaan continued, “I know you may be tempted to rebel, to cause trouble, Jennifer, but you owe it to Sergio to allow him to go home.  Please be sensible.”

The unicorn looked at her and blinked softly.  She knew better than to trust the beast now, but it was hard to stay mad at a unicorn.  She and Sergio mounted the beast, and it leapt into the hole in the ceiling to carry them away.

“Now, Jamie Infante and Park Ji-hyung, stand before me.”

The cops staggered before the queen.  Infante glared bullets at the angelic guard, who kept their distance.  Park put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a deep look of concern.  Don’t fuck this up.  He understood.  Whether or not he could restrain his temper was another matter.

Iphigenia walked beside the queen on the right, Cariamon took up a spot at her left.  Infante found it hard to resist glaring at her, but the Queen commanded his attention.

“Jamie, you have resisted this invasion of your land with courage and honor, and suffered more from the hands of my forces than I would have preferred.  But  you remain our enemy.  I expect no less of you.”

“Don’t call me Jamie.”

“Sergeant Infante,” she nodded respectfully, “you will be allowed to return to your country’s lands - to let them know what happened here.  To let them know that The Septagram is here to stay.  If you return in arms, you will be slain.”

“You can’t do this, devil lady.  America always wins.”

Park said, “Accept my gratitude in lieu of his, please.”

“I do, Ji-hyung.  Take care that you both leave our lands with all haste.”

He nodded eagerly.  Cariamon gestured with his rod for some goat boys to help the men leave.  They showed them to the ropes they’d used to descend, and helped Park get to climbing.  They let Infante do that himself - understandably avoiding arm’s length of the furious nephilim.  As Infante climbed up, he looked back to Iphigenia.  She was looking straight at him.

“Madison, Jason, come before me.”

Jason helped his daughter along.  He looked up at the queen with a slightly bowed head, but Maddy was too weary to make such a show of submission.  Her head lolled on her shoulders.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

“Jason, Madison, you tried to take my subjects from me against their will.  It is strictly forbidden.  But you are not my subjects.  In the spirit of amity between our nations - and because the beauty of your love has impressed me - I will allow you full amnesty for your crimes.  I only ask that if you return to your family, respect their wishes in every way.  If you tarry in The Septagram overlong, expect a visit from my legion.  There will be rules for travel between our nations.”

“Uh, Thank you ma’am.  -ness.  High.  Um.”  He settled for a hasty nod.  Words failed him.  The eerie angel with the bone wings came from her side to help escort the two frail humans away.

“Clark Upton,” Queen Bymaan said, “you sought an audience with me?”

Clark stepped past the goat boys and such, took his place before her.

“I guess I wanted to know the score.  Your army made its little announcement with a big show of force.  How can people make an informed decision about something as big as their national allegiance, with goons goose-stepping door to door?”

“I understand, more than you know.  Have you wondered at the source of your unusual power, Mr. Upton?”

“Eh...”

“You are a long lost cousin to every angel in this room - the descendant of love between the Hosts and of Man.  That gives you a place of pride here.  You helped me to defeat my treacherous lieutenant Abalaam, whether you willed it or not, and I am grateful.  Take your time.  Decide if you will join your brothers and sisters in The Septagram, or keep your allegiance to the Empire of America.”

“Well, alright.  I’ll stick around for a bit, thank you.”  He bowed.

He stepped back while the goat boys stepped forward.  They all fell in around their Queen in worship.  Iphigenia looked at the scene in mild disbelief.  What had she gotten herself into?

Bymaan looked down at her kindly.  “Go to her remains and practice this ritual to the letter.  Do let me know if it doesn’t go right.  It will restore her to life.”  She handed the nephilim a glowing pink page, like the one from her vision, manifested from thin air.

Ippy accepted it with great care, and looked up at her.  “This is your part in bringing her back.  You said I had to do something too?”

“You had this power in you all along.  As an angel, your blood can sustain her for as long as you live.  No need for her to take the life of anyone else.  Isn’t that sweet?”

She nodded.  “Thank you.  Thank you.”

The Queen turned to the goat boys.  “Let your Primus know that your legion is now in her thrall.  She is a Knight of Hell, by my decree.”

“Your Majesty!,” they bleated and hustled to make her will a reality.

***

The demon legionnaires escorted Maddy and Jason out to Broadway and abandoned them there.  People and monsters were still ogling the ruins, helping survivors, or chattering in excitement.  They hobbled the opposite direction of that crush, to the south.

Maddy cried, “Where are we going?”

Jason said, “There might still be somebody working in the Pill Hill hospitals.  If not, maybe we can find a way to patch up your leg there on our own.”

“Oh.  How far is it?”

“All this hipster bullshit down here?  Just past that.  See the taller building back there?  That’s one of ’em.  I don’t remember if it’s Swedish or Virginia Mason.”

“So far...”

“I could throw ya over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Princess.”

“Don’t be mean, Daddy.”

“Hehe, I don’t mean it like that.  But you’re less up for walking than I am.  How about a piggy-back ride?”

“Ugh.”

A dolphin with sexy lady legs walked up to them.  “Heya!  You need a hand?”  She didn’t have hands, but it didn’t come off like a bad joke somehow.

“No thanks,” Jason groaned.  Trusting one of those demons with his baby was the last thing he was going to do.

“I’m sorry,” the dolphin thing said, and it walked away.

“Thank you, Daddy.  I can’t...”

“I can’t either.  Mom and Kevin are nuts.  The world is nuts.”

“Mm-hm.”

They hobbled along mutely, the weirdos of the world washing past them in a carnival blur.  Past the college the hill turned down some, then again past the QFC.  They came to the northern base of Pill Hill - a lump of hospitals, now dominated by black citadels.  The handful of citadels around the hospital district were very tall, but only about the width and depth of a city block, so odds were good a substantial amount of hospital still stood somewhere between them.

There was a short but very steep length of hill at first.  They struggled and Maddy cried a few times, but when they got to the top, it was a fairly straight gentle slope down, with hospitals and clinics along the way.

The foot traffic never stopped, but it was a good sign - it seemed like people were coming to the area for medical attention, implying there was indeed a hospital open.

They reached the emergency room at Virginia Mason, and it was hopping.  The atmosphere wasn’t quite war zone and it wasn’t quite Mos Eisley cantina, but it was bizarre.  The hospital staff were supplemented with Hell’s weirdos, looking like Jim Henson creations in scrubs.  Jason took Maddy to the counter.

“Welcome,” said the lady.  “Where and how are you hurt today?”

Maddy said, “I have a broken ankle, and… probably more.”

“Any bleeding?”

“Not a lot?”

“And you, sir?”

Jason said, “Not much.  Could be worth a look at the ol’ bones, if radiology’s still a thing.”

“It is.  Give me your full names, dates of birth, gender.”

Jason started to pull out his wallet and the lady waved dismissively.  “Put it away.  Nobody’s keeping track of any of this.”

He narrowed his eyes.  “Is Queen Bymaan a pinko?  Is that how this is all going to work now?  Who’s gonna pay for that, when you start to run out of… supplies… and stuff?”

“I don’t have time for this.  Names, dates of birth, gender.”  She put two very simple forms on the counter, near the ballpoint pen that was chained to the counter.  They surely weren’t the hospital standard, more like something hastily composed in Word, printed, and cut into fourths with scissors.

Maddy filled hers out, then Jason.  He looked at the lady expectantly.

“It ain’t that different from usual.  Now you get to go wait.”  She pointed to the lobby.

They went among the random citizens of the Septagram and sat nervously.  There were no magazines to read.  They put their heads together and quietly planned their escape.

***

Amduscias had abdicated a great deal of power in Hell for the opportunity to come to Earth.  He breathed air, flexed his muscles, galloped across the asphalt wherever the nephilim told him to go.  It was an amusing fiction - the idea of being a simple beast of burden, an object of affection for a horse girl.  He’d keep it going until a more interesting diversion presented itself.

He leapt across the cavernous collapse of the interstate highway, landing on the north side with a scramble, then kept on - throwing sparks from his powerful cloven hooves.

The early afternoon sun was golden and warm, but the unicorn was fast enough to put some cooling wind on Jen’s cheeks.  She appreciated it.  Part of her wondered if she should trace the same path as Rosemarie and the others, up Westlake to the north - just in case the legions had proven less honorable and left them as rat-gnawed bones along the way.  But I-5 would be the fastest way out of The Septagram, and she was sick of the place.

The elevated highway was so weak from recent abuse that it wobbled under a thousand pounds of horse-like demon duke and a few hundred pounds of angel-flavored people.  It stabilized more as it turned into a bridge over the Ship Canal out into the U District.

Sergio slapped her side to get her attention and she slowed Amduscias to a canter.  She said, “What’s up, Serge?”  It was still a little hard to hear her over the hoofbeats.

“This is north, huh?”

“Yeah.  Quickest way out of the state, up to Canadia.”

“They will be trouble at the border.”

“We can go off to some quiet spot and hop the fence.  But I do wanna see how Rosie and John are doin’, if I can find ’em.  What do you think?”

“I want to go to Venezuela.  We should go in as legal, wait as much as we have to, so I can be able to go.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry, buddy.”  Her voice became too quiet to hear.

“Jen.”  He circled her waist more fully with his arms and leaned his chin on her shoulder.  It was a bit of a reach - they were a similar height and she wasn’t small in the middle.  “You know we have a different lifes.  I can’t say we will always like each other.  But I would like if you come to Venezuela with me.  As my lover.”  He kissed her ear.  It was flaming hot, bright pink.

She slowed to a trot, turned to get an arm around him and they kissed.  As she broke the awkward embrace, she said, “Maybe.”

Amduscias whickered in amusement and went back up to a canter without prompting.  Some of the trees alongside the highway had become magically overgrown, towering into the sky.  Some weeds had grown up beside them, to become nearly as tall as regular trees.  The scent of blackberries was heavy in the air.  The crows and gulls steered clear of the streets and buildings, where pigeons starlings and sparrows had become larger than hawks.  Some tiny demons rode them like steeds, merrily jousting in the sky.

It was a new world, and they left it behind.

***

Infante and Park had been offered assistance on the way out of the rubble, but Infante insisted on doing things the hard way, and Park didn’t want to let the guy out of his sight.  They finished the climb a half hour later than Maddy and Jason, with their goatish escort.

The men reached a peak in the rubble and surveyed Seattle.  The sky and land were full of weirdos.  Black citadels still remained - three in a tight cluster at the southwest end of the hill, one beyond it on Beacon Hill, one directly downhill from them in Amazon territory, and one out north on the green woolly side of Queen Anne.

Military surveillance craft were soaring high above.  Would one of those drop a nuke before the cops had a chance to escape the region, make good on their exile?  What did Uncle Sam have in store for the occupied territory?

Park said, “I don’t think they’re going to babysit us on the way out.  Might as well go back to Tacoma and pack our bags.”

“This is ate up, sir.  I can’t fucking stand it.”

“We weren’t ready.  Shit happens.  I don’t wanna wait around for it to get worse.  Let’s go, Sergeant.”

Jamie looked at him with a miserable expression mangling his perfect face.  His lower lip was almost comically pouty.

Ji-hyung shed a tear and worked his own lips wordlessly, tried to press the emotions down.  He swallowed a lump and spoke quietly.  The wind threatened to steal the words away completely.  “We got the murder clubs.  Let’s take that win and go.  Please.”

Jamie nodded and hugged him.  “I will.  I won’t cause trouble now.  For you.”

Ji-hyung kissed him.

A bergamot with court jester legs, bird feet for arms, and a lizard head mocked them.  “Oooh, kissy kissy.”

Infante flicked it away with a finger and it tumbled down a dark crevice into nothingness.  They both flinched and froze, unsure if that would bring down the troops.

A minute later, when it did not, they made their way down the mountain of debris.

***

Iphigenia entered the Cherry Hill Citadel with an escort of legionnaires.  She bid them to leave her alone and they did.  The stairs were worse on the way up than coming down - so many flights.  The afternoon light coming through the slot-like windows wasn’t strong enough to fully illuminate the path, but it was strong enough to make the interior lights too weak to see by either.  It was one of those times of day where seeing was situationally worse than in the middle of the night.  She turned on the flashlight in her shirt pocket and it barely helped.

At last, she came to the throne room.  It was still a shambles, covered in corpses, weapons, shell casings, and bird shit.  She swallowed emotion and walked quickly to the place beside the throne, where Jelly Sue had crumbled.  Her shards were sullied with gore from dead angels.  Would the dust be pure enough to bring her back?

Ippy looked at her hands.  She was clean enough now.  The skin at her knuckles was in serious need of lotion.  The dark brown on the back, the lighter color beneath, the thinness, the protruding tendons when she moved her fingers - all normal enough.  But they were the hands that had made Bymaan the Queen of The Septagram - had ensured Lucifer’s continued dominion over a part of the Earth.

She could think of a lot of people who wouldn’t approve of that.  Churchy relatives shook their heads at her from the sides of her mind.  They were easy, however, to brush away.  She took the pink paper out of a pocket.

The page was covered in archaic and arcane bullshit she would not normally understand, but the meaning magically passed from the page into her mind.  She needed to create elaborate symbols around the remains, chant to the demon kings, and focus her will on the task for as long as it would take.

She looked at the broken ceramic at her feet.  If she didn’t go through with the ritual, she’d never experience whatever spell the vampire had her under again.  She’d be free, be whoever she wanted to be.

No, that was not what she wanted at all.  Maybe a spell was part of it, the vampire spirit using the allure of a pretty doll to get at her angelic blood.  But what she felt was real.  Who knew what that pissed off cop was planning at this point?  Might as well make it worthwhile - and fulfill her heart’s true desire.

She found she could make the glowing lines of the symbols by running her hands over the brick tiles of the floor.  It was still hard work, on hands and knees, requiring a focus she used to need medicine to maintain.  She mumbled the words, the meaning in her will more important than the ones in her mouth.

The sun’s rays grew longer as they poured through the room, creeping higher as the sun went lower.  By the time she was done, there was no more daylight at the level of the bricks - just her magic symbols glowing softly in pink.  Her palms were raw, the knees of her pants worn through, her back and thighs cramping.  She avoided the sight of the remains, her focus on the task - on finding her vampire soul and bringing it back.

An angel looked in on her, then turned away, directing a few others to stay back as well.  She needed privacy.

At last, the symbols were complete.  She dragged herself to her feet against the side of an altar, staggered to the center of the circle - to the remains - and made the final invocations.  “To Zimimmar, King of the North, I beseech you.  To Egyn, King if the Northeast, I plead.  To Oriens, King of the East, I cry.  To Amaymaan, King of the South and Lord of Greed, I pray.  To Korsaan, Monarch of the South, I prostrate myself.  To Monarch Pruchlaas of the Southwest, hear me.  To King Gaap of the West, please.  To Queen Bymaan of the Northwest, the powers left to you in Hell, I need them with me.  Kings of the Corners, invest me with dominion over Life and Death, in this moment I pray.”

She felt her sense of her own body jar out of place, like a fever dementing proprioception, but not as severe.  It was a schism between body and soul.  When she moved her arms, the body took a few moments to catch up to her soul.

Iphigenia fell to her knees over the shards and raised her arms above them.  A white glow began there, and her hands moved into it, caught it like a twig passing through flame.  She pushed it down, not sure exactly what she was doing at this point in the ritual.

She knew she’d achieved some kind of altered state, but that it could be lost with a moment’s distraction.  That thought itself was a distraction that sent her flailing.  She waved her arms, trying to grab the magic before it flew away.  Too late.  She was just Ippy again.

She fell to her side and gave up.  Maybe it was hopeless, maybe the Queen could make it work by her own hand.  She squeezed her eyes shut.  Then she felt a disturbing pulsing sensation within her gunshot wound.  The unicorn hadn’t healed everything in her.

A trickle of blood rose there, raced over her skin when it broke the surface tension at the lip of the wound.  It was trapped by her shirt.  Realizing what it could mean, she pulled the shirt down to her elbows and brought the wound closer to the shattered remains.

Ippy bled more.  Where did she get all this blood from?  Was that her real super power?  She was getting light-headed and ill, so there must be a limit.  She let herself blow right past that, vomited a little, and slumped to the floor in paralysis.

Arms burst out of the plaster and gripped the floor.  Iphigenia couldn’t move to see.  The arms pulled themselves up, slow enough for a head and shoulders to assemble from the shards.  Rows of evenly spaces holes broke across the surface of the bald head and black strands squirmed free, snake like.

The blood soaked through the grains of the remaining shards turning them to red mud that sloshed in turmoil.  The color wasn’t far from the dark skin veneer over the hollow ceramic vampire.  She hoisted her hips out of the shards, kept on, as stiff and clumsy as befit a doll brought to life.

Jelly Sue escaped the grave.  She was facedown, and halfway down the steps of the shallow pool that had been evaporated in the battle where she was shattered, a mound of perfect glossy black ringlets burying her head.

They both lay there a while, recovering the power of motion.  Jelly pushed herself up to hands and knees, crawled to her owner.  “Ippy?”

Iphigenia rolled onto her back enough to look at her doll.  “Jelly.  I’m happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you, too.”  The doll laid down beside her owner and looked at her with big sparkling eyes, alert but with no trace of the heavy feelings that had brought her back from destruction.  No human soul.

Iphigenia felt good again, felt right.

***

The unicorn had been an issue.  The border guards tried to kill him and Jen and Sergio barely escaped death in a hail of bullets.  Mounties and American creeps, brothers in arms against the supernatural.  Amduscias did get away, to the land of maple syrup and moose.  After that, the only way to free Sergio was to act like riding a demonic creature into Canada was all her idea.

That was it.  Jen spent several months in a Canadian detention center, waiting for the countries to decide what to do with her.  While she waited, she tested her strength in the cell at night.  She wasn’t as powerful, but still much stronger than she had been before the Host came.  She surmised it was her proximity to Hell’s lands.  They had conquered from Olympia to Everett, with a few dozen miles of DMZ all around.

One day, she was finally and inexplicably freed.  They walked her to the gate without a word, cold, like a scene out of an Ed Norton movie.  Then she saw the reason and smiled for the first time in ages.  Rosemarie was there, wearing dark brown sunglasses and a business skirt, leaning on an expensive silver sedan.

She embraced her friend.  “Oh. My. GOD!  How did you do this?”

“Easy, baby.  Easy on me.”  She wheezed a bit beneath the power hug.

Jen smooched her on the cheek and let her go.  “OK, but you gotta tell me.  What the hell is going on?”

“I’m rich now.  You know how it is.  Rich people get what they want.”

Jen pummelled her with soft little jabs.  “C’mooon, what’re you hiding?”

“OK, I have the mark, right?  So after the dust settled, I had dual citizenship in the United States and The Septagram.  That gave me travel rights, where I could get a cool job.  A lot of money for nothing, ya know?”

Jen crinkled her nose.  “What the fuck is happening out here?”

“It’s a whole new world.  I don’t have enough clout to break your exile, but I was able to get some of your stuff out of your apartment, rented you a place in Portland.”

“The Rose City?  No way.”

“The Emerald City is gone, girl.  Portland has better concerts anyway.”

“This stinks.”  She looked around at the mossy, ugly border burg and its cracked concrete.

“Get in, loser.  It’s gonna be a long drive.”

“Alright.  Hey, did my unicorn ever turn up?”

“Oh my god, just stop.”

Rosemarie shoved her friend roughly down into the passenger seat - which would have been impossible if Jen didn’t let it happen.  Then she walked around and got behind the wheel.

“Seattle’s gone.  It’s The Septagram now.  How am I supposed to feel about that?,” Jen asked.

“Same as my Duwamish grandma.  Shit happens.”

Jen nodded grimly, then squeezed her hand.  “I didn’t think anybody would come for me.”

“Everybody loves you, stupid.”

She smiled and cried.  Rosemarie started the car.

***

Jamie looked at Ji-hyung from across the hotel room.  He was brooding again.  He was trying to come off as sexily stoic, but it was a poor act to conceal deep concern or sadness.  What a nuisance.

“You have got to tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Me, bothered?  I’ve got it all right now.”

“Bullshit, sir.  You’ve been having visions again.”

“Again?  No.  They never stopped.”

“Yeah, well, a new one is messing with your head.  You gotta get yourself squared away, dude.”  He wagged a judgmental finger.  It was at odds with the rest of his presentation - stark naked sitting in bed, muscular body and half-ready manhood way too erotic for such displays.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Jamie.  You always carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Naw, that’s what they call projection, sir.”

Ji-hyung was wearing a suit shirt and tie, but no pants.  He took off his underwear as he sat on the bed.  “Is it?  When we got here, you were expecting to get a big debrief and then go straight back to war, right?  But nobody wanted a war except you.”

“That’s not true.  I had a couple of senators in my corner.”  They were in Washington DC - had been since their escape from Washington state.

“And how did that work out for you?”  He loosened his tie.

“You think you’re going to distract me?  This is about you.”

He whipped off the tie and pulled open his shirt.  “It’s about me, huh?  You know what that means.”

“Goddamn it.”

Ji-hyung’s gambit work.  He distracted the young guy with sex and love.  They did some dirty stuff, then eased down into passionate kissing and a close embrace.  They left a sheet between them so they wouldn’t get too sticky.

Jamie was half-asleep.  Ji-hyung admired his face and his body, sadly.  He knew what was coming.  In theory, he could stop it.  Make an excuse to rush Jamie out the door, convince him to go somewhere else.  But something in changing the future paralyzed him, filled him with dread - even if the future untouched was dreadful enough as it was to be.

The clock moved around its lazy arc and Ji-hyung breathed in Jamie’s aura, tried to savor every moment.  When the clock struck 3:21, he said, “You might wanna get dressed, Sergeant.  You have visitors.”

“Wh-what?”

“They’re going to knock on the door in two minutes, give you everything you want.”

“This is it.  This is what you’ve been worried about.”

“Get some pants on, Jamie.”  Ji-hyung pulled the sheet over himself and away from Jamie.

“Fuck.”  He got up and threw on a tank top and some khakis.  The door started making noise as he was just finishing the second pant leg.  “COMING.”

He answered the door without letting them in, or letting them have a view of the bed.  “Senator Chilvers.  I’m sorry, you caught me in a messy situation.”

“It’s alright, Sergeant Infante.  I know you know how to handle a mess.  Can you meet with us downstairs in ten minutes?”

“Yeah.  Yes sir.  See you soon.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Infante closed the door and came back.  “What is it, Ji-hyung?  What is everything I want?”

“Another run at The Septagram.  Revenge.  There’s still no political will to send Queen Bymaan back to Hell, but a secret faction has formed in the DoD that wants to run an op.  You’re in.”

“You saw all that in a vision?  Wasn’t just some pheasants and swords you’re misinterpreting?”

“I did.  It wasn’t.”  He pulled the sheet up under his nose and stared sadly at Jamie.

The beautiful guy flexed and sighed.  “What is it?  Am I going to die?”

“I don’t know.  But I know I’m never going to see you again.”

Jamie swallowed a lump.  Ji-hyung was right.

***

Clark and Thurston wore tuxes, like most nights in The Septagram.  Neither had accepted the mark and neither were completely comfortable about the overtly infernal nature of the realm, but it was the place to be - and as artists, that was where they had to ply their trade.  They were in the Denny Regrade Citadel, formerly ruled by Abalaam, hobnobbing with the elite.

The crude edges from its rise to earth had been smoothed and polished.  A painstakingly installed elevator had made the trip to the throne room tolerable.  Electric chandeliers gleamed on the gold leaf rococo accents, new to the room.  Angels and important humans laughed and drank wine.

The men found themselves alone for a moment.  Clark leaned over and kissed Thurston on the cheek.

Thurston raised eyebrows.  “Are we feeling ourselves tonight?”

“Every night.  But what about you?  Still afraid this is like selling your soul?”

He sighed.  “Well, it’s only a little more obvious than kissing rich asses to keep the theatre in donations.  And at least a nascent monarchy has an art budget that isn’t subject to the vagaries of real estate prices.”

“That’s a fact, my friend.  Want to dance?”

“Performing for free?”

“For fun.  Remember fun, Thurston?”

He rolled his pretty dark eyes.  “OK, let’s get this over with...”

He led Clark to the dance floor, knowing full well the old man would end up leading the dance itself.

Queen Bymaan relaxed on the Citadel’s throne.  It was a sculpture styled to look like a great chariot, horse sculptures suspended from the ceiling, like it was trying to fly away.  Pet giantess fetishists clung to her thighs like nerdy dogs and the ambassador from America eyeballed her breasts unsubtly.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “Do not take this to be the official position of the United States government, but I thank God every day that he cast you down where we can behold you.  You are radiant.”

“I’m still not letting you have the nukes back, Chuck.”

“I don’t flatter myself to believe you’d be moved by my flattery.  It’s genuine.”

She smiled.  Earth boys are easy.

Iphigenia was in deep black coattails and a gold lamé sash over slate grey silk clothing and tall shining black boots.  Her hair was cleaned and braided in front, blossoming into a shiny waterfall behind her.  She cracked the fingers of white-gloved hands and sat at the grand piano.  The band died down and dancers slowed, looking for guidance.

Jelly Sue was in a red satin ball gown that was far too long.  She lifted the skirt enough to walk up a step stool, and take a place seated atop the piano.  She looked to Ippy with a placid smile.

“Warm up?,” Ippy asked.  Jelly didn’t need it.  Her voice never cracked, but Ippy thought it was cute.  She raised a little brandy glass and pinged it with a cocktail fork.

Jelly responded, “Mimimimi-miiii...”

“That’s good, Jelly.”

They smiled sweetly at each other.  Then Ippy raised an eyebrow and started to play.  It was a slow, gentle jazz tune - an original, composed with help from a herald demon or two.  She played with some force to establish the rhythm, then lightened her touch on the keys as Jelly Sue started to sing.

Her voice was flawless, high, but strong.

“Some friends you find

 In a dusty mausoleum.

 Some friends you find

 So dirty you can’t see ’em

Who ever wants to be alone?

Make your friends of dolls or bones

When I need a knife to cut you free

That’s when you mean the most to me

I see you in the darkest hour

I see you and I grow in power

You are the blood in my glass

 Some friends you find

 In the tomb and filthy rubble.

 Some friends you find, and

 If you love them, bring a shovel.”

Clark was moved by the romantic melody, and hugged Thurston in the middle of their dance.  Thurston obliged him with a gentle kiss on the forehead, but never lost sight of the creature on the piano.  Her song chilled his blood.

***

The Homme family were comfortable inside a spacious living room with recessed lighting and puffy beige carpet.  Outside, a cold winter wind threatened snow that never seemed to arrive.

Jason relaxed with his feet up on the ottoman, his lovely wife Heather beside him.  Madison was at the far end of the couch in a ball, watching her boyfriend Braden and her brother Freddy playing on the Xbox.  Grown men acting like kids.  Typical.  At least they didn’t cuss at each other anymore.

The phone rang and Heather got up to catch it.  Jason looked down the long couch at Maddy.  “Your beau is duelling your brother to the death.  It’s very Shakespearean, Princess.”

“It’s Smash Brawl, Daddy, not rapiers in Verona.”

Freddy suddenly sat up, letting his character get tossed into a pit.  “It’s Mortal Kombat, Sis!  Are you freaking kidding me?”

Braden said, “That’s teamwork.  Thanks for the help, Hon.”

“No fair!  Ugh.”

Heather came back and sat on the table a little disturbed looking.

“What’s the matter, Mommy?”

“Oh?  Sorry, Baby.  Your Daddy isn’t going to like it.”

“What was it?  The IRS.”

“Your brother.”

He pointed a finger at her.  “That’s right.  I don’t like it.”

“He said he’s got a piece of waterfront on Mercer Island now, wants us to come for a visit.”

“Why the hell would we want to do that?  I’m sorry, Honey.”

“Daddy.”

Heather held both hands up to calm.  “He’s your brother, and you should at least consider it.”

“That ship has sailed, Honey.  Right out to the Puget Sound and smashed on some rocks.  He can be somebody else’s brother.  Some kinda… goat-faced sunuvabitch.”

The younger guys put down the controllers and turned to face the conversation.  Braden said, “Man, waterfront on Mercer Island?  How loaded is old Kevin now anyway?”

Freddy said, “We should go!  It sounds lit, dogg.”

“I’ll show you lit, if you talk that trash in my house, Son.”

“Naw, seriously.  The war is over.  We can go there and back, no problem.  Why are you so worried?”

Maddy said, “You weren’t there, Freddy!  Even if they aren’t fighting, it’s dangerous.  And it’s just wrong!  You don’t go and get the Mark of the Beast.”

Jason said, “She’s right.  And look what they’re doing with it.  People are making all this money.  They say in the Bible you get the mark so you can do commerce, right?  You might as well just sign your soul over in blood.”

Freddy said, “Psh.  I gueeess.”

He tugged his sleeves down a little farther.

      --The End

***

[photonconductor]

alto and anastasia (not romantic) fluff based off some hcs i share with some friends (other aside my doc was called ana plays the piana and thats rly funny ok);

Music was always a strange concept for Alto to form his head around.

While the use of song was forbidden, thanks to God, that didn't mean all remnants of music were erased. People still used instruments and the like, but singing? Anyone knew that was impossible. During his three years of time in Mithra village, he never completely questioned why no one would sing along with the music being performed. Sure, he learned in Sunday school that God punished humanity by taking it away, but he still never paid much attention to the notes and how the tunes went.

Mithra wasn't exactly a place known for it's music, anyway, beyond performances at festivals and such. Only royalty generally got to taste the finer sounds of music. So he had put it out of his mind for the most part.

Since hearing Hilda's song, and awakening to his power of the Conductor, Alto felt much different on the subject. Probably because it was strange to hear a song so beautiful that had so much power to destroy, but the Conductor never really thought much on it. In that time between then and now, however, he had heard all kinds of songs. Songs of hope, songs of wishes, and even songs of worries and strife.

It really made him wonder just what a song like the Anthem would produce. Surely it would be a beautiful one, Alto told himself. All the witches songs were beautiful in some ways... and he would begrudgingly admit that Hilda's was too despite the power to destroy. A song that carried all their hopes and wishes to remove Hilda's crystallization... it was a song with unimaginable power.

It wouldn't be long now, though. With Mordimort joining their ranks, they were all set to go. The only problems was Lisette's voice... but Alto had faith in her. They had all been through a lot in the short span of months together, so of course it would just take her some time. She was just rushing thi--

"--Alto?" Commander Klaus' voice broke through his thoughts like a clean sweep of the sword. Alto blinked hurriedly before snapping his shoulders straight.

"Y-yes, sir?!" Alto said a little too loudly, but the Commander still held his gentle smile as always. The Conductor was always surprised how calm Klaus could be at a time like this. Alto felt anxious already just waiting around. That was apparent by his wandering thoughts.

"Were you listening to what I told you? Don't tell me you are starting to become another Rusty?" Klaus gave a tiny exasperated sigh before the boy shook his head wildly.

"N-No, I'm not going to turn into Rusty! I mean-- no, I was listening!" Alto's words scrambled for some grip, but Klaus merely waved his hand, "Erm-- you wanted me to deliver this to Her Majesty, right?" Alto glanced down at the envelope in his palm. It was padded fairly well, meaning there was a good amount of papers stored inside it. The royal seal was stamped on the back to hold the flap down as well as defining just how important the documents were.

Klaus' words before his mind had wandered had been something about delivering this--the final revision of the Anthem--for Queen Anastasia to look over. Klaus leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile and nodded once.

"That is correct. Good to see you were paying attention."

"But... is it really okay for me to be taking this to her? Shouldn't you?" Alto asked with uncertainty. Klaus was the Grand Master after all... wouldn't it make more sense for him to deliver it? At that, the blond knight merely shook his head.

"No, I believe the Conductor should have that honor. Even if you are merely a knight, you have put in a great help so that the Anthem can be realized at all." Alto felt suddenly sheepish under his gaze. He felt his shoulders sinking and the back of his neck heating up a little.

"N-No, I didn't really do all that much..." Alto let his free hand rub at the back of his neck. While he had Conducted the witches, it was all their doing not his. The tunings and the conductings were his power, he couldn't deny that, but if it weren't for them the Anthem wouldn't even be a blip on their consciousness. Besides, he had decided long ago to stop Hilda and restore everyone from crystallization. Alto was sure anyone else would have felt the same way. Still, at the Conductor's response, the Grand Master merely shook his head.

"You have done excellent thus far, Alto. Everyone thinks so. You and the rest of the 9th Regiment have all been working hard towards this moment." Klaus stood up at that and gently clapped a hand on Alto's shoulder, "The Conductor delivering the final piece to Her Majesty is a fitting way to put this to rest, don't you think?"

Alto paused in thought, but found he couldn't really find a problem with what he was saying.

"You're right. I'll have this delivered right away then! Thank you, Sir." Alto nodded again, gave his salute to the Commander, and hurried out of the conference room. The fastest way to find Ana--or rather Her Majesty--would to be her throne room. Alto probably would have to go through the guards first, but considering the importance of his documents it wouldn't be too hard.

Despite living here for a few months, Alto still felt utterly small inside the Lambert castle's interior. Getting used to the knights barracks was tough enough, but the castle itself? Alto wasn't sure if he ever would get used to it. However, he did know an easy route to the castle's throne room thanks to the many times they had to report in. Once he arrived, sure enough, there were guards posted at the entrance. They were standing as rigid as ever even when the Conductor approached them.

Alto almost wondered if they fell asleep, until he heard the shift of their armor. They eyed Alto carefully as he made his approach towards them. Alto found he stiffened his shoulders and stood up a little straighter under their gaze.

"State your business." One spoke up and Alto quickly retrieved the papers he had brought. He held them towards the guards, the seal facing upwards.

"I have a message for Her Majesty. I just came to deliver it to her." The two guards exchanged unsure glances between themselves. Alto found his face falling at the same time. Had he said something wrong? He was sure he wasn't a suspicious looking character. They stared at each other for a moment longer before one of the guards finally shifted.

"Alright... but make it quick. Regent Elmar said we're not supposed to let anyone through, but since this is urgent we'll let you on ahead." The guards stepped aside and pushed open the door as slowly and softly as they could.

Alto looked between them with a confused expression, but said no more as he walked inside. The room was as spacious and large as ever, practically swallowing Alto whole. He still found his breath taken away by the grandiose atmosphere of the entire place. It still was hard to imagine things he had read in Lisette's books was this amazing in real life.

Just as he thought that, there was a low, loud noise. It reverberated throughout the room and nearly had him jumping out of his armor. Somehow, Alto managed to keep himself from crinkling the paper in his grip. Once the noise had sounded, it was followed by more noises. Low notes that echoed throughout the interior of the throne room itself and filled it to the brim with sound. What once were slow notes, they soon began to pick up speed and start to intertwine into a new sound.

It didn't take long for Alto to put two and two together; someone was playing the grand organ in the back of the throne room.

Considering the size of the organ, anyone on the grounds of the castle could hear it softly echoing throughout the castle whenever it was played. The first time Alto had heard the sound of the grand pipe organ, he nearly thought they were under attack. Archibald and Rusty had shared a good laugh at him, much to Alto's embarrassment.  Archibald had later explained it was merely the Queen practicing. Rusty had promptly added on to the fact that Alto really was a country bumpkin if he had never heard music like that once before. Alto remembered ignoring his comment in favor of listening to the music itself. The tone was warm... but somehow it felt lonely.

Now that he was actually in the room where it played, it was much much louder than he expected. The notes felt like they were smacking into him, but each one held a weight he couldn't quite describe. The notes soon became tangled together in a flurry of sounds, but instead of sounding bad they came out soft and slow. The low notes continued into higher ones occasionally, but for the most part the song was slow. Alto found himself lost in listening to the tune, until he realized what he came for.

He tried to be as quiet as possible as he approached the throne itself. He passed the empty throne to where the person he was waiting for was just behind it. Queen Anastasia herself, carefully pressing at the keys with expert precision as well as the equal pressing of her foot to power the notes themselves. She was focusing intently on the sheet music in front of her. Her eyes never looked away for a moment and Alto had wondered if she had even heard him. He decided to wait behind her rather than interrupt her while in the middle of her practice.

Since becoming the Conductor, Alto noticed, was that he felt more attuned to music whenever it played. Unlike in Mithra, there were more times that music wafted from some corner of the city of Lambert. Still, the Conductor let the sounds flood his ears and carefully took them in. The tone was low, but somehow it was cheerful this time. The longer Alto listened, however, the more he realized how lacking it was. While he was lucky to be able to hear the Witches sing, it just made it more apparent how different their world was without the power of songs.

Music was still beautiful, still touching, but somehow... Alto just felt there was something missing. There were parts of the song that felt like notes should go into, but were met with a strange emptiness. The song felt incomplete, Alto decided to himself. However, Anastasia continued on as if there were nothing wrong with the notes she was playing. Alto was wrapped up in the music that he hadn't noticed her notes slowly becoming softer and softer until she had stilled her hands. Alto blinked once at the sudden silent atmosphere before he looked at the Queen.

She was still staring at the organ, but her fingers had stilled. She removed them from the keys before gently smoothing them against her dress and letting out a quiet sigh. The knight frowned briefly before he smiled.

"That was a nice piece." Just as he said it, Anastasia straightened up before turning towards him. Her face held surprise, but that was to be expected. Once her eye were on Alto, the smile that beamed from her face was just as bright as her clothing. The Conductor could've swore she practically leaked sunlight into the room with her smile.

"Alto! It's good to see you!" She was immediately on her feet then, nearly pulling him into an eager hug.

"W-woah, woah! H-Hold on, Your Majesty!" Alto was quickly smothered by her hug, but Ana didn't seem too bothered by it one bit. He could practically feel the air leaking from his lungs.

"Alto! I thought I told you to call me Ana! Sheesh..." Her tone was firm, but her face still held a perky smile. She quickly released him from her death grip before Alto turned into some kind of deflated balloon. "Thank you. What brings you here? If I had known you were coming I would've skipped practice."

"Is that really a good idea...?" Alto asked while raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, don't worry! Elmar wanted me to keep practicing even though there's so much work to be done. I think missing one session won't make my skills go that dull. Medea usually helps me with practice, but Elmar said if I got too reliant on her I'd never improve." She laughed at that and Alto suddenly realized why those guards were reluctant to let him in. Elmar probably had set it up so no one disturbed her while she was practicing... and Alto had gone and ruined that. Somehow, he cursed himself for not seeing that coming. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"A-anyway, I came to deliver the final revision of the Anthem. Commander Klaus asked me to give it to you... seeing as I'm the Conductor and all." Alto held it out to her gently. The Queen's eyes widened even further and she gently took it from his hands. Her smile had widened just a tad before she looked at him again.

"Thank you, Alto. Lambert and Regnant as a whole thanks you so much for your help. Without you, I don't know where we would be now." Anastasia praised him and Alto felt the heat going straight to his face again.

"If we have to thank anyone, it should be the Witches. They've worked harder than I have." Alto spoke up and the Queen nodded gently.

"You're right. They have done so much for us as well... the 9th as a whole has done its part in maintaining the peace of this land. There will be time to properly give thanks to all once the Anthem is complete." Her ever regal air quickly returned and Alto felt almost awkward for the sudden change. It wasn't long before Anastasia's warm smile returned and she moved away. She returned back to the organ and set the envelope gently against the music stand of the organ. Alto was just about to make his way out until she stopped him.

"Alto, have you ever played an instrument?" Anastasia suddenly asked, looking back at him. Alto blinked once from surprise before shaking his head.

"N-No, I've never really tried it. We didn't have a lot of instruments in Mithra and I'm much better at hunting than--" Before he could continue, the Queen quickly grabbed his arm and tugged on it.

"Well, come here then! Let's try it out!"

"Wh-what?" Before Alto could protest, he was suddenly being pushed to sit down on the bench Her Majesty had been sitting at moments prior. She excitedly scooted to the other side before looking at him eagerly. Alto felt even tinier under her gaze and stared back at her with an uncertain expression.

"Come on!" Anastasia said excitedly.

"Come on, what?"

"Play something! It's okay if its bad! Here, I'll show you how!" With that, her gloved hands moved gracefully towards the keys. She gently placed her foot below the organ and gently tapped a few keys. The organ responded with a few loud notes before she turned back to him with a smile.

"See? Now you try." Alto stared at her before looking back down at the keyboards in front of him. There were so many...! Not to mention all the knobs and doohickeys hanging from the giant thing! How she expected him to play this, Alto wasn't sure. He raised his hands tentatively above the keyboard itself, unsure of where to even start. Did he press lightly? Did he press hard? He adjusted his foot underneath the pedals and gently stepped before pressing both of his hands on the keyboard at once. The organ replied with a horrible sounding note that resounded loudly and awkwardly throughout the throne room.

Alto winced. He really should've thought that through better. He glanced at Anastasia worriedly, but she had covered a hand over her mouth. For a split second, Alto had assumed he had offended her in some way. It wasn't long before, when he really looked at her, he noticed she was trying to hold in her laughter. Alto felt a pout replace his earlier worry faster than the note had faded away.

"I-I'm sorry Alto!" The Queen held back her giggles before flapping her free hand, "It was a good try, really!" Alto could only sigh and roll his eyes at that.

"Thanks... I told you before, I've never played anything!"

"You did, you did! I just didn't think it would be that bad!" Somehow she contained her giggles before composing herself. Alto was half worried Elmar would suddenly come barging in after that noise he had made, but the outer doors to the throne room never budged.

"Here, I can show you an easy song." Anastasia smiled and without another word of protest from Alto began playing again. She leaned over to the side and began fiddling with some of the knobs before her fingers began pressing on the keys again.

The notes were light and were played as if she had done it a thousand times. They danced together in a quick tempo and easy harmony and Alto felt hard pressed not to get swept up in the cheery tune. They were much different than the song she had been playing earlier. This one felt more complete, even if it was a simple tune itself. It wasn't long before she finished with a smile.

"You're really good at this," Alto breathed, staring back at the keys again, "I can't even keep track of all these keys and pedals myself." At that, the Queen laughed again.

"It's okay, Alto. I've had a lot of practice. When I was younger, my father taught me how to play." She her eyes trailed upward almost as if they were smiling themselves fondly at the organ, "It's sort of a tradition of the royal family. We've had this organ here for generations... ever since King Xeno's time."

Alto found his mouth agape at that. This thing was that old? It was almost surprising considering how well and in condition it was. Medea really had her work cut out for her... not to mention the people who kept it maintained like this.

"It's really that old? That's pretty impressive." Alto leaned back, following her gaze up along the golden pipes. The ornate patterns twisted in the pipes themselves were grand now that Alto could look at them up close. It almost felt nostalgic, but Alto couldn't quite place why. He had never seen an organ before, but its impressiveness still left him stunned.

"Yes... my family has been playing this organ since we came into royalty. My father taught me and my father's mother taught him. It was said that even King Xeno himself played this very same organ... in fact," She leaned in towards him and Alto felt his personal space shrink, "I heard even the hero Elcrest played this organ once. Isn't that amazing?"

"Yeah... that sure is something." Alto blinked in utter surprise. Even the hero Elcrest had played this thing? Was there anything the hero Elcrest didn't do? People sure were talented... even back a thousand years. The idea that all sorts of famous people had sat in the very spot he was sitting in, some boy from Mithra without a memory to call his own, made him very aware of his own history. He wasn't so sure it was his right to sit in this spot. Alto shifted uncomfortably, but Anastasia seemed to notice.

"Now that you're here, I have a favor to ask." The woman asked and Alto looked up curiously.

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind listening to me play a little longer? It is kind of lonely when no one else is around.... so it is a selfish request, really." Her smile faded at that and Alto felt a twinge of guilt. This place was so huge that it wasn't hard to feel alone in such a big place. Alto certainly felt it... and it wasn't like he was doing anything after this.

"I wouldn't mind listening to you play longer. It's really good after all." Alto smiled back and the woman returned it. On cue, she then returned back to her organ and resumed playing again.

Alto recognized this song; it had been the same one that had started when he had walked it. In fact, now that he thought about it, the song held a soft somber melody to it. There was a warmth behind its tone if Alto soaked himself into the song itself, but it was hidden underneath the power behind the former notes. As soon as it had started, it ended.

"What's that song?" Alto couldn't help, but pipe up once she was finished. The queen blinked for a moment before she leaned back a little. Her face shifted ever so slightly as if she was unsure about answering, but she continued on without any word wavering in her voice.

"Its a song I used to play with my father before he passed away. He said it was a duet piece so only two people could play it... and yet here I am, playing it by myself." She turned her head away from him to stare back at the wind pipes again, "But when I play it, I feel right at home. Its a nostalgic piece, I'll admit... but I still want to keep playing it even if the memories behind it are painful for me. Its just one way I can remember him by."

Anastasia let out a tiny sigh at that. Alto watched her carefully, but he could feel his heart go out for her. The only family Alto ever knew was Miss Rosa and Lisette... it would be hard to lose someone close to you. In fact, Alto couldn't even bare the thought Miss Rosa was gone forever. That was why they had to save her, no matter what. His hands curled into fists at that thought and he shifted in his seat.

"I think that's admirable. I don't really have much experience with music even though I'm a Conductor... but playing something that you and your father did together is still a way to honor that memory. I don't really have my own memories of my own parents so... I don't think you're insulting him or anything like that. He'd probably be happy to know you're still playing despite all your duties." Alto fumbled for his words for a moment there, but he hoped his meaning at least got across. Anastasia was looking at him now and Alto could feel her eyes boring into him. He blinked once back at her before he hurriedly looked away.

"Wh-what? Did I say something wrong?" Alto tugged at his collar under her gaze. Slowly Anastasia shook her head and a small smile appeared on her face.

"No. You're very kind, Alto." She said softly, and her eyes sparkled with appreciation, "...Since my father's death, I almost wanted to give up playing this organ. I thought it would hurt too much... and sometimes it does." At that she paused, grabbing one of her hands to hold it against her chest. She held it close to her heart, but her smile never wavered from her face.

"But hearing you say that... makes me think I can carry on a little longer. I know I have to... for my people and this land's sake. Its not just that; its not just about duty. I want to keep carrying on for them. Plus I've never stopped enjoying playing. I was almost a little jealous you got to spend so much time with the witches. Their songs are so warm and beautiful... it made me wish I had the power of the Conductor, too." Alto could feel her desire in her voice, but she continued on, "You know, I always wished I could accompany you all... and even play the witches' songs with their singing. That was a dream of mine for so long."

"I don't see why not." Alto said suddenly and Anastasia looked at him in sheer surprise, "I'm sure if you asked they wouldn't mind." It was there that the woman's face turned a bright shade of pink.

"N-No, I couldn't! I mean, they're busy preparing for the Anthem and, I mean, I've only learned some pieces on my own and what would I even say and--" Alto's loud 'snrk' cut her off. It was Alto's turn to start holding in his laughter.

"H-hey! Just what is so funny?!" Anastasia huffed, clearly flustered by his proposal.

"N-Nothing! Its just... Its really surprising to see you so flustered about that! You're usually so calm." Alto managed to choke out and Anastasia paused. Before long, they were both laughing together. The once large, empty room suddenly felt a lot warmer with their laughter filling it instead of the low melancholy tones of the organ. It took them awhile, but soon both of them composed themselves.

"Once the Anthem is complete, you should ask them." Alto finally said and the queen nodded.

"You know... I think you are right. Once all is said and done, I shall play with them." She repeated it again, as if it were giving her even more strength behind it. At that, she stood up and left Alto still seated. The woman gently reached out to take the revised Anthem, holding it between both of her hands. She quietly smoothed the paper out before turning back to him.

"Thank you, Alto. Let's both do our best to make sure the Anthem is complete... and once things settle, I hope you come see me and the witches perform." Her voice was warm and her smile was so broad the Conductor couldn't even hold his own back. Yes, the Anthem would be complete... and things would be restored. Once Hilda was stopped, they could finally all return to their normal way of life; maybe even a little better than normal.

"I'll make sure of it, Ana." Alto got to his feet and gave her a solid nod, "I'll look forward to it."

[thesouthendproject]

A brush with death: Why Britain's coolest art and fashion names have rallied around a victim of random knife crime

Monday night in east London members' club Shoreditch House, and a glamorous group of artists and fashion designers has gathered for a charity auction. Tracey Emin is posing for photographers in front of two drawings she has donated for the event. Antony Gormley is there too, busily repositioning his contribution – a stark black-and-white image of a human silhouette. Works by Wolfgang Tillmans, Banksy, Rankin, Ron Arad and Cornelia Parker fill the wall space. As well as the art, there is a cluster of mannequins, each swathed in pieces donated by the hottest names in fashion – Christopher Kane, Richard Nicoll, Marios Schwab and Roksanda Ilincic.

The auction begins, and with telephone bidders hanging on the line from the States, business is brisk. The Harry Potter actor Daniel Radcliffe, who seems to have turned up with his entire family in tow, is determined to get his hands on the Banksy and, after some frenzied bidding, finally wins it for £7,000. A large-scale image by fashion photographer Tim Walker goes to a New York collector for £6,500 and Gormley's piece is surely a snip at £7,000. As the cash rolls in, Will Young surveys the scene quietly from the sidelines and an increasingly vocal Tracey Emin sits perched at the bar. "It's too cheap," she screeches, "too cheap." When the hammer comes down on the final lot, the Australia-born singer Daniel Merriweather steps on stage to entertain the now boisterous party-goers.

It is a celebrity turnout that would have been a coup for any well-established charity, but this is actually the launch of an organisation, called Art Against Knives. What is even more remarkable is that it was set up by three 21-year-old students, none of whom really knew what they were doing, but who were galvanised to act after an incident last year turned their lives upside-down. "The plan was to have a little drinks party and maybe see if we could auction off some of our student friends' work to raise money," says one, "but it escalated."

Last summer Oliver Hemsley, Katy Dawe and Alice Wilson were three ordinary twentysomethings who had moved to London to study. Hemsley and Dawe were both fashion students at St Martins, while Wilson was doing a design degree at the London College of Communication. "We were all just having a brilliant summer before university," says Dawe. "We were out every night just having a laugh."

Then, on the evening of 28 August, all that changed. Hemsley decided to meet Wilson and a couple of other friends for a drink after work. He set off from his home on Arnold Circus, in the heart of London's fashionable Shoreditch, for the George & Dragon pub a couple of minutes walk away. When he turned on to Boundary Street, a group of about six local teenage boys, aged around 15 and 16, pushed aside the girl he was walking with and attacked him from behind, hitting him on the head with a bottle. Then they started stabbing him. The first knife went in through his back and into his lung. Then they went for his neck, his chest and his heart. Once they had finished, as Hemsley lay motionless and bleeding in the street, one of the attackers returned and jumped on his head. The entire assault, which had taken place just off a busy London thoroughfare in broad daylight, lasted for four-and-a-half minutes.

Hemsley, who had never been in a fight in his life, barely made a sound – he never stood a chance. But thanks to the horrified screams of the girl he had been walking with, the police and ambulance service were on the scene within minutes, whisking Hemsley to the Royal London Hospital in nearby Whitechapel. But by the time he got there, his heart had stopped beating, his spinal cord was severed and clinically he was dead.

No one knows why those boys picked on Hemsley that night. It seems that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim perhaps of a gruesome gang initiation. They couldn't have chosen a more gentle, innocuous person. Hemsley was an upbeat, funny, popular fashion student who was a regular on the Shoreditch art scene. He had grown up in a tiny village north of Cambridge and only moved to London two years before, to pursue his dream of studying at St Martins; he was due to take up his degree place just days after the attack.

If there was one bit of luck on Hemsley's side that night, it was the fact that the incident happened just around the corner from one of the country's leading trauma hospitals. ' The Royal London is home to the capital's air ambulance, so the staff there are highly skilled at dealing with severely injured people. When Hemsley was brought in, the doctors resorted to one final technique to try to get his heart beating again – a brutal piece of high-risk surgery called a clam-shell thoracotomy, which has a success rate of less than 20 per cent. To do this, they cut him from one side of his chest to the other, lifted his ribs, parted his lungs, reached in, took his heart from his body and coaxed it back to life. Hemsley had lost bucket-loads of blood, he couldn't move from the neck down, but he was alive.

It is hard to imagine how a parent would feel receiving the call that delivered that news. "It was a bolt out of the blue. I can't describe how it felt as it is too painful to recount," says Hemsley's mother, Jenny, a primary-school teacher. "In the dark days after the attack we were so frightened and so anxious but we had to keep going for Oli's sake." When Dawe received a call about it, she was so shocked that her legs gave way beneath her. "I remember having to walk past the spot where the attack had happened to get back to my house," she says. "I saw police searching through the bins. I just stopped and vomited all over the street."

A lot has been written in the media about victims of knife crime who die, but there is little about those who survive and have to carry on living with the consequences. The month Hemsley was stabbed, there were 444 hospital admissions for "assault by sharp object" (knife attacks) in England alone (there were 4,910 admissions over the year). Most will figure briefly as a story in the local paper then disappear, each victim left to fathom how to come to terms with the physical and psychological fallout. "It's been really tough," Hemsley says with typical understatement, "because there's no manual on what to do when you get stabbed. No one knew what to do. Me, my parents, my friends – we all had to learn."

Hemsley's parents moved from their village of Sutton in the Isle into a caravan in south-east London to be closer to the hospital, and his dad, also a teacher, officially retired the day after the attack. "What made it so hurtful," says Hemsley's mother, "was that it was random, totally random. If it had been for a reason – that he was carrying money, or if he'd been out drunk with a knife himself – it may have been easier to understand. But this was impossible to rationalise."

Mercifully, Hemsley has only vague recollections of the attack. "I think I can kind of remember feeling some sort of blows coming down on to my body," he says. "I'm very glad I can't remember more. Someone told me snippets about it the other day and it was horrible to hear. In the future, when I'm ready, I can ask."

The first few months passed in a blur for Hemsley, but the one thing he did know was that his friends rarely left his bedside. One of them brought a projector to his hospital room, stuck a sheet up on the wall, and his friends would all go around to watch films, read magazines and play music. Dawe went there every day. "We just did what we would always do when we were hanging out," she says. "It was never a sad atmosphere; we just kept it as normal as possible. We realised it really was an amazing thing that Oliver was still with us, so we counted ourselves lucky. It sounds like quite a weird thing to say, but we turned it into something really positive."

Hemsley spent 134 days in intensive care. When he turned 21 in October, his friends filled his room with helium balloons. At Christmas, they got dressed up, brought presents and drank mulled wine. At one point, there were more than 30 people trying to get into intensive care to visit him. The nurses had to start clamping down. "From the beginning Oli had so many visitors, and I didn't dare believe they would stick with him, but a year on and they are still there," says his mum. "They have helped us restore our faith in humanity, which I can assure you goes when your son has been violated in the way Oli was."

When Dawe and Wilson started talking about setting up Art Against Knives to raise awareness as well as funds for Hemsley's care, it was decided they would do it only if he worked on it with them. All emails were copied to Hemsley, which he monitored from his hospital bed. News of the stabbing had sent shockwaves through the halls of St Martins as well as among Shoreditch locals, and both powerful artistic communities threw their support behind it. "More and more people kept hearing about what we were doing and coming forward to ask if they could help," says Dawe. "So many people have been touched by what happened to Oliver. We had a completely overwhelming response."

Tracey Emin, who lives around the corner from where Hemsley was attacked, didn't just donate work and turn up on the night, she also personally gave him a big pile of art books. "It's so sad and appalling what happened," says the artist. "A young designer with his whole life ahead of him stabbed in the spine for what? Absolutely nothing."

When one of the creatives at global marketing company Leagas Delaney heard about Art Against Knives, the agency offered to come up with a poster design for the campaign. Someone else built them a website and someone managed to get Shoreditch House for free. And still the ball carried on rolling. In the run-up to the auction, somehow they managed to get adverts placed in the national press as well as on digital billboards throughout London, all entirely for free. It was turning into a masterful campaign.

As they worked on the project, amazing things started to happen to Hemsley. First, one of his fingers twitched a tiny bit, then his leg. "I remember the first time I moved my leg, just twitched a muscle, my dad and I cried. It was amazing," he says. "From then on," continues Dawe, "we would just sit there for hours and watch your big toe." He was moved out of intensive care and into the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital in Stanmore, Middlesex, for rehab. By the time the Art Against Knives auction took place, nine months after the attack, Hemsley had defied all expectation and was moving around in a wheelchair. "I just took it day by day," he says. "I never wanted to hear about my prognosis because they prepare you for the worst. I just wanted to stay optimistic."

Meanwhile, the police were working to try to catch his attackers. "We were aware that various people were being brought in, being charged, not charged, questioned, released, bailed. All this kind of stuff," says Dawe.

Then, in April, one of the suspects finally made it to court: a 15-year-old local boy called Nazrul Islam. The police had found a discarded kitchen knife in the churchyard next to Boundary Street hours after the attack. It had Hemsley's blood and Islam's DNA on it. At the sentencing, Judge Roger Chapple described it as, "An entirely motiveless, mindless attack. Its ferocity makes my blood run cold." He took the unusual step of lifting restrictions on reporting Islam's name (because he was under 16) and releasing it to the press because "he [Islam] speaks with a degree of pride about his reputation with the boys, with the local community". (While Islam was on bail for the attack of Hemsley, as officers waited for forensic tests, he threatened and robbed a 12-year-old girl.)

Neither Jenny Hemsley nor her husband went to court, "I just didn't want to see the person who did that to my son." Islam was sentenced to 10 years, for GBH with intent. It was, the Hemsleys were told, a good result. The likelihood is that he'll be out in three years. I ask Hemsley what he thinks of the sentence. "Unsure," he says slowly. "They were trying not to leave me alive. There's no way in my mind you could put a knife into someone's neck, heart, back and lungs eight times, to bottle them, stamp on them and expect them to be alive... To all intents and purposes the doctors brought me back from the dead, so, yeah, it is a bit strange. But we are pleased because in Britain that [sentence] is the maximum possible."

It is now just over a year since the attack and Hemsley's progress continues. He recently left hospital and moved into a flat in Farringdon, where he lives with a carer. He has now regained enough movement in his hands to start drawing and sewing again. "The hand/eye coordination is still there," he says. "It's all a little bit wobbly but I quite like a scratchy drawing." He's learning how to navigate London by wheelchair and even laughs as he tells me all about the surgeon who took out his heart, "put it on a tray" and made it start again.

Meanwhile, Hemsley, Dawe and Wilson find themselves in the unexpected position of being directors of a successful new charity. The trio have been asked to head the prestigious Fash-Off party on 23 September, which means they will be responsible for the closing party of London Fashion Week – a party at which they will also launch a further, online, auction of 10 more pieces from well-known names from across the art and fashion worlds. Leagas Delaney has donated office space in London's Tottenham Court Road and they currently go there daily to plan the future for Art Against Knives. They are meeting lobbyists, raising questions and deciding what stand their charity should take to help ensure that what happened to their friend doesn't happen to somebody else's. St Martins, meanwhile, has agreed to hold Hemsley's place open until whenever he is ready. "So many good things have come out of this," concludes Dawe. "Oliver is always going to be dealing with it. We're always going to be dealing with it, but there's no point being angry. We've salvaged something positive from it. We don't really even talk about it much any more. We've moved on."

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Not Quite a Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

by Wardog

Friday, 26 December 2008

Wardog would have been impressed with The Pearls That Were His Eyes if she hadn't paid for it.~

The Pearls That Were His Eyes - a yarn of mythology and politics set in a baroque fantasy world, partly inspired by Shakespeare and partly by T.S. Eliot - is vanity published, which should have warned off any sensible person but since it's Xmas and I was feeling generous and it's creating something of a small-scale stir on LJ, I decided to give it a go, just on the off chance it was a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. Sigh. When I am I going to learn?

The thing is ... it's not ... bad ... actually. It's just the problem arises in that I paid money for it (and, yes, I know I that did voluntarily). It's probably symptomatic of my conventional nature or something, but I actually believe that books that don't get published don't get published for a reason. The Pearls That Were His Eyes is not a work of undiscovered genius that the publishing world is just too hidebound to recognise/appreciate - it's a promising book that needs a lot of work and a good editor. If someone (by which I mean the author, friend of the author, me - not a pirate, if you even get literature pirates) should ever giveyou this, then I heartily suggest you read it. It's well-written, imaginative, original and atmospheric. Do not, however, think about buying it because, in its current state, it's an amateur work with nothing to recommend it but potential.

The Pearls That Were His Eyes is set in the partially drowned, fog-wreathed city of Cittavecchio, which is, like most fantasy cities, a little bit of this, a little bit of that (in this case, London and Venice). It's a city with a dark, legend-shrouded past, suppressed and half-forgotten in the current Age of Reason. Needless to say the mythology of the city doesn't stay suppressed for long and rises up to consume the lives of, well, some dudes. I can't really summarise the plot much beyond that because ... it's not so much that it's incoherent as it's rather muted: there's a web of intrigue, there's a conclusion to the web of intrigue, but it's hard to really get a grip on what's going on.

Oh for God's sake: spoiler-time, let's try to untangle this:

So the City of Cittavecchio was drowned by the Old Gods for reasons not entirely specified except that they evidently didn't like it much. And The Tattered King, the Last King of the City, wanders around the edges of reality waiting for a moment to reclaim the city for himself again. And all the rich people go to parties and gossip all the time and wear masks and have masquerade balls and festivals. And all the poor people live in the Rookeries and are beggars and get killed. God knows how this city supports itself. And the Duca who rules the city is mad and corrupt - except we never really see this, so it's a bit hard to see why people are so down on the guy. And there's also a secret senate who are supposed to be the true power in the city. And there's a dude going around killing people in a particularly gruesome way. And there's this deck of tarot cards, right, called the Re Stracciati (the Tattered King) deck, that had been originally created to contain and control the spirit of the very city itself and was capable of drawing forth the spirit of the Tattered King. Wrap this all up in a motley of Shakespeare and T.S. Eliot and you get, if you'll forgive me, a heap of broken images: in short A Big Pile of Awesome with no actual structure to it.

What works about the Web o' Intrigue that leads, as you may suppose, to the very-near resurrection of the Tattered King is that it's a genuinely intriguing blending of huge political plots, personal vendettas, cruel coincidences and base human pettiness. It all comes together very satisfyingly indeed, except the journey to the point where it does is just a little bit tedious. For fantasy, it's a remarkably slim volume (weighing in at a mere 300 pages), so really you'd think, with all the necessary world and character building, it wouldn't have space to be dull. But somehow it manages. Part of the problem lies with the need to acquaint the reader with an already complicated personal/political background that has been created long before the story itself begins; therefore the book kicks off with an awful lots of "as you know your father the king" style exposition, which is both blatant and extraordinarily clumsily executed. Characters can tell other characters information they presumably already know for pages at a time. Let me quote you a chunk to demonstrate the magnitude of the problem:

'Is it worth taking [this quite significant information we've just gathered] to the Lord Seneschal yet?' 'No. Cittavecchi society is riddled with secret societies, clubs, political movements and the like. Masks breed them like flies. For the moment we have nothing more than my disquiet and a series of coincidences that seem too convenient to go on - that is not enough for any kind of legal process. If we have nothing but innuendo and we take it to the Seneschal, then he will take it to the Duca, and the first thing the Duca will do is order another round of hangings and gibbetings for no better reason than it is you and I who raise the matter. And if he executes any more members of the nobility on our say, it will probably trigger the very open revolt we seek to avoid at the moment and, worse, it will make our own position untenable. Everything is finely and I do not want to try and provoke and other of the Duca's funny turns. They are inevitably bloody in consequence.'

Aaaand breathe.

This problem is particularly marked at the beginning of the book, which is, you will agree, a particularly bad place for it to be marked. Although it eases off a bit as the plot (finally) picks up, the pacing as a whole remains awkward throughout. This isn't helped by shallow characterisation. The characters are painted in broad strokes but since they're all some variation on "courtier" (ruthless courtier, party courtier, naive courtier, hot courtier, woman courtier etc. etc.) and they all have extravagant Italianate titles, it's actually quite difficult to untangle them and their agendas. They all talk pretty much the same way and although they do have relationships with each other, it's hard to know why they think and act they way they do. Gawain, Lord d'Orlato and Xavier, Lord di Tuffatore are, apparently, in love but I never had any particular reason to believe in it or care about either the relationship or the inevitable shocking betrayal that accompanies it.

Actually since I've already spoilered this to oblivion and back, I may as well clarify. It turns that Gawain is the friendly neighbourhood serial killer, acting out of what he sees as being his "love" for Xavier, taking out those who threatened or inconvenienced his lover (handy). Their confrontation is genuinely arresting and dramatic, except it's got no context to it so it has no emotional resonance to it. Why does Gawain love Xavier enough to turn himself into a monster for the sake of it? And what on earth does Xavier see in Gawain?

This afflicts most of the characters in the book, although it seems less important for the others since they don't carry as much of the story. Essentially they're all cool but not interesting: little more than a parcel of bon mots and extravagant costuming. I know they're probably meant to be like that but it does leave the novel without any kind of emotional dimension. I think Xavier is meant to be the least psychotic of them and that we're maybe meant to like him, or at least be sufficiently invested him that his eventual fate is tragic ... but although I was sensible of the mechanics of said tragedy I didn't actually feel it.

This is not to say there's nothing to like about TPTWHE. There is good stuff in there. The city of Cittavecchio is trying very hard to be cool and, well, I have to admit it is pretty cool:

It's said ... that every night the Tattered King throws his cloak over the ancient and crumbling city, his constant lover and royal consort. Centuries ago ... the old Gods tried and failed to wash her iniquities away with the great deluge; she endured, half-drowned, half-dead, knee deep in silt water and floodwater, a sunken shadow of her Imperial past.

The whole brooding atmosphere of the book is excellent. And, despite having more than a whisper pretension about it, the Shakespeare / Eliot / tarot card motifs really contribute to it. Also Andrews writes well. I was rather taken with: "in his eyes, hysteria hovered like a solicitous relative, ready to take him by the arm and guide him into the gentle uplands of shrieking madness." And when it isn't bogging down in exposition, the rhythms of his dialogue are equally stylish:

'I have given a commitment to my brother ... and matters of policy must come before my own amusement.' 'It gratifies me nonetheless that you regard me as an amusement and not as a matter of policy...'

Unfortunately this isn't quite enough to pull TPTWHE together. It's a shame but a book I'd be willing to pay for is more than flair and imagination.Themes:

Books

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Sci-fi / Fantasy

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Self-Published

~

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Michal

at 00:52 on 2013-09-18This is an old article, but I'm gonna comment anyway 'cause that's how I roll.

I'm not sure if this restores my faith in conventional publishing as the article implies it should, since the book is, despite a shoddy cover and wandering plot, still apparently "well-written, imaginative, original and atmospheric." And this strikes me as a lot better than certain other debut novels that publishers have paid an advance for. I guess I'd want to know what the history behind this book was, if it was self-pubbed or vanity-pubbed from the get-go or if no one was interested in it or what, in that it obviously could have benefited from a professional editor or even the opinion of a good friend with an editing mind and the potential was there to make it a whole lot better. Or, in simpler terms: did Andrews simply release this book too early and should've worked on it more until he eventually found an agent, or should it have stayed in the trunk since no publisher would ever pick it up at all?

Mostly, it's a bit harsh to say "read this book if you don't pay for it" which seems to imply there some worth to the thing being printed in the first place, whereas large publishing houses have put out books where I really do wonder "what did any editor ever see in this thing?"

[samjunanto]

E-Class 111 (the last ONE): Being the solo wanderlust is so much wander-ful

Class number one-one-and-one: what a perfect number to tell you my gratitude of having a chance to do a ONE-person-Travelling, My odyssey in Europe (a very long ago) was my very first experience to go alone in almost terra incognito place. Being anxious was indeed my biggest hindrance. But believe me, in the end, it would be paid off.

You might certainly see the similar post about solo-travelling. But this is my post, my journey, so let me tell you my perspective about the perks and good and privileges (and a little disadvantages) of Solo-travelling.

1.       No Compromising

You ARE the captain of your own boat; you even control the wind and the wave itself; you are practically the Poseidon of your voyage, unless the true Poseidon drowned you in his Tsunami (lame joke detected).

Wherever you go, just go. No need for unnecessary arguing and bargaining which might take a whole day. You win, you would feel guilty; you lose, It’s even worse. You know what you are capable for: you don’t need to take a rest due to your partner’s heels making her toe sore; you don’t need to stop because someone’s bladder is going to explode; the best part is you could just take a pause to enjoy the view and feel the breeze around you when you are terribly exhausted, whenever you like, without being somebody’s hindrance.

Want to buy some stuff? Just pick a store. Cancel your plan? Well, just undo it. Finally decide to buy it after a twelve-minute of internal conflict? No one would complain. Meeting the locals, visiting the museums, taking an eternal stroll, trying new pasta, praying in church, preaching instead, fooling around, watch striptease, or even be the stripper itself. Once again, just do it, no com-pro-mise.  

2.       Meeting more people

It’s always nice to have a partner in your expedition,someone who could immediately hear your sarcastic gag and someone who accompanies you so that you would never feel lonely. But believe me, Solo-travelling somehow paradoxically made you meet more people.  Here’s the thing: Given two choices: first, a girl, not really attractive but alone. Next, a dozen girls who are talking an unknown-Himalayan-alike language between themselves. Between whom,which one did you prefer to greet? Especially when you, yourself, are also single and lonely. Get it? Good, let’s move on.

3.       Deep conversation with stranger without no one judging you

I’ve made the certain story about this (click here). Long story short, when you are alone, you will be enforced to make some communication with a total stranger, even though as simple as asking a direction. But if you are lucky enough, you’ll get some enlightening-not-wishy-washy chat that open your mind that the world itself is so wide and wonderful. You could speak anything, because probably (just probably) you will never get to meet them again.

4.       Challenging yourself, learn anything new

You planned your itinerary perfectly, very calculating meticulous. You thought it is not without undoubt that your vacation will never stray for the blueprint you’ve made. Well, you could never be so wrong. It is obviously unavoidable that you will face some difficult or even embarrassing moments whatever perfect your plan was.

But that’s it; it is one of millions way that could upgrade yourself to be a better you. The least you could improve is your language skill; not only English, but also gesture and body language, the word that’s way more universal beyond music and Love.

And believe me, that hard moment, (if you’re still alive) would be just another story to tell. And if you are going with your friend, you might miss some opportunity to challenge yourself, especially if you’re very dependent to your buddy.

5.       Recovering your faith in humanity

This morning newspaper is telling us about evil terrorism and horrible massacre. You got bored, you scrolled your timeline and found another news about corruption and silly leader. Finally, you decide to go outside, but mommy hold you, freaking out about rape and homicide that happened nowadays around your neighborhood. We are currently living in an era when you would believe that the mankind is heinous and world is perilous. And do you think the solo-travelling will change that conviction? Well, it does, at least for me.

Like I told you before, I have faced many obstacles, but in my experiences, I almost always get helped from strangers, no matter how unfamiliar we are. I was a browned-skin Asian Moslem stranded in Europe, I was practically an alien! However, Either locals or fellow travellers, they DID help me, just sincerely helped without expecting anything from me, no matter how many differences we had. I dropped my tear, a tear full of hope, realizing that there is a chance for humanity to prevail in this world, an evil world as we thought it was.

p.s: you still need to be careful, though.

6.       Being the one who recover whomever’s faith in humanity

After restoring your faith for humanity, you would know that it would be your turn to pay it forward. When you open your eyes wider a bit, you would find there’s abundance people whom might need your help. An old lady with a terribly heavy luggage: give her a hand. The tourist guy looks confused: ask him why. A family tried to do some we-fie but they didn’t realize that ten people were just a little bit too much: offer them to take their picture. You’d get a different way of response: graceful, ignored, or doubting looks. Whatever, just do it for free then you’d realize that you just have already found another way to upgrade yourself to be a better you.

7.       Get the true ambiance of the place

If you, by any chance, know me, you would agree that I am just another negative cynical guy, exactly like Chandler from F.r.i.e.n.d.s. When I hanged out with my friend, I always threw sarcastic jokes to whatever stuff I saw. This gloomy pessimistic side of me would exactly hinder myself to see the genuine nature of the place I visited. Without any of my inner circle around me, I will stop uttering satire and start sensing the real ambiance around me: The true romance of Eifel, the real charm of Notre Dame, The honest horror of St Vitus Cathedral, the sincere innocence of Manneken Pis, the genuine beauty of Mediterranean Sea, the palpable firmness of Coliseum, and so on, you name it.

8.       Self-Reflection and meditating

By being alone, you would not look more truthfully only to the place around you, but more importantly, to the inner you. Little did i know about self-introspection nor self-motivation, but i believe that there is no other perfect environment for self-contemplating than the serene atmosphere under the pure sacred moonlight, altogether with clean European breeze. Well I am a little bit being melodramatic poet here, but it is true. Just try it.

9.       Be Grateful to what we’ve already had

After some time you’d already devoted in complete strange places, alone, you would realize that every pieces thing that you always took for granted, actually worth everything when they exist around you: Your family, your friend, your homey cooks, your easily accessible permit to pray or eat or whatnot, your own mother language, your toilet shower (really, I need it for my excreting life), your rational sensible level of spiciness (i did yearn for sambal as inflaming as they should be), The INDOMIE (yes indeed, I actually seldom eat it, but I just simply crave it when I’m abroad) and so much more. So when all of those thing gone for months, you would be the epitome of idiom “the thing you need the most, is the thing that doesn’t exist”

This is it; I’m not indebted with myself anymore. This is the end of my class. I hope there is something that you could actually learn from all this bullshit. LOL. One last advice: after going through priceless and memorable journey, it would be better if you write all of it down. I know that a picture worth thousand words,and your Instastory could best describe all the places you visited perfectly. But only through Words i could fathom the thought and the feeling of your thrilling experiences.