#and the bulk of them are like caving stories gone wrong

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

Starting my next story 👀

[maeglinyedi]

The Serpent That Devours Us, 2

The Serpent That Devours Us

Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Rating: Mature

Read it here on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132261/

Chapter 2

“What?” Harry gaped at the basilisk, mouth hanging open. He knew he must look the fool but he was too shocked to care.

“How thick are you?” the basilisk – Tom! – asked him. “I’m a wizard. I need your help.”

“No, I got that part. Just...how did this happen? Is it an animagus transfiguration gone wrong? I’m an animagus, so I might be able to help you.”

The basilisk – Tom – shook his massive head. “I’m an animagus as well, but I became one years before this happened and my form is not a basilisk.” Tom looked away from Harry. “I performed a ritual, but...I was betrayed. The sorceress who gave me the ritual knew this would happen. She wanted this to happen.”

“What kind of ritual? I’m really not well-versed in rituals, to be honest.” Harry shrugged helplessly. Of course he wanted to help this wizard, but his expertise was magical creatures, not magical catastrophes.

Tom ducked his head, his coils tightening for a second. “It was a ritual of longevity. Do the ritual, have a guaranteed 1000-year-long lifespan, that sort of thing.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. He snorted. “So the ritual did work. Basilisks do live that long.”

“Yes, thank you,” Tom snapped. “I had realized that a time or two or five hundred since I got stuck like this. Wait, what year is it?”

“It’s 2013.”

Tom visibly recoiled, his yellow eyes widening. “It’s 2013? I knew some decades had passed but I thought it might be the eighties.”

“When did you get stuck like this then?” Harry asked, his heart aching for this guy. No wonder he got cranky sometimes and tore up the forest. “How old are you?”

“I was born December 31st, 1926. I performed the ritual on midsummer’s eve, 1953,” Tom whispered.

“Wow. You have been stuck here for a long time.” Harry considered the situation and knew at once what to do. “Come with me.”

Tom’s head snapped up. “Are you mad? I’m a basilisk, in case you haven’t noticed. I go beyond this forest and the whole world will hunt me down.”

Harry’s smile was wide as he slipped off his backpack and pulled out his suitcase. “Oh mate, the world won’t know you’re with me.” He placed the suitcase on the floor and flipped open the lid. “Just follow me. You’ll fit, don’t worry.”

And Harry quickly climbed down the stairs into the main area of the suitcase. Newt had charmed it, much like his own suitcase, to have a main holding area with many habitats bordering it, with a small apartment off to the side. Harry heard scales sliding above him and he watched quietly as Tom lowered the bulk of his body inside the holding area, forked tongue flicking in and out of his mouth.

“This is quite impressive,” Tom said, carefully sliding along the floor as he checked out all the different habitats.

“Plenty of space for you to move around in until we can reverse the ritual.” Harry crossed his arms, leaning his hip against a support beam as he watched Tom get familiar with the place. “I don’t have any animals with me now. My owl, Hedwig, always travelled with me but she died a few years ago. I use the habitats for sick creatures or ones that need relocating. I’m a magical zoologist,” he added, not sure if he’d told Tom that yet or not.

“And a Gryffindor,” Tom said with a sigh as he poked his head inside Harry’s living quarters where Harry kept a Gryffindor flag above the sofa. “Of course you had to be a Gryffindor, blundering your way inside a basilisk’s lair as you did.”

“What’s wrong with Gryffindor?” Harry asked with a grin and then realized something. “Wait, are you British? Did you go to Hogwarts?”

Tom gave him a disbelieving look before rolling his eyes. “Born and raised in London. I’m a Slytherin. Prefect. Head boy, even. I had the highest NEWTs score, at least until then.”

Harry chuckled. “You sound like the boy my friend Hermione complained about after she went through Hogwarts’ student records. She wanted to be the best and she was determined to beat your scores but she couldn’t quite manage it.”

“Well,” Tom said with a smug look. “It’s nice to know I left some kind of legacy behind.”

“So, what do you think?” Harry gestured around the space. “This way we can take our time getting you back to yourself, and in the meantime you get out of the forest and I can do my job.”

Tom stared at him for a moment. “I suppose that is acceptable. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

“Great,” Harry said, but he sobered after a moment of excitement. “Just promise me you’ll be careful with your gaze. I might be immune but the rest of the world isn’t.”

“I can shield my gaze with my third eyelid temporarily.” Tom demonstrated by raising an opaque lid over his bright yellow eyes. “But perhaps it’s wise to not let anyone else down here.”

Harry nodded. “The suitcase is warded. No one can enter without my express invitation.”

“Good. There is one thing left to do.” And with that, Tom raised himself up and slid out of the suitcase. Harry jumped up the ladder and followed him out. Tom led him deeper inside the cave to a part where it was almost too dark to see. “You’ll need to bring this for me.” Tom nudged his nose against a small rocky ledge.

Harry leaned closer to see what was on it. “Is that your wand?” he asked after he managed to identify the object in the near darkness.

“Yes. If you could grab that for me I would be much obliged.”

Harry did and the moment his fingers closed around the pale wood an almost familiar warmth shot up his arm. “What’s it made of? It feels almost like my own wand.”

“Yew and phoenix feather.”

“Ah.” Harry reached for the holster in his sleeve and pulled out his own wand. “Holly and phoenix feather.”

“Might be from the same phoenix if they are that similar,” Tom suggested.

“Might be,” Harry agreed. He placed both wands inside the holster. “I’ll take good care of it until you can hold it again, I promise.”

Tom was quiet for a moment before he whispered, “Thank you. That wand is what has kept me sane over the years. Knowing it was there, that it was mine, that I was a wizard, it kept me from giving up.”

Harry placed a hand on Tom’s scaly side in comfort. “We’ll get you sorted out, Tom. I know a lot of brilliant people. They’ll help.”

Tom nodded his head and without saying anything else he slid back to the suitcase. Harry followed him with a sense of purpose brewing in his chest. He would help Tom get back to himself and in the meantime he had a companion for his travels.

Before Harry climbed down in the suitcase he aimed his wand at the cave. “Accio shed basilisk skin.”

Three long almost translucent skins came flying towards him. One, the oldest, was too far gone to be of any use, but the other two were still in good shape. Harry folded them with a wave of his wand and ignored Tom’s amused look as he carefully stored them in an empty trunk.

“The rent doesn’t pay itself,” Harry said, closing the trunk. “I’ve got to sell things I find to fund this operation.”

“You should milk some of my venom. That should earn you a nice pile of Galleons.” Tom briefly opened his mouth to show off his enormous fangs. “If you dare,” he added with a hissed laugh.

“If you let me I’ll dare.” Harry offered him his cockiest grin. “Gryffindor, remember.”

“How could I forget. Though what the Sorting Hat was thinking in placing a parselmouth in Gryffindor, I’ll never understand.” Tom stretched his coils out before getting more comfortable.

“Well, it hadn’t seen a parselmouth in a long time,” Harry offered. “Dumbledore told me I was the first parselmouth in Britain in centuries.”

Tom reared his head up with a terrifying hiss. “Dumbledore is full of shit. I’m a parselmouth, which I told him when he came to give me my letter when I was eleven. He never trusted me afterwards. And now he’s erasing my existence altogether.” Tom’s eyes positively glowed as he glared at Harry.

Not knowing how to respond to that, but slightly cowed in the face of a basilisk’s fury, former human or not, Harry lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

Tom seemed to deflate slightly. “I realize it’s not your fault. It just angers me beyond belief that Dumbledore would do such a thing. That man has never given me a fair chance.”

“So I guess asking Dumbledore for help is out of the question? Because he’s at the top of my list to go to, if I’m being honest,” Harry said carefully.

Tom’s eyes started glowing again. “That man is still alive? And yes, going to him is definitely out of the question. I’d rather remain this way than ask him for anything.”

“Okay, point made,” Harry said, meanwhile wondering what the hell Dumbledore had done to this man to make him hate the headmaster that much. To be honest, Harry had never had much to do with Dumbledore. His parents were friendly with him, his dad had business with him through his work from time to time, and his mother, who worked as a healer in St Mungo’s, had called upon the headmaster for his expertise in transfiguration in a few difficult cases. But Harry himself, especially after he became a zoologist had never garnered much of the headmaster’s attention. Then again, he’d never been an exceptional student outside his interest in creatures and his talent on a broom.

Harry had figured out years ago, after a few nights drinking wine or whiskey with Severus and listening to some of his stories about his time at Hogwarts, that Dumbledore was the kind of man who surrounded himself with talented people who could solve his problems for him. Severus wasn’t overly fond of the man for his abysmal treatment of Slytherins, and Blaise had always had lots to complain about the headmaster as well, and Harry realized Tom might very well have similar experiences as those two when it came to the headmaster and Slytherins.

Best to respect his grievances and find help elsewhere.

“I’m getting a sandwich. Do you need to eat?” Harry moved inside his small apartment, amused when Tom stuck his head inside the door to see what he was doing.

“No, I ate two deer just the other week. I don’t require much sustenance.”

“Let me know when you get hungry. There’s plenty of deer and wild boar in the world.” Harry prepared himself a simple roast beef sandwich and a cup of tea and flopped down on the sofa to eat it.

Tom flicked his tongue in and out. “I miss tea,” he sighed.

“I think I would, too,” Harry said between bites. “What possessed you to do such a ritual in the first place?”

“Stupidity,” Tom replied with a bitter laugh. “Arrogance. Ambition. Immortality.”

“Immortality? Really? That sounds a bit...much.”

“I have, since being stuck like this for sixty years, come to the conclusion that immortality is overrated, yes.” Tom’s gaze was miles away. “I wonder if this was the sorceress’ goal when she gave me the ritual. I’d spent so many years trying to lose my humanity and yet, now I would do almost anything to be human again.” And with that Tom pulled his head back and disappeared into the holding area, leaving a baffled Harry behind.

[weaselle]

Neanderthal hunt - excerpt from my WIP Stone Punk

Things had gone wrong right from the start. 15 year-old Dreght clutched his spear tightly, running in the near-dark of dawn. Trees flashed by as he sprinted across the frozen ground. An elk burst the wrong way out of the shrubs straight at him - past him - both of them dodging to avoid impact. The deep smell of deer briefly swirled though the cold empty scent of snowy pine.

A yearling calf came next, tall as Dreght-  impulsively, he swung his spear like a club at its legs, tripping it, lost his own balance, fell. He scrabbled on all fours in the snow, couldn’t get his spear. The calf was bounding to its feet, mamma elk coming back for it at full speed. Dreght leaped for a tree, put it between him and the angry 1,000 pound mother, sucking three big gasps of the cold mountain air into his lungs. He pushed off downhill, running through the redwoods. Ahead of him, Vereghk screamed again.

Swerving around a tree at full speed, he almost stepped on the prone body of Gogghrath in the elk-trampled snow. Dreght skidded to his knees and fell back toward the hunter. Gogghrath was groaning. Further into the woods, Vereghk was shouting. Dreght nudged the injured man laying next to him. “Gogghrath!?”

“Go... Vereghk,” Gogghrath wheezed, “Vereghk,” but Drehgt was already up and sprinting on.

He could hear the stomping, the crack of antlers breaking brittle branches. Leader Frightch appeared to his right, focused on the source of the noise. Ahead of them an angry bull elk came into view, doing its best to kill Vereghk, who was desperately playing a game of round-the-tree tag with it.

The giant deer was twice Frightch’s hight, with antlers nearly the same distance wide, and it weighed more than ten of him; a creature of both bulk and grace. The lead hunter noticed  Dreght first with relief, then with an angry questioning look, shaking his own spear at the spear-less young man. Dreght ducked his head in a shrug and scanned the ground for something, anything to use as a weapon, as his leader began advancing on the pirouetting beast.

Frightch added his shouts to those of his brother Vereghk, and when Dreght, too, began to shout as he threw rocks at it, it finally stopped its rampaging to reassess things. Dreght hit it squarely with another fist sized rock.

“NO!” Frightch shouted “we need!  ...him,” but it was too late, the massive animal was already in full flight. Frightch dropped his spear, strode over to Dreght, and clubbed him in the chest with both fists, knocking him down and standing over him. Dreght looked up at him while the surrounding woods returned to their customary stillness, and the blood pounded in his ears.

Moments later, rejoined by limping Gogghrath and young Skaghet, the five squat, bristle-bearded hunters took stock of the situation. It was a disaster. The Family was desperate for meat. Instead, they had seriously injured nearly half their hunters.

“Blood, look” said Dreght, optimistically pointing at the few splotches of crimson in the ruins of snow around Vereghk’s tree. “We may be able to catch up to it”

Vereghk, one arm hanging limp, leaning heavily against the tree that had saved his life, disagreed hoarsely “No good; I missed. It was almost on top of me, there were so many, very fast. I stabbed at the soft spot, here,” he gestured between his hip and his stomach, “but I hit bone, the leg I think. It twisted my whole arm, broke my spear, threw me into the air. When the big elk turned to fight, I could see it was not injured much. It may limp, it will not bleed much or long; probably, we can not track it.”

His older brother Frightch, grunted in agreement, gestured around at the group, looking at Dreght “Gogghrath’s leg does not work, Vereghk’s arm does not work, and you and Skaghet are too young to pair or assign alone. The big bull fought easily, ran easily. If it is wounded less than will kill it, we can not go after it like this. I would like to leave one able hunter with the two injured to return home and send two of us after the elk, but who would go? Who would stay? We failed. The elk lives today.”

Dreght, knowing Frightch lay some of the blame for that failure on him, tried to find a solution. “You could go,” he said to the head of the family, “and take Skaghet; he is only 12 years, but has his full height to add to your strength and wisdom. I am tallest, and strong, though young. I would stay and do all Vereghk says; his shoulder is injured, not his head.”

Their Leader mulled it over. Then Skaghet spoke up as Frightch considered.

“Leader,” he said, nervously, the first thing he had said all day, “I saw... I saw strange people.”

Four pairs of eyes locked onto Skaghet. “People? Are you sure? What people?” Frightch asked, “Breghath’s Family? Norbagh and his stupid brood?”

Skaghet shook his head, “No. Strange... I saw strange people up the mountain, across the open snow when the hunt began. They were tall. Their hair was black. They were, different. Not like other families, maybe not people? But, they had strange clothes, they talked, they had people faces. Almost. Strange, but people.”

Frightch stood immediately, picked up his spear, waved a hand, “This hunt is over,” he said definitively, “lets go now; Gogghrath, can you walk, or do you need a pull-cot?”

Gogghrath tried a few hobbled steps using his spear like a crutch, grimacing, “I can walk. Maybe not the whole day- you think there will be trouble?”

“Skaghet said they talked. He heard them talk. We’ve been shouting. They must know we are here. Why didn't you tell us right away, Skaghet?"

"The elk.. everything happened so fast, Vereghk screamed, I thought, I would tell you after we killed the elk, I thought..." he trailed off helplessly.

Vereghk shot a glance at his older brother "The People from Over the Mountain?"

Frightch frowned, "I don't care. New neighbor-family, or grandfather's old stories, whoever it is, they might be watching us by now. We must get across the mountain quickly, we are not strong enough for a fight, if fighting is what they choose. Skaghet, you should have told us sooner. We may lose more than that elk today; let us get back home to the caves very fast, and quiet.” Swiftly, nervously, the five dwarvish hunters moved off deeper into the woods through the early morning light. ______________________________________________________________________ 

[wits-writing]

Avengers: Endgame (Movie Review SPOILERS)

Avengers: Endgame, directed by Anthony and Joe Russo with a screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, has a clearly delineated story structures, basically splitting its story among three different genres to bring in so much of the scope that’s been built up in 21 previous movies. Even accounting for its three-hour runtime, how much payoff and experimenting with the character dynamics from throughout the MCU’s history has been fit into this one astonishes. Each segment has ways of managing tone and dealing with the finality at play that warrant discussing how they work on individual levels. I’m going to try something different by doing exactly that with this review, followed by highlighting my favorite performances in the movie. This will mean spoilers, but the stuff I want to discuss requires that and I won’t give away the biggest moments Endgame has up its sleeve.

Final Warning: If you don’t want to be spoiled on anything about Avengers: Endgame, turn back now but know this is a satisfying finale for everything the MCU has built.

[Full Review and SPOILERS Under the Cut]

Act 1 (Prologue/Post-Snap World):

The prologue of the movie effectively tells the audience what the movie will not be about. When Captain Marvel (Brie Larson) arrives at Avengers HQ after saving Tony (Robert Downey Jr.) and Nebula (Karen Gillan) from being stranded in space, Endgame goes through the motions of the most obvious follow-up to Infinity War. The heroes regroup with their new powerful ally to kick Thanos’s ass properly this time around with the intent to get the Infinity Stones and undo the Snap. Things get complicated with a revelation when they go to find Thanos on the idyllic planet he’s retired on after achieving his twisted idea of “balance.” The Mad Titan used his second act with the Infinity Stones to self-destruct them, so the Snap can’t be undone. After Thor kills Thanos in a swift act of rage, the Avengers are left with no solid idea of what their next move will be.

That’s when the next major reveal of Endgame’s premise occurs, it’s set five years in the future from where the prologue left off. The time-skip effectively jumps us into a new status quo the characters have settled into and how some have dealt with the Post-Snap world better than others. Some of the Avengers had more invested in the mission than others and either desperately seek a new one or completely close themselves off due to lack of purpose. Others have managed to find renewed purpose through rebuilding their personal lives, finding a sense of balance and moving on, even if guilt over being unable to stop Thanos has stuck with them.

This act represents the movie at its most somber and considerate. Even the humor that does manage to creep into this part of the movie is more subdued or the product of characters lashing out in frustration. We get the most time inside the heads of the characters in the opening stretch and we’re given a sense of what they still have to lose in the aftermath of their greatest failure. However, things shift gears into the second act, when the heroes get the chance to start making things right.

Act 2 (Time Heist):

Endgame starts reintroducing the type of fun that’s more expected from the Avengers movies by way of reintroducing the audience to Scott Lang (Paul Rudd), aka Ant-Man. He emerges from the Quantum Realm after the mid-credits cliffhanger from Ant-Man and the Wasp, but the five years only felt like five hours to him. After catching up on what he missed and reuniting with his loved ones, he decides to go to Avengers HQ with his revelations about the Realm and how they could use it to bring back everyone dusted in the Snap by tracking down the Infinity Stones throughout time. Which ends up meaning the Avengers taking a tour through the events of past MCU movies.

The buildup to the actual trips through time transition from the more dower tone of the opening by turning the middle of the movie into a heist. Like any decent entry in that genre, it begins by bringing the team together. This is where the last couple of heroes that haven’t made appearances in the movie yet make their return and they’re the ones in more amusing positions post-time-skip. Some of the team use this as a chance to pick themselves back up as having a new mission breathes new life into them. Others still have some heavy lifting to do in that area that has to wait until they’re already on the MacGuffin quest. They determine which times are best for picking up the Stones as efficiently as possible with the limited resources at their disposal.

Once the time travel begins, how much an audience member gets out of it will inevitably be tied to how much they have invested in the MCU as a series and the entries being revisited in particular. I can’t be impartial about how well this would work for the casual fan of these movies, since I’ve watched most of them multiple times over the years. It’s about as blatant as fan service can get and represents the movie at its lightest tone overall. Even if specific events aren’t being revisited, there are nods, winks and cameos from past characters aplenty to go around as Endgame pays tribute to every storyteller that’s added something to this universe. My personal favorite bits come from how the movie uses this time to answer retroactive questions of “what was X-character doing during Y-event”, especially during the part that revolves around the Battle of New York from The Avengers.

It’s not all jokes and continuity nods, since going through ones own past presents plenty of opportunity for self-reflection. Characters get the chance to see how far they’ve come, reexamine their regrets and bring relationships with other characters full-circle. The exact mechanics of what can and can’t be done in the past are loose but usually in service to the character arcs being brought to fruition. Since it wouldn’t be a heist or a time travel story without something going wrong along the way, this is also where the buildup for the final act of the movie occurs.

Act 3 (Final Battle/Epilogue):

If the second act was examining the MCU’s past compared to how far they’ve come, the final act is about showing off the full spectacle of what’s been built from that past. It’s a sight to behold as stories get payed off and called back, all while the scale grows to a level that makes the battles from even the biggest superhero movies of the last twenty years look miniscule by comparison. The cathartic execution of this battle is awe-inspiring and goes beyond anything else I can remember seeing in my life. All of it leads into the movie’s epilogue as the characters are left to consider what they’ve sacrificed to win the day. The final stretch of this movie emphasizes a sense of finality on par with the multiple epilogues from Return of the King. Even as the MCU inevitably continues after this, there’s a sense that the story that began with Tony Stark in a cave with a box of scraps has concluded.

The Characters:

Since Endgame’s mainly a conclusion for what began with Phase 1 of the MCU, the original six Avengers get the bulk of this movies character work. Keeping things focused to a core group of characters makes this movie ultimately feel more satisfying for them than Infinity War, where they were mostly a reactive force to Thanos’s machinations.

Tony’s presented as the one with the most to lose before they go on their time travel mission, since he’s put the most work into rebuilding his life after the Snap. When he’s first presented with the time travel plan, he dismisses it as a pipedream of a Hail Mary pass. His own desire to make things right eventually wins out and he’s the one to put the finishing touches on the devices that make their mission possible. He’s paired up with Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) for the mission as it takes them on a tour of the intersections in their personal histories. Theirs is probably the strongest of the segments that makeup the second act of Endgame and serves as a worthwhile reconciliation for the two after their falling out in Captain America: Civil War.

Thor (Chris Hemsworth) has been stuck dealing with witnessing everything he ever defined himself by crumble with the weight of his failure to stop Thanos as his breaking point. He’s given up on any version of Thor he thought himself to be in the past, not the arrogant prince we first met him as nor the hero he became. He’s retreated from himself and that makes him the most reluctant to go along with the plan to fix everything. His depression is played partly for laughs and given signifiers of letting himself go like overeating and alcoholism. It’s likely a divisive decision to do this with Thor, but I enjoy the way it pays off. He also continues his great dynamic with Rocket Raccoon (Bradley Cooper) from Infinity War, which plants Rocket in the rare position of being the mature one in the situation.

Natasha (Scarlet Johannsen) spent the past five years actively throwing herself into mitigating the chaos caused in the wake of the Snap. She’ll take any problem as an excuse to keep herself busy rather than dwell on how her efforts to do the right thing as an Avenger added up to a zero-sum when it counted most. In the time between those dilemmas, she’s busy tracking down Clint Barton (Jeremy Renner). He lost his entire family in the Snap and it broke him. He’s gone on an international killing spree of any major criminals spared from being dusted. The two reunite for the sake of the mission and are both prepared to give up anything to make up for the sins of their respective pasts.

Bruce (Mark Ruffalo) is probably the character there’s the least to say about. The position he’s in after the time-skip is amusing. He’s managed to make peace with his Hulk-side and now permanently hulked-out with a more affable demeanor overall that suits Ruffalo’s performance perfectly. It’s a fun decision, showing one of the characters taking the perspective granted by experiencing a cosmic tragedy to work through his personal issues but it leaves him with little to do but exposit about the plot mechanics of time travel. There are some great bits where he struggles to imitate the past-Hulk’s rage to stay incognito on their time travel mission that make this decision the most worth it.

Aside from the original Avengers, the character given the most material to work with is Nebula. The character and Gillan’s performance have been a consistently underrated aspect of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies, but the spotlight she’s given here makes her best showcase yet. The time travel segment ends up showing how far the character has come since her first appearance. It’d be difficult to discuss much more without going into further spoilers than I have already, but she’s definitely Endgame’s secret weapon for why it works as well as it does.

Conclusion:

Honestly, I don’t know what else to say at this point. Avengers: Endgame makes an effective celebration of everything the Marvel Cinematic Universe has built up. If you’ve read this far past my spoiler warnings already, you’ve either already seen it and made up your own mind or wanted more details about what the experience of this finale is like. This is a curtain call on eleven years of evolution for superhero movies as a genre and I’m happy I got to see it happen. Part of me will never believe they actually pulled it off, but they did and these characters have earned a permanent place in film history for it.

If you like what you’ve read here, please like/reblog or share elsewhere online, follow me on Twitter (@WC_WIT), and consider throwing some support my way at either Ko-Fi.com or Patreon.com at the extension “/witswriting”

[autolovecraft]

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not care to imagine. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he vaguely wished it would stop. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. I suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Birch still toiling. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom.

Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply.

[sheikah]

Hindsight

Or the super fluffy and melodramatic post-wight hunt ficlet you guys requested :) Loosely based on leak spoilers if you’re avoiding those!

[AO3]

(P.S. I did use a cut since this is kind of long. I apologize if it doesn’t function properly on mobile.)

“Khaleesi, please. You must eat something. You must.”

Dany ignored Jorah and continued staring out the grimy tower window. It provided only the faintest view of the roiling sea beyond. Between the ocean mist, the sunless sky, and the dirty glass, everything was shades of grey. All things considered it was the perfect setting to match her melancholy.

“Daenerys,” Jorah tried again, his voice soft. “It’s been a day and a half. We need to start planning our next move. You need sleep. Food. Please.”

She turned to Jorah slowly, raising her red-rimmed eyes to his. There was a world of pity in their blue depths. But it didn’t matter. What could pity do for her now? It couldn’t bring Viserion back. It couldn’t bring Jon back.

“Leave me,” she whispered. Jorah watched her helplessly for a moment more and then departed, his head hanging with disappointment.

Dany sighed, facing the window again and wrapping herself more tightly in the cape. His cape. It was so lovely, the fur lining thick and warm, though Dany suspected she might never feel warm again.

It had been weeks before when they were trekking up from the caves back to the castle that Jon had given her the cape. She caught a chill from the wind rolling off the sea in the night and Jon had swept the cloak from his own back to throw it over her shaking shoulders.

“I’m f-fine,” she had protested through chattering teeth, bringing a smirk to Jon’s lips.

“Of course you are, Your Grace. But why not wear it all the same? It suits you.”  

She had worn it almost every day since, comforted by the weight of it on her back, the smell of Jon lingering in the pelts. It was laughably ill-fitting, swallowing her tiny form and trailing behind her when she walked because she didn’t match Jon’s height. But she had liked wearing it, and enjoyed the knowing looks they exchanged when Jon would see her in it and offer one of his rare little smiles.

Now it was all she had left of him.

And no one to blame but herself. What kind of queen was she if she couldn’t protect her closest friends? What kind of mother if she couldn’t protect her children?

Dany was weak and tired with grief but every time she closed her burning eyes she would see Viserion plummeting from the sky and through the sheet of ice. If she so much as thought of sleep she was confronted by the Night King’s wicked sneer of triumph as he watched her dragon fall to his death.

In the quiet she could hear Viserion’s screech of pain when the spear pierced his flesh, the last desperate beat of his wings in the air. When her dragon’s beautiful, creamy golden wings had vanished beneath the ice Dany felt like the spear had landed in her own heart instead, agony so sharp it left her gasping for air, hyperventilating, forgetting to maintain her grip on Drogon as he soared over the devastation below.

It was Jon who had called her back to the present, Jon who reminded her why she had flown into hell itself.

“Daenerys!” he had yelled, his strong voice cutting through the snowy wind to reach her in the sky, drawing her attention to her friends stranded on the battlefield.

So when she and Drogon had landed on a patch of clear ground to let the survivors clamber aboard, Dany felt the slightest glimmer of hope. Viserion was fallen, her child, her love, a part of her that could never, ever be replaced. He was gone; but Dany knew his death had been the price she paid for the lives of these men. With Viserion’s aid she had come in time to protect the men who would help her lead humanity through the Long Night.

Tyrion had advised her not to fly North, but watching Jon cut down dozens of wights and even an Other to protect his friends, Dany had known she made the right choice to save the lives of the men she had put in harm’s way.

But then Jon Snow had fallen and just like Viserion he sunk into the icy lake, a lake surrounded by wights. Dany had circled Drogon back around once, twice, three times, dodging spear throws and arrows from below, waiting to see Jon’s head break the surface of the lake, waiting for an opening to land again and drag him from the frigid waters herself if that was what it took.

But Jon didn’t come back up. And Dany had been forced to give into the urging of Jorah and Beric Dondarrion when they begged her to fly for Eastwatch while they still had the chance.

So here she sat, suffocating under the weight of her regret, wishing she could do it all differently. Dany longed to go back to that night on the beach. She would thank Jon when he wrapped his cape around her. She would look up into his eyes, black in the moonlight, and tell him she believed in him. That she knew now he was a man of honor and loyalty, a good man. A man who would never deceive her.

A man she had sent to his death.

She still remembered the day Jon left, how she had felt watching him ready his boat on the shoreline. A dark dread had seized upon her heart and something inside her begged her to intervene. Something told her that the markings on the wall in the caves beneath Dragonstone mattered. That her weeks at Jon Snow’s side had shown him to be an honest and pragmatic man, a man who would never fabricate fantastical stories to undermine her. Something told her that he was telling the truth, and that this wight hunt was a fool’s errand and a waste of their precious time.

But her doubt and uncertainty had won out in the end, and she reminded herself that if this Army of the Dead was indeed real, they would still need proof to convince all of the Southern houses to join the fight.

Jon had approached her last, after everyone else was in the boat, preparing to push off. He was awkward, hesitant, clearing his throat and refusing to look her in the eye.

“If I don’t return, at least you’ll finally be rid of the King in the North,” he quipped.

No, she had thought desperately. No. If I had my way you’d never leave my side again. I believe you. I trust you. I need you. Stay with me. Stay.

Instead Dany had lifted her eyes to find Jon’s, her heart breaking at the look of tenderness that came over his features when he saw her unshed tears. He looked unfairly handsome with all his well-worn armor and grim resolve, the black curls of his hair escaping the tie in the wind.

“No,” she answered in a choked voice. “I’ve grown used to him.”

Jon had smiled sadly at that, shifting from one foot to another for a moment before nodding and turning to the boat at last. Dany had not stayed on the beach to watch them sail away. It was more than she could bear.

It was only now she knew that she had been right to worry and wrong to ever allow their plan to go forward. She had been wrong from the moment she met him—wrong to doubt him, wrong to command him to bend the knee. He was as passionate and untamable as she was, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.

But he was gone now. Hindsight did nothing to change that.

Dany was startled from her thoughts by the sound of her chamber door. This time her visitor hadn’t even bothered to knock, and she shifted in her seat to face Jorah standing in the doorway again.

When she opened her mouth to order him away he raised a hand to silence her.

“My queen, there is something you need to see at once.”

Dany’s heart pounded in her ears as she waited for what he would say next. Had the Night King caught up to them already? Was he at the castle gates with his demon army, waiting to smite them all and then begin his deadly assault on Westeros? An assault that she knew could have been resisted if only she had listened, if only she had trusted Jon.

“There’s a visitor. In the downstairs bunks.”

It was then that she noticed his grin, his posture, the look of someone who had just received good news.

Jon.

Dany stood so quickly that her chair fell backward and hit the wooden floor with a loud clunk as she fled the room, bustling past Jorah and out into the castle’s dark and unfamiliar hallways. But something pulled her in the right direction, guiding her clumsy steps as she broke into a jog, descending the stairs and passing through corridors until she stood before the door to the first floor bunks.

Jon’s friend, Tormund, the enormous man from North of the Wall with fire in his hair, stood sentinel at the entrance, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Dany.

“Careful, Yer Grace,” he cautioned her. “He’s in a bad way—”

Dany’s heart leapt at the confirmation in his words and she abruptly shoved by him into the room.

It was dark and windowless, lit only by a newly-set fire in the ancient grate. In the shadowy back corner she saw Jon laid out on a cot, his face bloodied, clothes wet and dirty and caked in blood as well. But he was alive, breathing, looking up at Beric, who regarded him with his one good eye and spoke quietly.

At the sound of her arrival they both looked over and Jon’s face softened, his cracked lips curving into a smile.

Dany felt a cry burst from her throat and she ran to him, heedless of how the others stared, of her unkempt hair and swollen eyes. She tripped and stumbled on the hem of the cloak as she went but she didn’t care about that either, too overwhelmed with joy and relief at the sight of him, at the life in his eyes and the breath in his chest.

She flung herself at Jon, wrapping her arms around the bulk of his wildling furs and hugging him close with all her strength. They had never embraced before, had never even touched one another aside from the simple courtesy of Jon offering his hand to help her through the uneven footing of the caves back home; but Dany didn’t care that it was too familiar, that it was inappropriate. He was alive and she would never take that reality for granted again.

Jon chuckled in surprised delight at her fervor but the action sent him into a fit of coughs and Dany pulled back, her brows knitted with worry. But before she could say anything Jon spoke first, his voice a barely audible whisper.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, raising a trembling hand to push the hair out of her eyes.

“Me?” Dany shook her head at him in disbelief, smiling through her tears. “You fool,” she murmured. “I am now.”

Jon slowly wrapped his arms around her and Dany leaned into him, nuzzling her face against his neck. She could scarcely believe it was real, that he was here, that he was moving and talking and clinging to her like a lover. She still feared she might wake up in the lonely tower to find it was just a cruel dream. After all, to have him back was more than she deserved after everything she had done.

“Forgive me. You were right all along. I never should have let you go,” she sobbed. “Don’t … don’t ever leave me again.”

Jon tensed at her words and Dany held her breath, fearing she had gone too far. How could he want her now? The woman who had doubted him and then failed to save him when it mattered most.

But then Jon tightened his arms around her, shushing her soothingly before speaking at her ear. “Don’t you worry. I’m not finished with the Dragon Queen just yet. I’ve grown used to her.”

[prize-winning-conker]

Speaking of that daft column, it’s now more an essay, but ehh. He’s given me free reign so may as well make it count and make sure I upset someone. Think it’s done so have it early...

I was eight years old and in hospital, the cliché picture with a band aid on forehead and arm in splint. Mom hadn’t sat the entire time she’d been at my bedside - all three hours to that point. Lovingly fretting, you ask? Nope. Glaring down at me. I knew she was, her arms were folded and her weight shifted from one foot to the other as her exasperation grew, but I hadn’t dared to look all the way up to check. Eventually she cracked. 

“What have I told you?” 

That day would be the first time my mom’s most important lesson made sense to me, though it would take a number of years for me to fully absorb it. 

We were at recess. A group of classmates pulled me to one side. Their frisbee had got stuck in the tree, too high for anyone to throw a ball and knock. Could you fetch it for us? I wasn’t sure, it was pretty high and far out on the branch. But you know how to climb trees, they said, you climb the highest and fastest out of everyone. Won’t you help? It’s not fair if you don’t, you only need to shake the branch a little... They had a point. I was the best, and it wouldn’t be hard for me to do. They wouldn’t get it back that recess otherwise, so I agreed with a smile. 

It was high up. Even with my speed, by the time I reached the branch in question the gaggle of classmates had swollen to half the playground cheering me on, finally attracting the attention of horrified teachers. One called out, I panicked at their tone and slipped, slamming my head on a branch and landing with one arm outstretched futilely to break my fall. 

Apparently I went thud. I don’t remember that last part, though my classmates would argue over the exact noise for a week. I do remember being pinned to a board in the back of an ambulance, trying to get the paramedics to understand my mom was going to kill me if she found out. Too late, they said, she was on her way to the hospital. She’ll be there already, I said, to which they laughed. They stopped with a choke when they opened the back of the ambulance and there she was, glowering up at me with her jaw set. That was the last time I would look her in the eye for the next few hours. 

We said nothing to each other, save her sharp ‘well?’ when I was expected to answer a question she couldn’t. I passed through the hands of baffled trauma teams then X-ray staff to the children’s ward doctors. They could find nothing wrong with me other than a mild concussion, an associated graze, and a sprained wrist from my failed attempt to completely break my fall. I was very lucky, they repeatedly told me, I should have been killed from that height. I was to stay in overnight for observation. I guess they thought they’d missed something. After checking me over for the umpteenth time the final doctor left, then our stubborn battle began in earnest. 

I’m not sure why she caved first for once. Maybe because the other adults were doting on their poorly kids and glancing over like she had two heads, or because some of the other inmates were whispering about the chill in the air as her eyes bored into my skull. Most likely she knew Dad’s imminent arrival would undermine whatever lesson she had planned, his hugs and kisses ruining the gravitas, so she started as though I’d made a noise first.

“What have I told you?” 

It wasn’t a riddle. We’d talk after every episode of my favourite superhero cartoons, each time my Uncle appeared on TV as The Great Saiyaman, when I’d slip and call the martial arts and ki-techniques she was teaching me ‘superpowers’. Her mantra formed the closing lines of the bedtime stories of my parents’ hard-won battles.

You always have a choice, she’d say. But she didn’t understand, I did choose! It made sense to help. I was the best at climbing and was the only one who-- She grabbed my chin in one hand, forcing me to look her in the eye, her usual move when she wanted her words to stick. I think that’s when she got reported for her unorthodox parenting style, but that’s another story.

“That isn’t giving yourself a choice. You don’t have to risk yourself to help anyone, do you understand me?” 

I now appreciate why my mother was so vexed that day. It wasn’t at me, more it was with herself at not hammering home the message hard enough and soon enough. 

There’s a painful double standard in the world. We tell our kids to have big dreams and to do what makes them happiest, but the moment a child shows aptitude for something society finds useful they’re cajoled and pushed. Dare to take a different path and the interrogation become endless. I don't understand, the people say, you’re so talented, why didn't you follow your ideal career? Didn’t you want to be rich, or successful, or famous, or powerful? You could have been someone. We had such high hopes. If I were you… Those words sting, no matter the context or love with which they’re said. I’ve heard them a lot the past few days from confused colleagues and I don’t expect that to stop as the news filters out. 

Like all parents in some respects, my mom was fretting over whether she was doing the right thing. On the one hand her teaching would grant me immunity to most of life’s dangers. When my training was finished forget a fall, I could get hit by a truck and not budge an inch. On the other those same abilities would put me in the position to help when no one else could. If found out I would become a commodity to society, it would be deemed unreasonable and even irresponsible of me to decline to help and I'd be trapped. Even at that young age people were already tugging at my sleeves demanding small but potentially dangerous things. Like climbing trees. They’d sensed how easily my arm was twisted and over the years the pleading escalated. I’d see their distress and agree to help with that smile. Fetching balls from busy roads. Standing up to bullies. Chasing down a friend’s stolen phone - the mugger could have turned a gun on me at any point but I did as I was asked by my friend’s wordless yell. After all, who else right then and there could have help her?

Before I could blink I had a reputation. Classmates questioned why I wanted to go to college to write and not follow my dad into the police force, or even register to be a Crimefighter. Some were even angry. You’d be so good, so famous, I bet you’d be the best! You have so much potential - you shouldn’t waste it! I don’t understand - if I were you… I’d hidden as much of my training as I could and yet because I was so easily swayed to see the ‘common sense’ in helping they knew I was capable of something more than them. Escaping the path then dictated to me by society took a strength of will I would never have gained if it wasn’t for my family’s unwavering support. Without it I may have gone on to do my ‘duty’, that smile still plastered on my face, and hated every moment.

I may have sworn off a life of crime-fighting but I couldn’t turn my back completely. My closest friends, far more gifted in this arena than myself, went through the same struggle. We didn’t want the attention or the pressure of daily Hero work, we wanted a normal life to cling to. But we’re human to a fault - we couldn’t ignore all the world’s troubles. So instead we Shadowed, the best compromise we stumbled upon. We could move freely through the world as mere citizens, helping when we chose - not when summoned. Expectation still dogged us, though. When out the public saw my all-blacks not as a way to conceal my identity but as a uniform, a promise to help. They’d hide behind me, just like they would any named Hero or Crimefighter. I may have been free to come and go but in the moment my station was not. 

Shadowing came with a price; without an identity we lack a voice in defence and we became an easy target. We receive praise but it’s sparing, quite rightly the bulk is reserved for the plain-clothed volunteers on the ground. But once, where we were a welcome boost to the effort, nowadays our presence at disasters is expected. We’d fallen into doing our ‘duty’, though not correctly as we had the audacity to hide our faces and not give the journalists a sporting chance to hunt us down, and it drew their ire. I’d have to bite my tongue reading colleagues disparage us across the pages and even I couldn’t write too empathetically, lest my identity and connections become obvious. At times the lack of public understanding drove me to tears. Yet as the years passed Mom continued to stare me down. You still have a choice. But I did choose, I wasn’t a Hero really, I just needed to stay a little longer next time. Be more thorough, be faster. Do that then it’d be okay, people would be satisfied. She’d shake her head.

Then the true insignificance of this noise I’d been bending over backwards to placate became stupidly obvious with the arrival of something far worse than some natural disaster. For the briefest of moments the nonsense fell away, and I finally understood her.

Imagine standing in front of a man thousands of times more powerful than you could ever be. He’s willing to let you and the people you care about live if you just stepped aside. “What’s worth saving,” he says, “who here is worth dying for?” Imagine wondering, after days of headlines trashing you for a mistake you were more than capable of beating yourself up over, whether there even was a point to trying anymore. Nothing would ever be enough. You could leave, you could be safe. You’re not obligated to save the ingrates on this rock time and time again. What difference could your puny ass make, anyway? Why risk your life for literally nothing? Those you care about would understand. You even plan, your foot twitches to move. 

You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because it’s your home he wants and you’ll be damned if you’re handing it over.

And that’s what my mom meant by making a free choice. Not to act because you’re asked or shamed or want to please everyone, but because this time you think it’s the right thing to do, even for selfish reasons. Especially for selfish reasons. Screw duty, unbeholden to anyone you choose to act - whether it conforms to noble expectation or not. Mom may be the type to walk away in moments like that and I know she’d rather I follow suit, but all my parents have ever truly wanted is the weight of responsibility off my shoulders. As long as I have no regrets or guilt they couldn’t be happier for me. With that one terrifying decision made in spite of the ocean of faces hiding behind me, from then on I really didn’t care what people thought of my Shadowing.

We were told we could leave that day, that we should. We’d have a better chance on the run. But until we have no other option we’re staying. Despite all its flaws this is our home and we made up our minds back then to not budge.

Next time we appear remember: we choose freely to walk through fire, toss aside that rubble, carry you above rising waters and yes, risk death literally defending the planet. All because we want to, not because it is expected of us. The words in the media and in idle chatter around us can still leave a bitter taste at times but I can safely say they won’t lead me to dwell. Say what you want to me - If I were you… but you’re not. Tough.

The name the media and public use for me is Auntie Shadow, but between us? My name is Marron, and this is how Shadowing came to pass.

[frangipanidownunder]

The Path to Enlightenment pt 3

This is a casefile set just before Biogenesis in season six. Thank you to @teethnbone for throwing me scraps to use as inspiration for this story. Read Part One  Part Two

Part Three Gil Tripodi was bunched up on a seat in the café on the corner of the main street. He was nursing a black coffee and a broken heart. When he looked into Scully’s eyes she saw nothing but pain and regret. Mulder introduced her and Tripodi barely nodded.             “Mr Tripodi, I’m sorry for your loss. Agent Mulder has given me some background on what happened in the caves. I know it’s a difficult time but we’re hoping you could go over some of the details again.”             He stirred his coffee and Scully watched the dark liquid spin in the cup. She pulled her coat tighter around her.             “David had been busy at work. Stressed, really. Months and months of disagreements with his business partner, a nosedive in profits.”             “He owned a restaurant?” Scully clarified.             “Yes. He trained as a chef in France. His cooking was exquisite. I…” he stopped and sniffed back tears. “He carried the strain with him, he suffered migraines and they became more frequent. He was short-tempered, snappy with me. We argued a lot. I suggested we come here, try to ease the strain. This was ‘our’ spot. These were ‘our’ caves. We were both looking forward to it.”             Scully watched his face. His eyes half-shut, his lips quivered, his chin tilted towards the window and he breathed out a slow breath. “He was upbeat that morning. He talked about selling his share in the business, starting his own bistro. He…he held my hand as we walked around. He was happy.”           “Agent Mulder and I are going back to the caves now. To retrace your steps. Is there anything else you can think of, anything unusual that happened before you separated, anything Mr Maddox said that was out of the ordinary?”             Gil Tripodi shook his head and choked out bitter laugh. “We’d been talking about the future, throwing about names for the bistro. He wanted something exotic, French. He stopped suddenly, told me he loved me and only wanted the best for me. I told him it was his decision. Then we saw that strange little man, and David went after him. I told him not to. Something just felt wrong. It was like the atmosphere changed.”             Scully leant towards him. “How so?”             “One minute there was hope, and the next I felt a wave of anxiety come over me. I felt desperately that we needed to leave, to get out, but David was chasing after that man and I had to follow.”             “Did David say anything to the man?” Scully asked.             “I couldn’t make out the words but I heard his voice. It was calm, gentle, soothing almost. But when I got there, he was gone. David was just gone.”  Mulder was talking on the phone. The ranger at the Visitor Centre was telling her with an equal mix of scorn and pride, about the sightings of the small figure in the caves, variously a ghost, a homeless woman, a Moon-Eyed leader or the spirit of a child lost in the system more than a hundred years ago. Scully was trying to tune him out as she flipped through the book on the counter. “What do you know about ciladaids?”             “Ma’am, no offence, but your partner already asked me this stuff. He seems like the one who’s open to believe this kind of thing, but you, you seem like the sensible type. These are the sorts of stories that sell books. Tourists lap it up. The Moon-Eyes and the ciladaids and the path to enlightenment and all that. It’s just marketing BS.”             Scully shut the book with a satisfying thwump. “Thank you, Sir.”             Mulder joined them. “Find out anything new, Scully?”             “Just that people love to hear a good story. Did you get the water?”           He held up two bottles. “Ready?”           “Are you?” she asked, holding his gaze.             His lips opened with a pop but he said nothing.  The sun was high overhead, bright in a hard blue sky. The rock formations on the ridges seemed paler, sharper, viciously scraping the air around them. The caves seemed darker, deeper, boundless somehow. She walked ahead of Mulder, swinging the beam of her flashlight over the cave roof and walls capturing the silvery dance of dust with each arc.              “I’ve been trying to work out why the ciladaids would want to lead people to their deaths? Why would the Moon-Eyes allow that? Was it some kind of primitive justice system? Did they use it as some kind of punishment? Was it a test, an initiation ceremony? How did they choose their subjects?” She stopped to inspect the walls, silvery liquid streaks running down the walls. “What if it were the other partner who had to make the decision, who had to change in some way?” “I read a few stories where the subject was saved from a terrible fate. But mostly the stories are tragic. Scully?”             She swung around to make out Mulder a few yards away. “What, Mulder?”             “Is something bothering you?”             “Yes,” she said, holding the light down to highlight the smooth cave floor. “I’m thirsty.”             “You’ve been distracted since we came here.” He handed her a bottle of water.             She watched him as she drank. “I guess I don’t see why we’re here. It feels like you’ve plucked this case from out of nowhere. Like an initiation ceremony for me.” She sucked in a juddering breath, pressed the cool bottle against the pulse in her wrist. “And, if you want me to be totally honest…” The small nod of his head, the way his eyelids began to close, the jut of his lips gave her permission to go on. “I feel some kind of distance from you. In truth, Mulder, I think it’s you who’s distracted.”             He shifted on his feet. “And you think it’s something to do with Diana?”           “Is it?”             He looked beyond her. “There, Scully. I see him.”             “Who?” She swung round, following the light as it tracked over the gothic interior.             Mulder moved past her towards the back of the atrium they were in. “The Moon-Eye,” he said, turning back into the beam of her light. His expression was pure wonder, a look she’d seen many times. Usually, this childlike Mulder was a joy to be around, his enthusiasm infectious, but something stirred in her blood and she stood rooted to the spot, unable to follow. He melted away into the darkness and she turned off the flashlight. Under the ground, hearing only the pulse of her own life force beating in her ears, she sank to her knees. Her skull tightened under a pressure she couldn’t determine. Her skin cooled. Her chest sunk in as she struggled to breathe. Her fingertips scraped on the cave floor, bulking dust under her nails until it hurt. She knew she should call out but she couldn’t face Mulder and his concern, genuine or otherwise. When she looked up, she caught sight of the man. Small, gaunt, ethereal. She blinked twice but was unable to shake the vision. This man, this Moon-Eye with his pale skin, his neat, pointed beard, his wide grey eyes that shone, he crooked a finger towards her. He smiled. His presence changed the rhythm, upset the tempo. She heard herself moan. “Look up, Dana,” he said. She shook her head, aware at least of danger on some subconscious level. Despite her scepticism about Mulder’s rote knowledge of the Moon-Eyes and the ciladaids, she instinctively knew not to follow his orders, not to open her eyes. “It’s the only way, Dana. You know it. He’s leaving you. If you open your eyes to the truth, you’ll find the better path.” His voice was fluid, seductive. She knew he was moving towards her, she could feel his aura and as warming as his presence was, she shivered and felt chilled to her marrow. Her eyes flickered open and she saw the light he cast around her. Where was Mulder? Was he safe? “Come with me. I’ll show you the way,” he said. “No. I don’t want to go. I won’t go. I don’t need to go.” His hand swept over her and she felt the air freeze around her. She sucked in a breath, her heart hammering. “You are troubled and he dishonours you with his distance.” “No! He is my partner. Mulder! Where are you?” She dragged herself backwards, across a sharp ridge on the floor. She felt the sting on her skin, the rush of blood to the surface. Sense zinged back into her, sharpening her thoughts. She pushed herself up, held a hand up to blot out the man. She called for Mulder again. Dust danced between them. He shimmered behind it, like a pale flame dancing and teasing. She turned away, looked at the solid grey mass of the cave wall. Logically, she knew she shouldn’t be able to see with any clarity but this man, the Moon-Eye seemed to be casting a glow strong enough to illuminate the smallest details. It was suddenly so clear. She stood up, walked towards him. He held out his hand. He was so small, so contained. And there were no blurred edges or ambiguity. He was unequivocal. He just was.His touch was smoother than she expected, cooler. She shivered as he gripped her hand. “Look up, Dana. See your way.” She tipped up her chin, blinking against the unexpected brightness. The world above her was a miasma of sparkling fragments floating around her. They danced and shimmied around her face and she groped around her trying to connect, to catch them. 

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #91: Take One Giant Step -- BACKWARD!

August, 1971

For some reason, Ronan is miscolored on this cover. Green and pink instead of blue and purple. Maybe it was so he would stand out better in front of Sentry 459?

So last time: Ronan the Accuser is a giant jerk from space. He military coup’d the Kree away from the Supreme Intelligence, reactivated Kree Sentry 459, kidnapped Captain Marvel, and activated a citadel in the Arctic that is shooting Evo-Rays which de-evolve the planet. Also he’s going to make Mar-Vell watch the Wasp get dead. Just for funsies.

Although the Wasp has a less dignified role than head squish in this story.

The de-evolved Hank Pym hesitates to kill the unconscious Wasp and carries her off instead. To be his mate maybe.

Did Jan personally slap Roy Thomas in the face or something? He’s not affording her much dignity.

Also this whole thing bemuses Ronan because apparently the Kree have replaced child-bearing with ‘more civilized practices.’ Probably looms. Get them in bulk from the Space Jerk Retail Outpost.

Ronan re-explains the Evo-Rays to Captain Marvel. Goliath will soon succumb to the rays and become a blithering, mumbling man-brute. Not sure if we’ll notice the change.

ZING

Interestingly, Ronan suspects that mutants and the Vision will be unaffected by the rays. Even though the rays affect even the environment, melting the Arctic ice and replacing it with primordial forests. So he’ll just have Goliath and Sentry 459 smash them.

And then nothing will stop Ronan from resetting Earth so that nothing in this sector will challenge Kree supremacy for a thousand thousand years. Oh, and its all Captain Marvel’s fault. If he hadn’t been on Earth, Ronan probably wouldn’t have bothered.

Anyway, Rick Jones is here too. And he wants to contribute to the plot so he pulls his best Kirk and throws a rock from a cliff. Which probably wouldn’t have done much except Scarlet Witch combo attacks with a hex sphere which turns the boulder shrapnel into magnetic alloys which clump up over 459′s face.

Because this highly advanced self-aware android can only see out of its eyes.

Anyway, while the sentry is temporarily out of the fight, Vision pulls out the win button. He sticks his fist in Goliath and solidifies it, causing so much agony that Goliath passes out.

He didn’t want to do it. In fact, he was holding back because doing the move slightly wrong could kill someone.

459 has freed his face by this point and Vision tries to take out the alien robot the same way he did Goliath. But remember how 459 had analyzed Vision in their first confrontation? Yeah, he set up a counter to the win button. When Vision tries to solidify, he gets knocked out by an energy feedback.

Scarlet Witch rushes over in dismay at seeing Vision hurt. But when she touches him, she gets knocked out by the residual energy.

459 sets up a burning ring of fire around himself, Vision and Scarlet Witch. Because.

With Rick Jones’ urging, Quicksilver runs them both away. ALTHOUGH IT TEARS HIM UP IT IS FOR THE SAKE OF THE PLANET.

459 watches them go and gets existential for a moment. He can’t be the monster they see him as. He can’t even gloat over his victory. A Kree Sentry can only obey, fight and triumph. Anyway, these prisoners won’t carry themselves away.

Taken captive, Vision and Scarlet Witch share what is probably a moment. Probably definitely a moment.

I mean, they almost kiss but Vision pulls away because HE IS A MERE COPY OF A LIVING BEING, NOT A REAL BOY.

Its some top-quality robo-angst.

Ronan finds this hilarious. Like, seeing a robot and a mutant fall in love has justified his entire trip here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier.

He is simply the worst.

But he just remembered that he wanted to watch the Wasp die. Best check on her.

Soooo... Cave Hank took Wasp somewhere. And then the three de-evolved technicians from the government outpost attack Cave Hank to try to steal his woman. But muscle memory is a hell of a thing. Some trace of Hank’s martial arts training lets him triumph over three cavepeople at once.

And Janet just watches this thing with the ultimate facepalm because it is the stupidest thing that has ever happened adjacent to her.

That or she’s distraught at seeing her husband turned into a caveman. Whichever.

Anyway, Captain Marvel decides that this weird occurrence means that Kree can never sit secure if love remains even if buried deeply within de-evolved man.

So Ronan tells Captain Marvel his truly real plan for realsies. He has an expansion pack for the Evo-Ray that supercharges it.

What does it do? Well, he demonstrates what it does by shooting a prehistoric toad and turning it into... AN AMOEBA! And that’s what’s going to happen to all humans.

Try talking about the power of love when everything is cellular life, Mar-Vell.

Meanwhile, outside, Quicksilver and Rick Jones plot to break into the citadel. Now its got big, strong walls but some idiot left metal bars lying outside. And while some FOOLS may think that superspeed is a useless weapon, they are dumb idiots and superspeed is great, signed Quicksilver.

Using the metal bar, Quicksilver just drills right through the wall in a matter of seconds.

Inside, Ronan is about to shoot Scarlet Witch with the super Evo-Ray. Just because he thinks that the Vision wasn’t impressed by his toad demonstration. Because Ronan is petty.

But Quicksilver breaks in right in time and knocks the gun out of Ronan’s hand. And also punches Ronan in the face.

And while Quicksilver bounces around the chamber distracting Ronan and the sentry, Rick Jones finds his best pal Mar-Vell and asks what to do.

Mar-Vell tells Rick to take the uni-beam from his wrist and shoot it at the central control panel. And its set to a lethal-intensity laser which cuts right through the panel.

And whatever Mar-Vell had Rick aim at, it has activated the citadel’s ‘return to under the ice’ feature.

And coincidentally, Ronan also gets a communique from the Kree Galaxy. In the short time Ronan has been gone, everything has all gone to shit. The Skrulls are unsecretly invading and blowing up the Kree freighters and everything is bad.

So this has been fun but Ronan doesn’t have the time to mess around with this insignificant blue backwater anymore. You’re just not that important, Earth.

Plus, while he may be a usurper, Ronan is still a Kree and his place is with his people. BYE.

But he left Sentry 459 without any instructions. And without instructions, he can’t save himself. He has to stay at his post. And his post is collapsing into the ice so he tries to hold it together with his own power but just swiftly implodes.

Rest in peace, Kree Sentry 459. You were a tragic soul, kinda.

Annnnnd, well, um, run away? So that’s what the superheroes and Rick Jones do. Abandon citadel.

And with a SKRAAKKKK the citadel collapses beneath the ice.

Outside, the primeval vegetation is already dying without the Evo-Rays to keep the climate tropic. And Hank and the technicians have already turned back human. And without the Evo-Rays to keep the climate tropic, they are freezing. Goliath isn’t doing any better either BECAUSE HIS COSTUME IS STUPID.

Vision and Scarlet Witch give their capes to the cold, non-giant people. So there’s a good reason to have a cape. Emergency blanket.

Chilly Hank Pym takes this is a sign that he should stay in the lab where he belongs. He ended up being dead weight, getting turned into a caveman and all. He formally resigns from the Avengers.

And Janet resigns too, she guesses. She doesn’t seem enthused but she wants to stick with him.

Jan also wonders whether the Kree will ever return. But if they do, the Avengers will fight them with superpowers and Hank will fight them with SCIENCE!

And with a prayer, adds Goliath. Because if it weren’t for a massive interstellar invasion that had nothing to do with anything happening on Earth, Ronan may have finished the job.

Everyone almost became amoebas and only unrelated interstellar politics stopped it. It really makes you think.

About how space is full of jerks.

[carpigianiuk-blog]

Ice Cream News May 2018

Ice Cream News May 2018 Compiled by Carpigiani UK

Ice cream is never far from the news and the month of May has been no exception. We have compiled our favourite news stories relating to ice cream.

An Irish ice cream shop is going viral after it made a special Heinz Tomato Ketchup gelati flavour for pop star Ed Sheeran

Apparently, the singer-songwriter is so partial to the condiment he has a pic of it tattooed on his arm and insists his assistants always have a bottle on hand.

Step forward Gelati (it operates in Enniscrone, Co Sligo and Ballina, Co Mayo ); earlier this month it announced that not only is it stocking ketchup ice-cream, but that it's giving away cones for free too.

Want to get a free ice cream? Gelati has confirmed that all “fans who produce a ticket for his upcoming gigs” will get a free Heinz cone.

Delicious? Well, own Michael O'Dowd assures perspective-customers that it really is “lovely” and tastes a bit like a Bloody Mary.

  Canadian zoo faces charges after taking bear out for ice cream

A private zoo in the Canadian province of Alberta is facing charges after a bear from the facility was taken through a drive-thru Dairy Queen in a pickup truck and hand-fed ice cream through the vehicle's window reports The Guardian.

News of the outing emerged earlier this year after Discovery Wildlife Park, located about 70 miles north of Calgary in the town of Innisfail, posted a video on social media showing a captive Kodiak bear sitting in the passenger seat of a truck.

The video later showed the one-year-old bear, known as Berkley, leaning out of the truck's window, enthusiastically licking an ice cream cone held by the owner of a local Dairy Queen.

Amid widespread criticism, the video – along with a second one showing Berkley licking frosting off an ice cream cake – was taken down. However, we have managed to find it for you:

At the time, the zoo said the drive-thru run had posed no danger to the public, as it had taken place before the Dairy Queen had opened for the day and that the bear had been secured by a chain throughout the entire outing.

Wildlife officials in Alberta said that the zoo and its owners are now facing two charges. “Under the terms and conditions of the zoo's permit, the charges are directly related to the alleged failure of the park to notify the provincial government prior to the bear leaving the zoo,” Alberta Fish and Wildlife said in a statement.

One count stems from the bear's jaunt through the drive-thru, while the other dates back to 2017. At the time Berkley had just arrived as an orphan from a facility in the United States and the zoo allegedly failed to inform officials the seven-pound bear was being taken home nightly so that she could be bottle-fed.

The zoo's owner, Doug Bos, said he planned to plead guilty to the charges, noting that this was the first time in the zoo's 28-year history that it was facing such charges.

“We made a mistake. I'm embarrassed about it,” he told the Guardian. “Every time we take an animal off the property, we're supposed to notify Fish and Wildlife, send them an email, and we forgot to do that in both instances.”

He said he had been happy to hear of the charges. “I'm glad that they followed through with it because it shows how strictly regulated the zoo industry is in the province,” he said. “Because there are so many people out there that think it's not, they think anybody can just do anything they want.”

Bos said that wildlife officials had not necessarily taken issue with the bear's outing to Dairy Queen but rather the zoo's failure to request permission beforehand. “That's all we did wrong,” he added, noting that the bears have been taken off the property many times for a range of reasons.

“We've done lots of TV commercials, Super Bowl commercials with bears and food … Some of them the bear was in a grocery store and wandered up and down the aisles.”

He emphasised the difference between bears in the wild and the zoo's bears, describing those in the facility as hand-raised and well-trained.

At one point the zoo's bears had even learned to pee in a cup, he said, in order to participate in a Scottish veterinarian's study aimed at measuring baseline norms for bears. “These bears aren't just your average bear that we go snag out of the wild and do this.”

In light of the incident, provincial officials said they had also revised the conditions of the zoo's permit. The facility will now be required to provide more details when requesting permission to transport animals and will have to keep the animals in a cage, crate or kennel during transport.

Ice cream parlours buck the high-street trend

Having analysed 67,157 premises in 500 town centres, PricewaterhouseCoopers reported that, with nail bars, bookstores, coffee shops and craft beer bars, ice-cream parlours are one of a handful of growing sectors. Overall, the high street is shrinking. For every 11 new high-street units, 16 close. Yet the number of ice-cream parlours, historically seen as a seasonal seaside concept, rose by 20% last year.

Vanilla prices reach record high – hitting British ice cream makers

Vanilla costs have hit record highs in the last two years and it's beginning to impact the ice cream industry in Britain reports The Independent.

At approximately $600 (£443) per kilo, the in-demand ingredient now costs more than silver.

While the rise in price may not necessarily impact major retailers and brands – some smaller businesses are struggling to keep up.

One of these is artisanal ice cream maker Ruby Violet, which has been forced to stop selling its vanilla flavour due to the surge in costs.

Speaking to the BBC, founder Julie Fisher explained that her London-based outlets have taken vanilla off the menu “for the foreseeable future”.

Another UK-based business reconsidering its vanilla options is the family-run company, Snugburys Ice Cream.

Based in Nantwich, Cheshire, the farmhouse ice cream outlet produces 40 different flavours, a third of which contain vanilla.

They are now paying 30 times more for the ingredient than they have done in the past.

“It has really gone up, so last year we decided to buy it forward by a years worth,” said Cleo Sadler, who runs the company with her two sisters.

“We had to make a decision as to whether we would absorb the costs – which we did in the end,” she told the BBC.

It's something they don't want to have to compromise on in the future, regardless of the costs, given that their company uses all-natural ingredients and therefore using an artificial vanilla flavouring would go against their values.

Vanilla prices have surged since March 2017 when a cyclone hit Madagascar – where the bulk of the flavouring is produced – and subsequently destroyed a number of vanilla plantations.

This led to poor harvests and reduced production rates by 30 percent, causing the subsequent inflation and prompting fears of a shortage.

If this happens, it's undoubtedly going to hit Brits pretty hard, considering that vanilla has been the most popular ice cream flavour in the UK for decades, according to the Ice Cream Alliance.

Pizza, eggs and ice cream: have alternative museums gone too far?

The Museum of Pizza, opening this autumn in New York, may or may not acknowledge this piece of history, and there's a reason why.

It's a selfie museum. Rather than hanging photos on a wall and outlining the chronological history of pizza, it's a tourist-aiming pop-up space fit for a digital-savvy generation, featuring a pizza beach, a pizza cave and several funhouse spots to pose and celebrate pizza.

Call it the Kusama effect. Since Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama's Infinity Mirror Room exhibition has taken off (the recent Los Angeles opening of her show at The Broad sold out their 50,000 tickets in less than two hours), it has fueled a debate around selfie-friendly art.

Although Kusama's artworks were not necessarily made for the smartphone (many were made in the 1960s), it's still part of the “made-for-Instagram” exhibits, or “selfie factories”.

The Museum of Pizza is not alone in its selfie-driven takeover. On 16 June, a new pop-up devoted to avocados opens in San Diego and the Museum of Candy opens this summer in New York, boasting a 15-room exhibition, a life-sized unicorn made of candy and “the world's largest gummy bear”.

It was partly propelled by the Museum of Ice Cream, which launched in New York in 2016 and tapped into a serious demand. They sold more than 300,000 tickets priced at $18 in the first five days of its opening in 2016, resulting in a $5.4m haul. It has since travelled to Los Angeles, Miami and San Francisco, where they almost doubled their ticket price to $38 and sold out six months' worth of tickets in less than two hours.

Meanwhile, the “real museums” are struggling to pay the bills.

How giving a crying child an ice cream whipped up a social media storm

It seemed like a random act of kindness by a stranger who bought an ice-cream for a distressed child – but then social media got involved and the situation curdled reports The Guardian.

Picture the scene. A child is crying outside your house. Friends have money to buy ice-cream – but the child does not. What do you do? One obviously kind thing would be to step in, stump up the cash and ease the child's tears with an ice-cream. And then, what with it being the 21st century, you might relay the tale on social media

Enter our “hero”. However, one man can't help noticing that our good Samaritan has the word “vegan” in her bio, but he's pretty sure the ice-cream product she gave to that child was not vegan. Time to message her and check. And when she doesn't give an answer to his satisfaction, tell her that she has made “a severe mistake”, and, what with it being the 21st century, post all the messages between them on social media.

The internet goes to work. @7AnthonyDagher7 now has more than 9,000 replies to his tweet exposing those messages, the vast majority asking why on earth he is criticising someone for doing something nice like giving a crying child ice-cream.

And, because it is the 21st century, he sets about the Sisyphean task of replying to them. So far, almost a quarter of the 3,000 or so tweets he has sent in the six years he his account has existed are replying about vegan ice-cream.

Non-vegans may be thinking, what can possibly be so bad about ice-cream? Nothing dies to produce milk, does it? Vegans will profoundly disagree. The dairy industry relies on keeping cows pregnant and having calves to produce milk. The calves are taken from their mothers shortly after birth, causing distress. Vegan-friendly ingredients are among the fastest growing trends in the ice cream industry.

Still, after being in the eye of the social media storm for a day, @itsallzara put it succinctly: “All this because I bought a sobbing child an ice-cream, I guess next time I'll leave the poor kid crying outside my house because Anthony didn't like it.”

How the “99” ice cream got its name

This is how 99 Flake ice creams got their names… and it has nothing to do with the price reports The Sun

It's a popular myth that the cones got their name because they used to cost 99p, sending most Brits into a frenzy of moaning about inflation and the rising cost of Freddos – currently 25p, FYI.

But Cadbury introduced the first ever flake 99 in the 1920s when the cost was much closer to 1p than 99p.

So where does the name come from? Even Cadbury admit that the reason has been “lost in the mists of time”, but old quotes from a sales manager may shed some light on the issue.

In the article, which appeared in the Cadbury works paper, one Mr Berry said the name came from Italian soft ice cream makers in County Durham, back in 1928

He said: “They were trying ways of introducing other lines to increase their sales, which in those days were largely in the form of sandwich wafers.

“The possibilities were obvious if we could get a suitable line, both in shape and size and texture – and the most promising was Flake, which at that time only sold as a 2D line, and therefore had to be cut with a knife to reduce its size.”

At the time, the Italian king had a special guard made up of 99 men – and anything really special or first class became known as '99'.

Hence the humble 99 Flake ice cream was born.

However, one Scottish family is debating the claims.

They said their ancestor Stefano Arcari, who opened his shop in Portobello in 1922, would break a large Flake in half and stick it in an ice cream.

They reckon a Cadbury representative 'borrowed' the idea after visiting his shop, and say the name came from its address – 99 Portobello High Street.

Either way, it has absolutely nothing to do with cost

Ham and french toast ice cream for breakfast?

For too long, ice cream has been relegated to the pudding part of our diets writes The Metro

So you may want to take inspiration from the ice cream makers at Windy Brow Farms, a small dairy farm in New Jersey, who have been busy creating an 'Only in Jersey' collection of ice creams. Flavours include 'local maple syrup, house made challah French toast and caramelised Taylor ham'. Yep, French toast and ham ice cream – the summer brunch of dreams. But how do the ice cream makers ensure that you're not just getting a bowl of soggy pork scraps? Apparently, the pork is cooked, fried and cinnamon-and-sugar-topped before it gets mixed into the ice cream – so the crispness is all locked in before it even touches the cream.

all salty. all sweet. all weekend long. • #tayhamicecream #porkrollicecream #porkroll #taylorham #onlyinjersey #jersey #njeats #jerseylove #eeeeeats #icecream #f52grams #thrillistfoodporn #foodporn #buzzfeast #buzzfeedfood #saltysweet

A post shared by Windy Brow Farms (@windybrowfarms) on May 11, 2018 at 9:00am PDT

The saltiness of the pork is balanced out by the sweetness of the French toast and maple syrup, giving you that heady mixture of salt, sweet and cream. And for the vegetarians among us, the farm is also making sweet corn and tomato pie flavoured ice creams, which are going to be available later in the summer (because believe it or not, we're still in spring…). Crack out your ice cream machines: maybe it's time to put brunch on ice.

May 2018 Ice Cream News:

What a crazy month for news involving ice cream. Is the first outbreak of sunshine that has caused the surge? If so, here is to a hot and long summer of amazing ice cream news.

  The post Ice Cream News May 2018 appeared first on Carpigiani UK.

[aeadventuretime]

18th March 2018

Woke up early today for our tour! Got ready and headed out front to wait for our private tour driver. We booked through Living Dreams tours which was number 1 on trip advisor.

We were supposed to meet at 7am, 7am came and went. The resort tour manager came and chatted with us about tattoos and the new gym he is opening up. After we had sat there for a while he asked us if we needed help with our booking. And so he helped us call and try to locate them. Twenty minutes to eight the guide manager waved at us. He had found our guide but she had been told 8am not 7am. She apologised profusely and we insisted it was fine! She then proceeded to drive us the hour to Tulum while telling us the entire history of the Mayans. She was amazing! It was just the three of us in a car. She was so animated and passionate about what she talked about as her stories were so interesting and told so well that the hour ride to Tulum felt like 10 minutes!

Upon arrival to Tulum we were greeted by a taste of local coconut ice cream and a local cat. Our guide stopped to say hello and give pats so already she is a winner in my eyes! She asked if we wanted to get the train down to the ruins and we said we were fine walking. It was about a 7 minute walk down a dirt road until we reached the front gates. Then it turned a bit more jungly/tropical. Angela (our guide) told us not to feed or pat Lucy, a racoon animal that is often seen around the area. I was like “whhhhhhaaaaaatttt?!” And just then I saw her! A racoon monkey thing! And guess what?! She had babies!!! They were so cute and energetic and just kept jumping around and up trees! Another guide came over and they all flocked to him and allowed him to pet them.

Then we entered the Mayan ruins. Which were incredible, but Angela’s story telling made the ruins even more interesting and amazing! Basically everything we know about the Mayans is wrong, and we are learning new things and deciphering their language and stories everyday. And most importantly, they aren’t all gone like many would have you believe! They believed the work was flat and was a cross, that they were the horizontal bar and if they sailed too far they would fall off the edge of the world, which is why they never made it to Cuba. They believed in “heaven” although good and evil was not a thing in their religion, more light and dark. The centre of the cross was the universal tree which was the Milk way, although hey understood it to be a tree. They believed that every night the sun would die and go into the underground and fight a mystical jaguar and if it conquered, it would rise again the next day. And so the Mayans would leave offerings and sacrifices to help the sun rise. Imagine not knowing if the sun would rise the next day! There was so much more she taught us, about the Spanish and the surrounding tribes and areas. I learnt so much. Tulum was not it’s original name and she told us of how the Spanish found the Mayans first at Tulum. So the whole history of Mexico basically started in those ruins.

The area was incredible. Not as big as other ruins apparently but it was beautiful and right on the edge of a cliff with a beach. We missed the bulk of the tourists. Angela took lots of photos for us and of us and pointed out her favourite iguanas. By the way, the Tulum ruins are covered in Iguanas. They are huge. Especially the males. And if two males cross each other they will kill each other.

After the ruins she drove us towards a restaurant in Tulum. She told us how this area used to be where they could afford to holiday but not celebrities and hipsters had taken over and it had expanded rapidly. So funny cos that’s where we had almost stayed! The restaurant was beautiful! Right on the water and we had tacos and fajitas. We talked to Angela for over an hour about her and her life and her job and anthropology. She is going to Argentina tomorrow to meet a girl she met a couple months ago in Tulum. Very cute!

After lunch she grabbed us a coroner each and we then drove off to the Cenote. Cenote means hole and water or something? They are basically sinkholes in limestone that open up to beautiful, clean, clear waterways. All the cenotes are believed to be connected therefore making it the largest source of natural water, and the largest natural wonder. Our Cenote was a lesser known one, and in a cave. There were a few people when we got there but then they all cleared out. Oh my gosh! It was beautiful!!!! And pristine! She grabbed us a flashlight and led us out to the deepest part to show us how deep and far it went. She insisted we wear life vests initially as people can get freaked out or vertigo with the clear water and great depths. But we were fine and soon took them off. We snorkelled around for ages with flashlights juts exploring every nook and cranny! It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done! I could have spent all day there! But soon we had to leave. So we climbed out and headed back to Playa Del Carmen and our resort, talking the whole time with Angela and learning so much about Mexico. She was THE BEST guide!!!

Once we arrived at the hotel she gave us a big hug and a card to stay in touch and then her colleague came over with some Mexican chocolates and a bottle of tequila to say sorry for being late this morning, which they so didn’t need to do but like, what an amazing company! It was the best day in mexico. I’m so happy we got to experience these two parts of Mexico and only wish we could have explored even more!

Back at the hotel we went straight back to the beach. No seats so straight back to pool for relaxing and swim times. Went back to room after a pretty hot and exhausting day and are gonna order room service and get ready for LA tomorrow.

[readbookywooks]

THE next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this great mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three miles by boat to the HISPANIOLA, was a considerable task for so small a number of workmen. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did not greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was sufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought, besides, they had had more than enough of fighting. Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Gunn came and went with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure on the beach. Two of the bars, slung in a rope's end, made a good load for a grown man - one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part, as I was not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave packing the minted money into bread-bags. It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones's hoard for the diversity of coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I never had more pleasure than in sorting them. English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Georges, and Louises, doubloons and double guineas and moidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the last hundred years, strange Oriental pieces stamped with what looked like wisps of string or bits of spider's web, round pieces and square pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round your neck - nearly every variety of money in the world must, I think, have found a place in that collection; and for number, I am sure they were like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my fingers with sorting them out. Day after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been stowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and all this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers. At last - I think it was on the third night - the doctor and I were strolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of the isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us a noise between shrieking and singing. It was only a snatch that reached our ears, followed by the former silence. "Heaven forgive them," said the doctor; "'tis the mutineers!" "All drunk, sir," struck in the voice of Silver from behind us. Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in spite of daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore these slights and with what unwearying politeness he kept on trying to ingratiate himself with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than a dog, unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for; although for that matter, I suppose, I had reason to think even worse of him than anybody else, for I had seen him meditating a fresh treachery upon the plateau. Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor answered him. "Drunk or raving," said he. "Right you were, sir," replied Silver; "and precious little odds which, to you and me." "I suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man," returned the doctor with a sneer, "and so my feelings may surprise you, Master Silver. But if I were sure they were raving - as I am morally certain one, at least, of them is down with fever - I should leave this camp, and at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my skill." "Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong," quoth Silver. "You would lose your precious life, and you may lay to that. I'm on your side now, hand and glove; and I shouldn't wish for to see the party weakened, let alone yourself, seeing as I know what I owes you. But these men down there, they couldn't keep their word-no, not supposing they wished to; and what's more, they couldn't believe as you could." "No," said the doctor. "You're the man to keep your word, we know that." Well, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates. Only once we heard a gunshot a great way off and supposed them to be hunting. A council was held, and it was decided that we must desert them on the island - to the huge glee, I must say, of Ben Gunn, and with the strong approval of Gray. We left a good stock of powder and shot, the bulk of the salt goat, a few medicines, and some other necessaries, tools, clothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and by the particular desire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco. That was about our last doing on the island. Before that, we had got the treasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the goat meat in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we weighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out of North Inlet, the same colours flying that the captain had flown and fought under at the palisade. The three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for, as we soon had proved. For coming through the narrows, we had to lie very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of them kneeling together on a spit of sand, with their arms raised in supplication. It went to all our hearts, I think, to leave them in that wretched state; but we could not risk another mutiny; and to take them home for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness. The doctor hailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were to find them. But they continued to call us by name and appeal to us, for God's sake, to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a place. At last, seeing the ship still bore on her course and was now swiftly drawing out of earshot, one of them - I know not which it was - leapt to his feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent a shot whistling over Silver's head and through the main-sail. After that, we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next I looked out they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost melted out of sight in the growing distance. That was, at least, the end of that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of Treasure Island had sunk into the blue round of sea. We were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand - only the captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for though greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet. We laid her head for the nearest port in Spanish America, for we could not risk the voyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds and a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it. It was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful land-locked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full of Negroes and Mexican Indians and half-bloods selling fruits and vegetables and offering to dive for bits of money. The sight of so many good-humoured faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical fruits, and above all the lights that began to shine in the town made a most charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island; and the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore to pass the early part of the night. Here they met the captain of an English man-ofwar, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and, in short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came alongside the HISPANIOLA. Ben Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began, with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession. Silver was gone. The maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago, and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which would certainly have been forfeit if "that man with the one leg had stayed aboard." But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone emptyhanded. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved and had removed one of the sacks of coin, worth perhaps three or four hundred guineas, to help him on his further wanderings. I think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him. Well, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a good cruise home, and the HISPANIOLA reached Bristol just as Mr. Blandly was beginning to think of fitting out her consort. Five men only of those who had sailed returned with her. "Drink and the devil had done for the rest," with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite in so bad a case as that other ship they sang about: With one man of her crew alive, What put to sea with seventy-five. All of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it wisely or foolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired from the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but being suddenly smit with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship, married besides, and the father of a family. As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he spent or lost in three weeks, or to be more exact, in nineteen days, for he was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a great favourite, though something of a butt, with the country boys, and a notable singer in church on Sundays and saints' days. Of Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one leg has at last gone clean out of my life; but I dare say he met his old Negress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint. It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another world are very small. The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears: "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!"

[vaidenblog-blog]

Chimichanga: a survival story

A group of college students ambitiously plan an outdoor adventure in a the college cafeteria.  They have their laptops out, and are studying for their winter finals.  Also, they are planning a seven day ski adventure through the Alaskan wilderness.  The trajectory would take them over mountains, valleys, and high plains.  This group of six involved two couples, and two other guys, one with an energetic golden retriever, with a cute red back pack.  One of the men in charge of the food bought several bulk packs of frozen chimichangas.  He thought they were delicious, and would be exceptionally so, while trekking in the wilderness.  He figured that would be good enough, and they'd stay frozen, because, the air temperature was below freezing.   After finals were over, and everyone had the right gear, they set off in a dreary January morning.  The morale was joyful, and boisturous, and everything was going like they had thought.  They passed one moose, but other than that was about all the animals they saw in the first day, other than birds.  Once the sun started to set they set up their tents, ate dinner, and went to sleep.  The frozen chimichangas, thawed over the fire, and went down ok.   On the third day, it was snowing, and they were traversing high mountain valleys, through knee deep powder. Their pace had gotten slower, and the morale, had quieted, a bit.  Their energy level was a little lower, except the dog's, Sparky.  Unfortunately with the rise in temperature the frozen chimichangas, had thawed a bit.  The adventurers were woozy, and they were having digestive issues.  One guy said to the guy that bought the food.   'ugh im not feeling good, I think I have diarrhea.  Do we have anythign other than chimichangas?' The guy that bought the food said, 'Sorry dude, this what we have until we get to the cars.' Hearing this news the morale of the group dropped.  Sparky continued joyfully bounding in the deep snow.  The men's name's were, Bill, Hans, Seth, and Gary.  The women were Marjorie, and Clara.  Gary was the guy who bought the food.  It began to rain, and they retired to their tents.  Bill and Seth, Gary and Marjorie, and Hans and Clara, each had a tent, making three tents.  Sparky was Seth's dog, so Sparky would go in their tent, if the weather was rough.   That night the whole group, had a rough night.  Their digestive systems were acting up, and they were wet from the rain, and their toilet paper was running low.   They came to the conclusion that the snow, and dried leaves on trees, were going to be their tp alternative.  This came to a reality when, everyone was knocking on each others tents to see the other person had tp.  It became apparent, they were going through it way too fast.   Day four It was drizzling, and snowing, and people were feeling pretty horrible.  The whole group felt sick.  If anything went wrong they could call with a satellite phone to be picked up by a helicopter, and their parents knew where they were because they had a spot beacon.  Though feeling queesy everyone was hungry, and the chimichangas, still sounded delicious.  They were thawed but went down easily, once heated up over a fire, that they managed to make.  quickly ppl dispersed, and had to have bowel movements.  once back at the fire, looking exhausted they decided they needed to address how they're feeling.  They were over half way to where they wanted to go, and in five miles, the rest of the trip would be mostly downhill.   'I feel like I'm going to throwup.' said Hans. No said anything.  Then Hans walked away.  The joking kind of stopped.  The two women, looked worried at each other.  The other guys, stared into the fire, quincing, in slight anguish.  'This is fun said Gary, belching, a long belch.'  'Fortunately we have more packs of chimichangas, so we won't go hungry.'  Hans came back, and seemed fine.  They sat around the fire talked, and ate their food.   That night the whole groups stomachs felt something fierce.  It was like there was a hurricane in their stomach.  The tp was gone.  The morning came and went.  Sparky was outside looking at the tents barking.  Hans looked over at Clara with one eye open, and saw green skinned person, looked up at the ceiling of the tent and thought 'oh God,' He crawled out, crapped out what was left of his body's nutrients.  He felt all of his life energy was robbed from him.  He laid in the snow exhausted.  Sparky ran up to him and like his face, and ran off throwing powdered snow over him.  Ten minutes later Hans moans of agony coming from Bill and Seth's tent.  Hans knocked on their tent.   'Oh my God how are doing?' he said, to no response.  He opened the door and saw them buried in their sleeping bags.  Seth poked his head up and said, 'we feel like shit.  We can't go anymore.'  Hans saw the same response from people in the other tent.  They were all violently ill.  The trip had gone from an exciting rugged adventure, to situation of survival.  Nobody could barely move, other than the dog.  All they had to eat were chimichangas, which to everyone's quiet knowledge were the cause of their current state.  They reserved using the satellite phone, because they knew was a last resort deal, that would be very costly.  They decided to stay where they were that day, and hopefully, after a day of rest, they would feel better.  That day turned into three days.  The next day a large windstorm came, blowing snow sideways at their tents.  Hans had the satellite phone, and debated using it then.  Clara said we would probably have no money if we did, so he listened, and figured they'd tough it out, though people were probably starting to worry about them.  Needless to say at that point they were all in a state of confusion, and panic.   The next morning Bill had to dig his way out of his tent.  He could see the top of the other tents.  Sparky, ran out of the tent too.  Bill yelled to the other tents to no response.  He decided he'd had enough, and knew they weren't going to make it to their destination.  Weak, and cold Bill walks to the with Gary, and Marjorie.  He hits the tent and yells 'hey!' He hears Gary moan.  'It snowed a lot Gary, we need to use the satellite phone and get a medivac.' 'Ok.' Gary says.   'Hans!' Bill yells towards the other tent.  He doesn't hear a response so he walks over to knock on it.  When he gets closer he see the tent had been ripped open and he was seeing a ripped piece above the snow.  Bill brushes snow away and it caves in and he sees, the tent is submerged.   'Oh God.' Bill says he starts digging, and reaches Clara frozen in her sleeping bag.  He feels her frosty skin and sees there's isn't a pulse.  He digs to find Hans and can't find him.  This whole time Bill is holding in his bowels, and pushing through the discomfort.  He sits and sinks in the waist deep snow behind him.  He begins to dig in the tent to find Hans' backpack with the satellite phone, and can't find it or Hans.  He walks back to Gary's tent and tells him what he found.   'I can't find the phone or Hans.' Bill says.  Gary's vision is blurry, and he can barely move.  He starts dozing off.  The tent smells like a sewer.  Bill sits back down.  'Oh, God.' He says.  'Where the fuck did Hans go?'  Bill looks around him and only sees fresh white snow, two feet more than the night before.  Seth comes out of the tent nauseous as well, and helps Bill look, for Hans, and his back pack.  They dig around his tent, and become exhausted.  They go to Gary's tent, and ask if he has more chimichangas.  It's all that they have left.  Marjorie doesn't make a peep the whole time, and Gary barely makes a sound.  Seth and Bill check on Marjorie, and see she's not breathing.  They try to alert Gary, but he's too weak to move, and drenched in his own feces.  Bill and Seth barely have enough energy to get back to their tent.  They crawl in.  and don't say a word.  The chimichangas from that night hit them extra hard.  Bill crawls out spilling bm fluid as he falls over in the snow.  Seth sees this happen, and passes out, with the tent door open.  Seth's frosty eyes open as Sparky licks his face.  'Sparky, I'm sorry pup.' he says, and goes to sleep.  Sparky eats the rest of the chimichangas, and makes a snow den.   Sparky is fine.  He fends for himself.  After a week, a search group comes upon Sparky and the situation.  Observing the scene, it appears, everyone got sick, and their faces, were missing, due to Sparky's starvation.  With this in mind they still accept Sparky, and lead him home.  The student's parents were notified of this tragic misfortune.  They wondered why they didn't move, and how they got sick.  The chimichanga wrappers had been blown away, and Sparky ate the rest of them.  It was considered a strange occurence of unknown virus.  Meanwhile these chimichangas continue to be sold in Costco to this day.   The End.  

[autolovecraft]

Clutching the edges of the aperture.

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. God, what a rage! He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom.

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. God, what a rage! I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! I'd hate to have it aimed at me! The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb.

There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Birch returned over the coffins to the door. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.

To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket.

The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. Birch still toiling.

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you always did go too damned far!

[autolovecraft]

Why did you do it, Birch?

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. That he was not an evil man. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

It may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

It may have been mocking. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

[autolovecraft]

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. An eye for an eye! At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Perhaps he screamed. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box.

As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Birch returned over the coffins to the door. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket.

Davis died.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. It may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.