#BUT NO FANCY LIMBLESS BEINGS GO

[muffin-snakes-art]

Wave 3 out for a fancy get-together

[jack-and-pax]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Axel: Into the Lion’s Maw VI

The trap was a simple one. There was a chain across the floor at shin level. That, alone, didn’t reveal if the chain triggered a secondary trap, maybe Mathias’ dream: a shower of Happy Meal toys.

However, the scattered skeletal and not-so-skeletal limbs and dismembered bodies decorating the area in a half-circle? That and the massive axe blades poking out of the walls? Axel had a guess it wasn’t McDonald’s related.[1]

Axel caught up with them as Mary and Ethan triggered Part II of the Fancy Death Machine.

He tackled them from behind. Blades swooped above them as they hit the floor. Ethan’s sword and the lighter clattered to the stone ahead.

“Get off of me!” Ethan snapped.

Axel altered his weight to pin Ethan down, praying that Mary didn’t try to fight him too.[2] He knew how strong she was and didn’t want her to lift all three of them into the still-swinging blades.

“‘Swish Swoosh,’ says the pendulum! ‘Did you know that I’m but a clock unwound? Tic-Tok!’” she shrieked in glee. She rested her hands over the back of her head, like this was a game of hide-and-go seek. “‘Slooth, slosh, I’m too tired to go on.’”

Only two swooshes of death above them. Ethan, fortunately, had gotten the message and stopped struggling. Axel hoped the blades didn’t swing in a descending pattern.

Several mechanical clicks later, the axe blades settled back into place.

Axel puffed up his cheeks and popped them. His lighter’s flame hadn’t gone out. The turquoise blaze spiraled lazily ahead of them, lighting up several dismembered limbs. Axel could see one wore a Happy Meal crown like a bracelet. Maybe he shouldn’t tell Matthias about that one.

Carefully, Axel sat up. He glanced to see how close the chain was. Several feet back. He didn’t readily see another trap.

“You could have gotten us killed,” Ethan snarled at Mary.

She didn’t respond. Her gaze had gone unfocused on Axel’s lighter.

Axel picked it up, watching her reaction as he did. She didn’t blink or follow the flame. She stared into the darkness. He didn’t know if that was more or less comforting than her earlier attention.

Ethan snatched up his sword. “We should leave her and get out of here,” he hissed.

Axel hesitated. She seemed completely nonresponsive. “I don’t want her to pick us off, one by one.” Axel could imagine her popping out of various doors in the labyrinth, Scooby Doo style, hoisting off demigods.

“What do you propose, genius?” Ethan Nakamura snapped.

We could unleash her onto Camp Half-Blood, the helm rumbled.

Axel liked that idea even less. She wasn’t a weapon. Unlike most gods, Axel didn’t get the vibe she was intentionally hurting people. He wondered if Prometheus could help her remember herself. He doubted “Mary” was her godly moniker. And, if it was, Catholicism had quite a few delusions that needed untangling.

“She could come with us,” Axel said.

Ethan glared, pointedly, at Axel’s bent shoulder pauldron then at the finger prints she’d left on Ethan’s arm bracer.

Point taken. They couldn’t exactly stroll merrily arm-in-arm.

Axel glanced at the pile of corpses. “If we have her hold a severed limb as we walked, she’d crush that instead of our hands.”

Ethan’s glare deepened. “I don’t like being mocked, Mayan,” he spat the last word like an insult.

Axel clenched his jaw. Anger boiled in his stomach. It eased when his helm spoke, Sacrifice him to this goddess to assure safe passage.

It was strangely calming. Maybe it shouldn’t have been comforting to be the reasonable one between you and your enchanted armor, but Axel would take the wins he could.

“I wasn’t mocking you or joking about the limb,” Axel said once he could keep his voice even. Alabaster or Pax would have brainstormed with him. He desperately wanted that right now. Maybe Ethan hadn’t carried enough limbless Titans around to know about the mythological options. “I was trying to figure out how to bring a lost minor goddess back to camp.”

Ethan lowered his gaze. He adjusted his shoulder straps.

At least he wasn’t arguing.

Axel crouched down near Mary, but not within touching distance. “Mary, what do you want to do?”

She blinked, still staring absently into the dark. “I don’t want to do anything.” Her voice was a soft drone compared to the previous fluttery tone.

Axel hesitated again. “Are you dangerous?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She dug her nails deeper into her scabs. “No.”

If she hadn’t proved how easily she could snap his arm, he might have touched her shoulder.

“You heard her. She wants to be left here,” Ethan said, “We need to get back to the others.”

The sacrifice is correct. We must rally your troops for battle.

Axel swallowed and rose. He would be sure to tell the other minor gods  and titans about her. She shouldn’t be left to wander like this in the labyrinth. “I’ll make sure others know you’re here.”

She continued to silently weep as Axel and Ethan cautiously retreated. When they stepped over the trip chain, Axel lost sight of her amidst the dismembered corpses.

“This feels wrong,” he murmured. Which titans would be able to help her—? “Oh—this way.”

Ethan had turned down an unlit corridor. He paused and glared back. “How can you tell?”

Axel gestured towards the dim glow of the corridor beyond his turquoise firelight. “Can you not see it?”

“I can still see,” Ethan snapped, a little too quickly.

Axel paused, considering Camp Othrys’ newest recruit, examining his weathered eye patch in the flickering light. Ethan was very quick to assume others intended insult. “Where were you? Before here.”

Ethan looked away. He fidgeted with his shoulder straps again. “Cabin Eleven.”

“The children of Hermes weren’t particularly kind about your eye?”

He sneered. “Children of the trickster god. What do you think?”

Axel nodded in understanding. Maybe Ethan wouldn’t be shedding any tears for the missing Chris Rodriguez. “I didn’t mean anything about your vision. The floor has a glow to it in the direction we need to travel.” He would need to ask Alabaster why no one else could see it. Navigating the labyrinth didn’t seem that daunting. Axel took a step forward, then paused one more time. “Which side do you prefer I walk on?”

If Ethan had previous cabin mates that teased him about his vision, Axel imagined he would have a preference that was frequently denied.

Ethan gave him a suspicious look. He pointed to his blindside. “Make sure nothing attacks us from your direction.”

Strategic, Axel mused, trusting Ethan to guard their other side.

They began walking.

The corridor seemed to have elongated. Axel hoped the other demigods were still there. He hoped Mary hadn’t sprinted them away in a sack like a evil Santa Claus, handing demigods out to hungry mythological creatures like presents.

“I’m sorry about the Mayan thing,” Ethan said.

Axel grunted.

“I thought only mortals could have clear sight that strong,” Ethan said, “Why didn’t you tell Lord Kronos that sooner? You could have saved us a lot of trouble navigating the labyrinth.” It sounded accusatory.

In answer to both, Axel asked, “What is clear sight?” He thought about it. “You mean that I can see through the Mist? I don’t hide that. I didn’t know that would affect how we travel the labyrinth.”

Ethan snorted. Axel was getting the vibe this kid didn’t like him. “That seems convenient. Alongside the fact that you haven’t pledged your soul to Lord Kronos.”

Axel stopped walking and pivoted to face Ethan, only to realize Ethan couldn’t see the movement. Convenient? The lion’s helm felt heavy on his back. Did—did Ethan somehow know about—there was no way he could know about Alabaster’s meeting. That happened in Hecate’s realm—probably somewhere in Erebos. “I can’t. I’m not a half-blood.” He gritted his teeth. “And who told you that?”

Not many people knew. Except Pax, Alabaster, and—

“Lord Kronos.”

He couldn’t help it. “You mean Luke?” Axel resumed walking.

“Show him respect,” Ethan snapped.

Axel didn’t know how to break it to Ethan: he’d seen Luke so drunk he could barely sit on his barstool as he babbled about how beautiful Thalia was. There would be no “lord” when talking about his friend.

Ethan seemed to straighten his posture. “Lord Kronos will be sending me on a secret mission.”

Maybe Axel should point out the definition of “secret” in a dictionary to Ethan. Instead, Axel grunted, “Good for you.”

“And I plan to assure no one gets in the way of it.” Ethan turned his head sharply, so he could see Axel. This time, his expression was one of wary curiosity. “You’re really not the spy, are you? You’re not going to ask me any question about it?”

“What are you talking about?” Axel made sure not to make eye contact. He missed the standard issue helmet that covered his ears. They could be a dead giveaway when he was uncomfortable. He wasn’t a spy though. He was just making back-up plans to kill Luke if his friend totally lost his mind. Axel refrained from rolling his eyes, wondering which “Lord Kronos” would find more treacherous.

“The Romans knew about the Hecate child’s lab,” Ethan pushed, like Axel hadn’t been there, “I’ve heard what some of the monsters are saying. There have been other times the Romans knew too much.”

“I almost died in that raid,” Axel growled. He’d just been happy that he and Alabaster managed to keep Pax somewhat safe.

“And you got elevated to a hero with your brother and friend. I think you three have been very… lucky,” Ethan said the word like it was vulgar.

Lucky?! Axel barely refrained from pivoting to hit Ethan.

No one will find his body in the labyrinth.

This helm kept making excellent points.

Clutching the helm’s cold metal over his shoulder, Axel managed to control his temper. “What does that have to do with me not being or being a spy?”

“Sometimes you need to take things into your own hands. Make your own destiny.” Ethan tapped his eye patch. “Before someone steals it away. I’m going to find this spy, and I’m going to kill them.”

Axel didn’t like that Ethan was investigating this behind Mercedes’ back. He knew Mercedes had been working tirelessly. He wondered if he could—no, if Pax could—ask her about her best guesses. Axel and Alabaster still wanted Camp Jupiter to fall, but maybe this Roman spy would be useful to their cause. Maybe they could work together.

In the meantime, Axel didn’t like that Ethan’s investigation had come near him or his friends. “Nakamura, don’t go around accusing others without evidence.”

That’s what he meant to say. But lion’s helm chose then to speak, “Child of Nemesis, if you hurt anyone under my protection, I will break every bone in your body, starting with your left hand. And when I’m done with you, you will have neither an eye with which to see nor a tongue with which to slander.”

Axel was beginning to really enjoy this helm’s input.

-----------------------------

Thank you for reading! And thank you for your patience! Life should be hopefully settling down in the next month or so. (I feel like I’ve been saying this for awhile, but let me live in my delusions, damn it! XD)

I hope you enjoyed! This chapter felt janky to edit since it has been awhile. Hoping, as always, to get back onto a regular writing/upload schedule, but we might have another skip while life gets settled.

Thank all of you for your continued support! You guys rock and all your asks, comments, and likes have been very encouraging! (Which, I promise, I will one day get to! XD)

---------------------------------

Footnotes:

[1] Pax wanted to point out that it is: just Ronald McDonald FNAF edition.

[2] I don’t think you’d be in my fan base, but for those of you who were looking for Axamura—

Pax, singing from somewhere, “When the cat hits your back in a Paxboy attack, Axamura!“ (Name that song--!)

[bluepallilworld]

Part 3 here it is >w<

[Part 1] [Part 2] <3

Meeting or missing (part 3)

“Liiiint I’m still in pajamas!”

Mimosa was a tad disgrudged at the idea of staying in his sleeping gear while he was obviously not in bed anymore.

“Don’t worry, nobody will notice.”

The girl didn’t look like she would let him go fetch some clothes any time soon. Resigned to stay like that for a while, Mimosa took a look at his current outfit. His long shirt was going way down past his knees. It wasn’t an ugly one. He wiggled his toes in the grass, lost in his thoughts. He liked being bare-footed…

He let a little thrill escape as he concluded it was fine, he could work with that.

Now… Where did Lint go?

After taking the time to pick up his tentacles - they were too long to be dragged on the ground today- his eyes scanned the surroundings to try to locate his friend. The task didn’t take long since Lint was shouting at him to come a little farther down the path. He runned to her, a smile brightening his face, wondering what they would discover this time!

“Wait for me!”

“Na you’re too slow.”

They started to race, filling the new place with laughs, chuckles of joy and other noisy noises people make when they’re having fun.

It was hard for Mimosa to stay at Lint’s level as she was fast and apparently determined to not slow down before hitting a wall or something. Which could happen, it wouldn’t be the first time...

A startled shout seemed to prove his theory as Lint collapsed, tripped by a thing lying on the ground.

And he followed suit as it was far too late to slow down.

So they ended up in a giggling mess, again-

The tangle of limbs untangled itself slowly, punctuated by small complaints each time one tripped over the other.

Lint grabbed onto what made her fall and finally stood properly. It looked like a half huge brush, all old and damaged.

“It makes me think of the brush of that friend of my parents! He’s funny but too weird sometimes!”

The girl helped him up as she continued to examine her discovery.

Mimosa observed the thing and wondered... How long did it stay outside to be that dusty?

He took a look around and saw that the whole area had many objects littering the ground. A lot were unidentifiable from afar but he could distinguish various fabrics among these. Oh! Fabric!

Maybe he could find something still nice around here, maybe it was a trash place? Leaving his friend trying to make the broken thing stand up on her finger, the small monster snooped around in search of some pretty fabric to add to his collection. Most of them were so torned and dirty that he didn’t even try to pick them up. There were also some cool blades laying around but maybe another time. He rubbed his hand down some tissue to see which ones were still soft to touch.

After finding one piece without too many holes, he came back to show his find to Lint.

“Hey Lint! Lint! Look at that one! Isn’t it pretty! All blue. You like blue! Don’t you think it looks nice?”

The girl let fall her improvised toy to examine what her traveling companion was talking about. It was a blue bandana, it was a bit damaged and dusty but in better shape than a good part of what could be found nearby. She stared at it with a strange look in her eyes and got her hand close to it before retracting it as if it could burn her.

“It looks ugly, leave it here.”

She grabbed his hand and started to walk at a fast pace.

Mimosa was a bit confused but obeyed and left his prize on the ground and followed, while stumbling on a lot of things in a hurry. A fancy looking trident snapped in three, a black tissue making a hole of nothingness that seemed it could easily swallow his feet, a crown bend as if a big thing walked on it, a doll limbless, distorted sunglasses and other damaged stuff. While it was a rather strange place, he didn't understand why Lint was so eager to leave it. He was sure they could find great treasures around! An activity enjoyed by the two of them ordinarly.

“Why the hurry?”

“I just don’t like this place.”

Hmming at his friend’s answer he followed her in silence. If this place made her uneasy, it was better to leave.

He took one last look behind him and saw a glimpse of something shiny nearby. He was intrigued by what it could be, maybe they would pass again later and then he could check? Mhm! He adjusted his pace so as not to be dragged anymore and focused on what was forward. The atmosphere became light again as the two friends started exchanging some silly jokes between little sprints to be the first to go wherever they were going. It was funny.

As he struggled to maintain the pace Lint was imposing, the boy wondered if it would have been funnier if Mynn had joined them. On another hand, he knew how much his other friend hated to be dragged out of her home by Lint. Finally it was probably for the best that they didn’t bother the older girl.

Lint stopped brutally, making Mimosa hit his face against her back, and pointed in front of them.

“HEY! LOOK! There are houses!”

And indeed, houses there were. Nearly all of the constructions looked a bit off, however.

After a quick nod to each other, they runned as fast as possible to the batiments, impatient to explore more of this unknown world. Full of things but empty of people.

All those houses were vacant. Some had holes in their walls they had fun sticking their fingers in. Some had part of the roof weirdly missing, they dared each other to climb on. Mimosa went, fell and almost instantly got up with a smile as if nothing happened. They continued to play like that in the ghost town for a long time and carried on finding silly games with anything they encountered. Now, what they found out to be the most entertaining activity was to search for houses with a bell to ring. It wasn’t an easy fit, a lot only had a door to knock on and a lot of bells weren’t working. There was one they didn’t know if it was broken or not, it just made weird gurgling noises. They fled the broken noise, giggling like crazy. They tried almost all the bells from the center of the town so now it was time to go see houses on the outskirts! Those hidden by some trees or just separated from the others by a path!

As soon as they spotted one, the children rushed to the door and when they saw a bell that didn't look too damaged… They fought to be the first one to ring it.

Who ringed it the first? There was no way to know. But, what was certain was they were equally surprised when steps inside the house resonated in answer.

And the door opened.

Orange eyelights stared at them as a small child released the door. Mimosa gazed back at the cross in these eyes. A funny feeling settled in his soul the longer he observed the shiny circles. He didn’t have the slightest idea why. The small one seemed uneasy as she fiddled with her tentacle around her neck, her left foot swinging softly against the floor.

A tentacle? All goopy and reddish. A lighter shade than his own. Could she be related to goopy ones? Maybe she was related to some alternate family of his, a new sibling they didn’t know of? The funny feeling gave place to a sheer joy at the idea of expanding his known family. It would be nice! Maybe they could be friends!

As he was musing over his thoughts, he didn't notice Lint pestering the young girl with questions. She answered none and seemed a bit more distressed and lost with each one. And Lint wasn’t slowing down.

Finally she twisted her head to look inside a few times and soon after another voice made its apparition.

[end of part 3]

[Go to part 4?]

*******************************************************

That's it the sibs are reunited~ @zu-is-here

@turtleduckrabbit lot of darkcream shipkid content these days I guess

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

crossbows

She tugs at the fastening from her gauntlet. The bolts are fastened firmly but gradually, one by one, disappear into her cleavage. She leans back, and the bolts fall upon one another. A moment later, she rises. There is a click of mechanical activity.

Her flight suit is a thing of exquisite style and craftsmanship. The material of which it is made is a combination of two metal alloys: a very shiny, but somewhat rubbery type of a material known as kevlar that is a carbon-fiber blend. It takes over an hour for the required state of the art amount of polishing to take place to make it look this good. Most of this time is spent in the early stages of polishing, because a large part of the purpose of the suit is to act as a series of invisible rucksacks.

This is, at this point, clearly not the only purpose of the suit, but it's the only purpose that seems to matter to anyone outside of the mind of the client. She's in the control room. She taps one of the dedicated keys on her keyboard, and she is herself again. She's landed on the floor of her own quarters.

There is something in the air around her. It smells of hot oils. She feels a slight irritation in her nostrils, and she coughs. This is not much of a surprise, being that she is, of course, in the digestive system of some unseen albino hard-wired exoskeleton creature, and the type of irritant involved is complex and fast-moving, and it includes one or more side effects of which coughing is one.

What she has to do, she knows, is hit the access panel on the floor of her bedroom and use her telesma transporter. Her powers cannot reach beyond this five feet sphere, and she has used up a lot of power by getting this far. It is time to reduce her load.

Some people--adults in her community, that is--are convinced that her body is nothing but a number to be transposed and turned into whatever is needed by her mind. This isn't just a philosophical point about the naturalness of one's mind and one's death if it is translated into the opposite material, and no, she is a real person and deserves to have her mind function and to still have a body. That is not all wrong, but it's no matter, because she is being made to serve, and if there's something to be served, it's not to some theory about transposition in fancy math words and not to her actual situation. She could always use a flesh-and-blood being with the physicality of a human being, and with the capacity to think--to want.

You might consider this kind of thinking, because you're a nice person and you care about those things that matter. But if you truly care, maybe you'd think the other way. In fact, maybe you would. Maybe you would be getting your ass handed to you if you were anything but a superhuman nerd who's done some heavy reading.

This is a bit of a stretch. Think of it as… excusing yourself from the country you want to move to. The idea that you can go to the country you want to go to and go to the country you're meant to be is sort of crass. Imagine you're from somewhere. Imagine that you are, or maybe were gorgeous. Consider the idea that you are possessed by the same kind of raw, beautiful emotion that makes your best friend or your romantic interest want to be with you. Imagine that there is a limbless, meat-eating stupid creature that has no legs but sticks its hairy little head up out of its leathery exoskeleton and is always looking up and staring at you. Imagine that you're just a pixel under that weirdly meek, perky little head and all you've ever done in your life is stare at it while having a boring human interaction with people who only look up at you because their skin can't tolerate the snipping and re-snipping any longer and they must fix their skin by grinning at you, as they cannot close their eyes and cause the snipping all the while, but just look up at the screen and stare, like a silly little child, and their neck may crack or their face may swell as a result. Think of that.

Then imagine that you are so unlikely to ever live for long that no one seems to care, and everything is just waiting for you to burst through. That's what it's like to be here.

Then.

Today she just stays and thinks. Now, here is another piece of information for you. Today she sat down and thought, and the first word that came out was "bad."

Bad thought feeling in her, with its hot and mushy and cold and tedious groans and its look of contemptuous puzzlement and its ripples of cold sweat and its tingle of nervousness and its turgid shiver of sleep deprivation, got her up from her couch and put her to sleep. She was an inhabitant of this thing that was very different from the thing she thought about. Today she was not sure what she was supposed to do, exactly.

Now, in the late 20th century, you see, these concepts do not find good reception, at least not in places where science was not important in the same way that it is important now. Science was important to the "religion of progress" because it was a necessary counterpart to the solid, focused, definite, and invariable support provided by theological tradition. Whatever particular theory that has not been defeated by science, has never been a "real" theory because it is self-consistent: it is stable, and it makes predictions that can be tested and tested again and again, just like science.

But progress is not a thing to grasp, without the help of an independent notion of progress that is open to challenge. If a theory is useful, it will live on; if it does not, that makes its death inevitable. And if the old theories live on, even if they go on not to make predictions, but to explain mysteries left by newer theories, then what is progress? But progress is not "contradiction and concomitance," it is not a thing that can be formally opposed or supported. It is "perdurability." As the toy company says, it's more powerful than all the other toys. And if they can make it the most powerful, then maybe, maybe they can give you a book with the word death in it.

[curly-q-reviews]

ROAD TO THE OSCAR MAYER WIENER AWARDS 2K19

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, 2018 (dir. Joel Coen, Ethan Coen)

Nominated for: Best Original Song, Best Costume Design, Best Adapted Screenplay

SPOILER ALERT THAR BE SPOILERS AHEAD ME HEARTIES BE YE WARNED

wowee what a cool film!!  i went into this not knowing much about it except it was directed by the Coen brothers (directors of Fargo and The Big Lebowski) which set real high expectations for me.  these guys are real masters of storytelling and what immediately come to mind when i think of movies that know how to effectively use dark humor.  i also love the kinds of stories they tell in general, how they take subjects and settings that seem kinda mundane and just give them this little extra spark. 

so is this newest film just as good as their other work???  well id say yeah for sure!!!  it reminds me a lot of a film they did shortly after The Big Lebowski called O Brother, Where Art Thou?, because theyre both period pieces AND because they both feature a myriad of eclectic and interesting characters.  the one thing that makes The Ballad of Buster Scruggs really stand out from their other films however is the fact that this is actually an anthology made up of six different stories, all set during the same time period in The Wild West.  its also worth mentioning that this movie was made to premiere on Netflix, which is something ive started to see more and more as the streaming platform becomes the new go-to source of media content.  its very exciting to see such prolific directors go the Netflix route and have great success with it, because it means that the platform really is capable of creating high-quality movies and TV shows and working with big-name talent.  im sure the big hollywood production companies are all quaking in their lil booties cause this means big BIG changes are on the horizon

ok so ive reviewed anthology series before, notably Black Mirror, and with those reviews i ranked the short stories in order of least to most favorite.  so i guess in this case ill do the same, although its hard to really rank these cause i truly enjoyed all of them in different ways.  there was one however that didnt really tickle my fancy much, which was “Near Algodones”.  this one stars james franco as a bank robber who seems to have met his match in a fiery (probably crazy) bank teller.  he gets caught and hung from a tree by the town’s sheriff, but nearly manages to escape death when a Native American tribe swoops in and kills the sheriff and his crew.  james franco is saved by a cattle driver, only to be caught again by the next town’s sheriff for allegedly trying to hawk the cattle (which was not the case at all).  right before they kick the chair out from under him at the hanging, he sees a beautiful woman in blue, who at first smiles at him but then looks unnerved as he stares back at her. 

i think with this one the ending really didnt do much for me, i kinda didnt get it.  i did understand the whole irony behind surviving punishment for a crime he DID commit but getting hanged for a crime he never committed, and the bank teller was pretty hilarious, but everything else about the segment was just ok.  james franco didnt really blow me away (he never really does but thats besides the point), the rest of the performances were fine, and the story just kinda zipped on through.  maybe ill give this one another watch to see if the ending makes any more sense to me, or if theres any sense to be made from it at all

next up for me would be “The Gal Who Got Rattled”, and this segment i have mixed feelings over.  its about this brother and sister who set out on the Oregon trail so that the brother can get his sister to marry his business partner in Oregon.  the sister seems like a kind of wishy-washy, subdued character who just kinda goes along with whatever her brother says without giving much of her own opinion.  i gotta give credit to zoe kazan (who starred in The Big Sick) cause she does a great job with this character, totally spot-on performance.  ok so turns out the brother is a fucken HORRIBLE businessman who screws up all his business deals all the time, and he tragically dies like two days into being on the oregon trail.  he has this annoying-ass dog that barks all the time and everyone else on the caravan is sick of it, so when the brother dies the sister just lets one of the trail leaders put it down.  turns out the sister like did not like her brother at all but was always too afraid to say anything.  now getting back to the bad businessman thing, apparently he had promised the helper boy that is helping move their covered wagon a large sum of money, half of it halfway through the journey and the rest when they get to oregon.  problem is, the sister doesnt have the money, so it was either left in the brothers pocket when he was buried or there wasnt actually any money at all and he lied, y’know, like a bad businessman does.  the trail leader who put the annoying dog down offers to help her, and the two start to get close.  so now its like a pseudo love story thing.  except it ends pretty tragically (the sister dies its a long story and pretty ironic just watch it if u wanna know)

so uuuhhhhh this one was long as shit, like a lot longer than the other segments when it didnt really need to be???  like it just kept  going and going, and again the ending didnt really make up for how long it was.  i really liked zoe kazan in this, but otherwise nothing to write home about. 

number four on my list would have to go to “All Gold Canyon”, which basically just follows the story of a gold miner in the mountains trying to get that money honey.  this segment is the simplest one out of the bunch, but i gotta say its absolutely gorgeous.  what beautiful scenery and cinematography.  it provides a nice contrast to our disheveled, run-down gold miner who is just tearing up the beautiful grassy fields trying to get to this gold.  there seems to be a theme in this one of man’s relationship to nature, and how the gold miner does put in effort to respect it but still takes advantage of it for his own benefit.  and i guess theres a broader theme of greed, or the ruthless and endless pursuit of wealth which can drive people to do crazy and desperate things.  i definitely really enjoyed this one, especially the gold miner character played by tom waits.  but otherwise it didnt stand out as much to me as the other segments im gonna talk about

SPEAKING OF WHICH heres number three!!  “The Mortal Remains” is right up my alley, and has some more mythical elements to it than the other segments ive talked about so far.  so we have a wagon full of passengers all going to this hotel for various reasons, and its a really diverse cast of characters: we have the older wife of a prolific religious lecturer, a rich Frenchman, a trapper, a foppish Englishman, and a cheery laid-back Irishman, the last two seeming to be companions of some sort.  they all get on the topic of the true nature of mankind, and the three characters opposite of the strange pair all have something different to say.  the trapper believes that all people are inherently the same, with the same basic needs.  the older woman disagrees and insists that there are two kinds of people, upright and sinning.  and then the Frenchman says that both of them are wrong, that human existence is much more complicated and nuanced than that; no one persons life is exactly the same as another’s.  and then we have the Englishman and the Irishman, who turn out to be bounty hunters of some sort (is heavily alluded that they are grim reaper-type figures).  they explain their method of completing their kills, and talk about how they enjoy watching their victims “try to make sense of it all” in their death throes.  these two clearly have a much more cold and sinister idea of the nature of mankind, and the rest become very unsettled all the way to the hotel.  no one else even dares to step out of the carriage while the bounty hunters drag their latest victim through the front entrance and up the stairs.

oh man this segment was great!  i think the reason its third on my list is cause i really wish there was more to it, like if the Coen brothers spent more time on this one instead of “The Gal Who Got Rattled” it would be perfect.  Jonjo O’Neill and Brendan Gleeson as the bounty hunters were so enthralling, and i loved watching them play off of each other.  hell, i couldve had a whole movie featuring those two.  and the screenwriting really shines in this segment too.  this segment almost feels like a fable or something, which is really fitting for the time period.  makes me wonder if they had based it off of an actual fable.  but anyway yeah this ones awesome!

i had a hard time choosing between “The Mortal Remains” and this next segment for second place cause i liked them both equally, but in the end “Meal Ticket” gets #2 purely because of the utterly fantastic performance by Harry Melling, who plays a quadriplegic actor in a traveling show run by liam neesons character, an irish traveling entertainer.   the story itself is really simple, we just see this disabled actor be carted from one town to the next, doing the same stage show which is basically just him reciting famous prose throughout the ages.  meanwhile liam neeson is trying to get as much money as he can out of the audience members.  he doesnt interact much with harry melling outside of feeding him and helping him piss and get dressed.  u get the sense that he doesnt really see his disabled actor as an actual person, but more of an entertaining object or a pet.  and this becomes even more apparent when the irishman gets some competition from another traveling entertainer who has a chicken that can do math.  he sees this chicken getting more money than him, so he buys it off of the other guy and takes it with him.  and finally, the poor limbless actor is literally and figuratively tossed aside for the next best thing.

man oh man what a great segment!  harry melling blew me away with his performance, the fact that he was able to get such a nuanced range of emotion out of the few lines he was given (basically he had to recite the same shit over and over again) was so impressive to me.  and his non-verbal communication was really solid too.  liam neeson did really well in his role too.  and again the story itself is really great, simple but effective and really gets the point across without having to beat the audience over the head with its message. OH YEAH ITS REAL GOOD LOVE IT

and finally we have my #1 pick, which i think the directors knew this was the best one out of the bunch too cause its the first segment as well as the title of the whole movie.  “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs” has that signature Coen brothers wit and dark humor that i love, it plays off of typical Western movie tropes and is very tongue-in-cheek and i ate that shit up.  tim blake nelson as the titular buster is just so fucken perfect for this role, he really shines in this and its kind of a shame that its one of the shorter segments cause it really is the best one and he knocks it out of the park.  we got some great music in this segment too, which is where that Best Original Song nom comes in.   this one also has some strong fable-y vibes to it, like this story could be amongst the likes of American folklore like Paul Bunyan and Johnny Appleseed.  i wont get much into the plot of this one but i highly recommend watching it, even if you dont wanna see the rest of the segments. 

the segments fit together pretty well overall, although the tone of each of them differs slightly the fact that the setting and time period are the same is enough to firmly knit all these stories together.  its a really unique idea for a movie, and is so far the best attempt at an anthology movie that ive ever seen purely because the stories really all make sense together and play off of each other well.  in other anthology movies ive seen like The ABC’s of Death the segments usually dont have much at all to do with each other, except that they all fall in the same genre.  so overall id say give this a watch, especially if ur a Coen brothers fan, cause theres some real good stuff in here.

well thats all i got for now cowboys!!  i watched Roma the other day and CRIED REAL HARD so get ready for me to kiss that movies ass in a review that should be done in the next few days.  until then go uuhhhhhh lasso a cow or something.  chew some tobaccy.  fondle a barmaids titties.  die of dysentery.  y’know just old west things~

[tumblunni]

Bellsprout...

It.. So fragile...

Thos feets, so little! Its so thin! Its a literal lil noodle! It sways in the wind so much when it walks, its feet dont even move like feet but more like leeches which are my Favourite Worm for how dumb their mannerisms are. Seriously they go up and balance on their tail and periscope around and then they streeeetch and somersault to reach stuff! Theyre like actual living slinkies except they go up the stairs too! Bellsprout's rooty weirdness has that same kind of animation in its walk cycle, but the bizarre speculative idea of a monster made of like four worms all tied to another worm for a torso?? Its just so goofy how itll streeeeetch out the one wiggle foot and periscope it around too even tho it doesnt have eyes so its more like i guess its just very uncertain balancing on its squiggles and uses the roots on the end to detect whether the ground is stable? But then after the slow step of introspection before walking its just like PITCH FORWARD AND BECOME A BICYCLE! rapid flailing legs maximum speed like that basilisk lizard that runs on water! Its like its scared itll pitch forward if it ever stops? And then it does a little balance wiggle at the end and its just so cuuuuuute!

And AAAA its other animations when its not walking too! Its SO FRAGILE!! i want to protect you my baby!! It wiggles in such a cute battle dance cos it struggles to stand upright aaaa! Its head is so big and like all of its organs are in there NO WONDER its so wiggly flop! And its feets and hands are just so weak but it tries so hard!! It must be like a tiny bug landing on your hand or someone thwapping you with a singular taglitelle. And the leafs are even cuter cos theyre animated so..damn.. FRAGILE! everything is so soft in this art style aaaagh its killing me!! "I'm a powerful monster" nooo you are made of hugs and sunshine with the very barest shreds of physical form. But aaaa bellsprout is trying so hard it has so much personality like i wanna support it in being strong and scary and tell it someday it really does become badass and also able to fly for no easily explained reason! But THE LEAFS! OKAY THE LEAFS!! They're so much flatter and thinner than i expected? Like theyre just super generic primary coloured children's show doodles of leafs and the anime never really drew them with a good sense of 3D movement and width and stuff. I dunno if the models in sun and moon really showed a similar thing cos i never used a bellsprout? But i know this art style is just suuuuch a pretty fusion of the realistic shading in Go and the cartoon aesthetic of the main games that i'll wanna catch every pokemon for the first time ever! ITS LEAFS ARE LIKE TISSUE PAPER THIN SOMEONE PROTECT THIS CHILD!!! aaa and the wiggle animation is so cute cos they bend at angles in a sort of S-pattern like waving a fan in fancy style? Or i guess like how you might imagine wings to work if they only had one feather. Bellsprout is such an interesting well executed speculative biology idea and i never even realized before!!

And of course its BIG DOPEY FACE!! seriously its so cute how just adding two dots to a pitcher plant instantly makes it an awkward cute version of a horse head. THEY SOMEHIW MADE A NON SCARY SEVERED HORSE HEAD ON A STRING. I CAN NEVER UNSEE THIS NOW!! And then it has a mouth on the end of the nose and again this sounds terrifying when i put it in words but in actuality its FUCKIN AMAZING GOOFBALL SNOOTBEAN!! Just.. Lil dot eyes and really long face and then a big goofy happy smile at the end and aaaawwwwwww bebby

Oh man now im remembering why i didnt like bellsprout as a kid! I think it was entirely cos its evolutions changed to being just the head and then not having a mouth anymore even. And the grumpy badass eyes instead of bean! Tho as an adult i can appreciate that it must have taken a lot of effort to find a way to badassify such a goofy concept! And i feel proyd of bellsprout growing up to be the apex predator of the jungle who eats tigers n stuff. U go bebby u achieve u dream!! But still the wiggly noodle feets were SO CUTE and the bean eyes were SO CUTE and its a shame theyre the two things that go. Even if it does possibly make sense that the feets are so vestigal if its just a temporary stage before it learns how to fly. I mean birb feet are little? Tho they dont outright lose them when they grow up. Tho a birb that was just a limbless orb with a grumpy face like victreebell would actually be real cute! MAN IM GOING SO OFFTOPIC

Anyway in summary Let's Go has made me appreciate Bellsprout more and i am no longer sad that i cant get oddish in this version. Tho i still find it super cute in this art style TOO and i wish i could hug both the classic plant bebbys! Smoochie smorch u r my cat now and i will feed u all the snacks here is your scratching post and fluffy bed. OH YEAH THAT REMINDS ME did you guys see the drifloon that sleeps in a dog bed in sun and moon?? Its in ilima's house! I like to headcanon that maybe its the ghost of his mom's stoutland in the picture? Cos why would a family of normal type specialists have a drifloon? PRIME GAME THEORY YEAH! oh and the magnemite in a cat bed in one of the hotels i think?? Also Prime Bebby. Please consider all these good friends. And also imagine my super beloved bellsprout who shall be joining them soon! Seriously aaaa i went from neutral opinion on this pokemon to WHY CANT IT BE THE STARTER WHY CANT IT SIT ON MY HEAD within like FIVE SECONDS OF GAMEPLAY FOOTAGE

Godddd im so excited to see more footage of more mons so my heart can explode again and again! Im gonna straight up die from the power of these cuties!

[anulstermanabroad]

Fuji-San: Climbing the Giant Ice Cream

Many years ago now, I famously applied and failed in a previous quest to live in Japan. Fast forward four years and I'm finally here, living the Japanese Dream in Tokyo Wonderland. It wasn't all plain-sailing though. There was a a bachelor degree, an horrific interview and three years of simultaneously loving and hating life in China to battle through first.

Lets rewind four years. I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland and I'm interviewing for a reputable teaching scheme in Japan. I should be clear here, although I decided I wanted to move to Japan, in the grand scheme of things I had no idea about Japan or even a legitimate reason of substance. Despite having had numerous part-time jobs during my high-school and student years, I'd somehow managed to avoid ever participating in a real job interview. This was only going to lead to disaster. To cut a long study short, I managed to mention the war, Hiroshima and the 2011 tsunami and earthquake which devastated parts of Japan in my interview. I really left myself with less of a chance of moving to Japan than the possibility of a limbless man recreating the Mona Lisa. Six months later I moved to China...

One question I was asked, however, was ‘Where would you like to go in Japan?’ I hadn’t researched anything in particular for this question but there was one big reason I wanted to go to Japan - to climb Mount Fuji. For many, that may not seem like a legitimate reason for moving to another country but I had and continue to have, a strange attraction to Fuji. I’m not about to start rambling to you about some form of weird attraction that you’ll only find in the deepest, darkest corners of the internet, but for me, Fuji possesses a kind of mythical quality that I can’t describe. Whilst Japan is a hugely mountainous region, Fuji rises from the ground like a giant, almost totally isolated in it’s grandeur, unlike other mountainous parts of Japan. Fuji dominates the scenery around it and rises majestically, in it’s conical form, sculpted perfectly by Mother Nature herself. 

On a clear day, Fuji is visible from Tokyo which is about a two hour drive from the foot of the mountain. I haven’t been lucky enough to see it yet from so far out but in the crisp, clear, winter days to come, I’ll be looking out with bated breath. The first time I went to Fuji was in April this of this year. Although it’s not possible to climb the mountain at that time because of the temperature and snow capped peak, the surrounding areas are very beautiful and a refreshing break from the claustrophobia of Tokyo. My first impression was, ‘Oh shit.’ I knew I would climb over the climbing period during July and August and when faced with Fuji, rising 3700m into the sky, I could see no way of possibility getting to the top. Due to its conical shape, the peak of the mountain looks almost vertical and it’s hard to imagine getting to the summit without climbing apparatus. Whilst I like to climb the occasional mountain, they usually tend to require nothing more than a pair of running shoes. As the day went on, it became easier to appreciate the sheer size of Fuji and how much impact it has on the surrounding area and Japan in general. I have three year old students who can’t put their own socks on, but even for them, Mount Fuji holds a special significance in Japanese culture. It helps that I also have Mr Potato Head, Fuji-themed socks to spark their interest even further...

So, on a late August afternoon, I climbed aboard a bus from Shinjuku station to Mount Fuji’s fifth station. Whilst it is possible to climb Fuji from the very bottom, the majority of climbers start from the fifth station which is around 2300m above sea level. Although this is higher than I’ve ever been in my life (whilst on two feet), in reality there are only around 1400m to the summit from the start point. We took the option of climbing overnight, beginning at 8pm rather than being extortionately ripped off to stay in a crowded mountain hut for a couple of hours. I had also never climbed at night before which filled me with fear, but in reality, the trails are very good. So as long as you’re careful and have some form of head-torch, the climb is very safe. Mount Fuji is made up of ten stations and by 9pm we had reached the sixth station, already. From that point on, the trail begins to rise rapidly, going from a steady incline to a more vertical incline but it’s still a relatively simple hike. For me, the climb between stations seven and eight were probably the most difficult. This is, effectively, the only part of Fuji that you have to climb. After 12 years of playing rugby and drunkenly falling down stairs at house parties, my knees are verging on dodgy, crumbling messes. During this section you need to climb over large, cliff-like rocks rather than the volcanic gravel trail prevalent on the rest of the mountain. It is also very accessible but whilst my hiking companion seemingly found it simple enough to stay upright, my abysmal lack of balance and sometimes raging winds required me to use my hands at times also. I became a very nonathletic Spiderman. If you’re like me, bring gloves to protect your hands and you will have no problems. And your web blasters. 

I should point out that at this point I was terrified. Whilst it was relatively easy to climb up, the incline was extreme and I wondered how the hell I was every going to get back down without smashing my head off every rock on the mountain, as my huge body rapidly rolled to the bottom. It turns out most of the fears I had on the way up were totally irrelevant as the downward path is both different and incredibly easy. In short, don’t worry. By midnight, we were seriously ahead of time and had reached the eighth station at 3100m - only 600m from the top. Until this point, I had actually been climbing in a t-shirt but it was starting to get very cold. Only adrenaline and climbing had protected me for the previous hour or two. Luckily I had packed five extra layers and the further we climbed the more clothes I gradually slipped on. Think of it like a prostitute at work, but in reverse. Sadly also, nobody was paying me for this shit.

Having a rest at the eight station. Notice how we’re still happy and gloves aren’t necessary yet... 

During this section of the climb, it was now seriously cold. As long as you kept moving, it was bearable; even pleasant. As soon as you stopped, however, no amount of layers could protect you despite myself looking like the North Face had sponsored Mr. Blobby. A big problem we also had was that we were running out of mountain. At the rate we were going, we would’ve been at the summit by 1.30am, a mere three and a half hours until sunrise. I could only assume that it would be colder at the summit and I didn’t fancy recreating the end of Titanic, except in reverse at 3700m above sea level as some strangers mistakenly referred to me as ‘Jack.’ Bearing this in mind, we decided to find a sheltered spot between the eighth and ninth stations and rest for an hour out of the wind. The mountain staff are surprisingly strict with climbers, to the extent that many climbers could be put in danger. At every mountain hut they will sell Pot Noodles and sometimes other hot food but you’re basically forbidden from coming inside unless you pay the full night’s accommodation fee - around 8000yen. Or £55-£65, depending on what Theresa May’s fair government has cocked up that week. There is plenty of space to shelter climbers from the winds, which are fairly extreme, but I could see it from the other side of the spectrum. Why should they aid mad bastards like us, who chose to climb overnight and encourage others to do the same long term, thus reducing customers and profits? People were so cold that they were hiding in toilets just to stay warm which prompted the addition of a ‘mountain toilet guard’ at one bathroom shack. What I will say is that, you will never take as many unnecessary shits as you will whilst climbing Fuji, simply to get out of the cold and sit down somewhere warm for 5 minutes. Ok, 10...

After an hour long break, we began our ascent to the summit at around 1am, knowing full well we would still be there early, however, staying still was no longer an option. Whilst I couldn’t feel a lack of oxygen in the air, I could feel that with every step and every bend in the trail, it was definitely getting harder. We both reached the ninth station around 2am which is only about 300m from the summit. We were both feeling tired but good and the summit was (probably) in view. All was going well until around 150m from the end. In the space of around ten minutes, my friend went from being slightly tired to physically ill. Headaches and nausea included. Until this point, he had more or less set the pace the whole way but it suddenly fell on me to become Sam and push Frodo up the mountain to destroy Sauron. Or, reach the top of Fuji. It’s the same thing really. Me being me, I hadn’t actually researched altitude sickness at all, hoping everything would just be ok. With that (lack of) knowledge, I figured it was best to push him to keep climbing the mountain and stop him from falling asleep; not really sure if I was helping him or slowly killing him. Every five minutes or so, we would rest for another 5-10 minutes, inhaling the oxygen we’d thankfully invested in pre-hike. By this point, I could see other experienced climbers, who were also clearly struggling and you could tell that everybody was a little bit wrecked. It’s kind of like watching that drunk guy leaving the pizza shop at 4am with his food. He’s walking so slowly and trying so hard not to fall onto the road but you know, somehow, he’ll make it home. 

The last 150m took us around an hour - a massive difference compared to the rest of the hike - and we reached the summit around 3.15am, thankfully as the summit huts and shelters were opening up. A total climb of around six hours plus our rest period isn’t bad going. I got a massive buzz off it, so much so that I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore. I was even cheery, something I very rarely am, even at sea level. It felt good to climb higher than I ever had before and although I wouldn’t say it was particularly difficult, it was a massive challenge and a totally new experience. I left my friend in a sheltered hovel while I scoped out the summit and tried to find somewhere we could rest until sunrise. I ended up paying an extortionate amount for the best Pot Noodle I’ve ever had in my life.before going back to reclaim my friend. Thankful that he wasn’t dead, we hung out for an hour in a summit hut, which was wonderfully warm. Whilst he battled to stay awake, clutching a roasting hot green tea, I took the chance to socialise with some other climbers and hope nobody asked me to buy anything. Around 4.30am, it was starting to get light out and we headed outside to watch the sunset. My friend was still in a precarious state and by this point, after being in the warm indoors for over an hour, the effects of the climb had truly worn off. All you could feel now was the cold. So cold, in fact, that I couldn’t enjoy the Kit-Kat which I’d carried up the mountain, specifically to eat at the summit. My optimism went from, ‘Yay, sunrise time,’ to ‘When the fuck is the sun going to come up?’ in the space of about three and a half minutes. My friend took a seat on the edge of the mountain, whilst I moved around the summit, desperately trying to keep warm. The volcanic crater below is both simultaneously impressive and terrifying and not something you want to stray too close to on the windy summit. As the sun began to rise, I returned to my friend who had made his own little addition to the mountain by re-releasing the curry-rice we had consumed before the climb. It’s always good to give back to nature. 

The sunrise was a beautiful sight but I was so cold that it was hard to appreciate in a full capacity. It was the first time you get a real sense of how high you actually are, however, and the mountain ranges you pass through on the way to Fuji are dwarfed in comparison. I could see a small mountain I’d climbed four months earlier with my girlfriend to get a good view of Fuji itself and it was like a pimple on the body of the world. Fuji is, well, something else. We began our descent about fifteen minutes after sunrise due to it being fucking baltic and my friend very quickly recovered as we began to descend. The views were wonderful for the first 25 minutes until the descent became potentially the most boring thing I’ve ever done in my life. Two and a half hours descending a path that is both repetitive and slightly too hard on the knees to be comfortable was so monotonous. By the time I got to the bottom I was thoroughly miserable, both due to tiredness and sheer boredom and felt sorry for my companion who had to put up with my foul mood. 

Above: The stunning sunrise and other climbers observing the view.

Below: Waiting for my wonderful cup noodle in a climbers hut at Fuji’s tenth station.

Having a well deserved lie down on a very cold mountain top.

Would I climb Fuji again? The short answer is, I don’t know. Whilst it wasn’t particularly difficult, the cold does really hamper your enjoyment of the experience. Only if I stayed in a hut and could appreciate Fuji’s enormity and views during the day, would I consider doing it again. Climbing overnight was less congested but I could honestly see shit. The feeling of elation and adrenaline I experienced on the final moments before and after reaching the summit though, is something I’ll never forget. I flash-backed to that interview room all those years ago, accomplished in the knowledge that I’d achieved one of the biggest goals I’d ever set myself. But for now, it’s sayonara Fuji!

See more pictures below!

Standing in front of Fuji’s imperious crater. Below was as close as I was willing to get, though.

What looked like a moderate sized mountain range on the journey in are made to look minuscule in comparison to Fuji in the sunrise below. 

Climbers navigating the summit (above) and the start of the descent (below). I’ve seen worse views, I guess.

[glittership]

Episode #40 - Fiction by Nicky Drayden and Pear Nuallak

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Episode 40 is part of the Spring 2017 issue!

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    She Shines Like a Moon

by Pear Nuallak

  It’s cold in London but you glow with warmth. You travel limbless and limned from your core, throat crossed with black silk just as it was in your first days. Yes, you were naked then, washed clean in monsoons, dried by storm winds. When was the last time your sly hunt was wreathed in rice flowers? Do you recall how dtaan-tree fronds stroked your secret self as you rose, star-bound?

  [Full transcript after the cut.]

  Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 40 for May 23, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing these stories with you.

  Today we have two reprints, “She Shines Like A Moon” by Pear Nuallak and “The Simplest Equation” by Nicky Drayden.

  Pear Nuallak is a writer and illustrator whose work has appeared in Interfictions, Unlikely Academia, and The Future Fire. Born in London and raised by Bangkokian artists, they studied History of Art jointly at SOAS and UCL, specializing in Thai art. Thai and British recipes appear semi-regularly on their food blog, The Furious Pear Pie, and they have an upcoming illustration this summer in Lackington’s magazine.

Nicky Drayden is a Systems Analyst who dabbles in prose when she’s not buried in code. She resides in Austin, Texas where being weird is highly encouraged, if not required. Her debut novel The Prey of Gods is forthcoming from Harper Voyager this summer, set in a futuristic South Africa brimming with demigods, robots, and hallucinogenic hijinks.

    She Shines Like a Moon

by Pear Nuallak

  It’s cold in London but you glow with warmth. You travel limbless and limned from your core, throat crossed with black silk just as it was in your first days. Yes, you were naked then, washed clean in monsoons, dried by storm winds. When was the last time your sly hunt was wreathed in rice flowers? Do you recall how dtaan-tree fronds stroked your secret self as you rose, star-bound?

Now your London home shivers you into clothes. A length of black at your neck doesn’t suffice; you add to old habits—night journeys sensibly hatted, the frank, coiled shapes below your neck wrapped in silk layered with batting and wool, each piece hand-made by the wearer herself. No other clothier would believe your particular sensitivities; only krasue know krasue.

(You make a fine new flying outfit each season. You like having things, you’re the lord and lady of things.)

London’s cross-hatched with forgotten waterways, the Krungthep of the Occident, murky and decadent. The Heath hides the Fleet in its hills, earth over arteries water-fat; it surfaces as a rivulet, gleams and whispers and winks knuckle high in leaf-lined silt before it talks away, louder and deeper into the festering heart of the city, but you drink it here, the source.

The tumulus field brings food best savoured like an egg with bael-sap yolk—slowly, thoughtfully, the red of it so rich on your tongue after eating bland pale without. In the viaduct pond you dump his fixie and clean your face.

After the meal you play with foxes. Your city friends have great thumping tails, on hind legs they yelp delightedly.

(When you first heard sharp cries in the hills you thought it was another krasue. Foxes came instead, sniffed you wonderingly, ears flicking. You didn’t find each other appetising in the least.

Their company is brief, precious: city foxes live a year each.)

You peer into the Hollow Oak. When you were new here you asked your first fox friend, lovely old Chalk Scrag, if this was their den.

No, friend, no—my burrow smells like forest all dark and close, she says. This smells like witch. One day I will show you the best smells of my home, yes, yes, but not that witch tree, no; that is hers to show.

You wonder if she’s shy. You think about whether she’s a person who also knows what it’s like to be apart from others. Under the bark and earth there’s always the smell of black tea and sugared fruit, sometimes cake, sometimes curry.

That one’s never come out, says Liquorice Grin, who counts Chalk Scrag as eightieth great-grandparent. She is busy. Leaves us gifts, but never comes out to play with us like you do, friend.

Four score years you’ve hunted here and no corner of Heath is unexplored but this. (You’re shy, too.)

Before setting off home, you linger by the Oak as you always do.

She is shy, she is busy, but you can ask.

So for a change, tonight you say, “Your home smells wonderful,” into the hollow. Your eerie heart beats strong as you fly home.

Strong teeth and supple tongue open the night-hatch to your flat. You shed your flying clothes and look at yourself on the bed; in your own light you consider the soft limbs, the clean red hollow between your shoulders. What are you truly hungry for?

You enfold your secret self with a body that accepts you neatly and completely.

The black silk remains at your throat.

It is good to lay your head on the pillow.

In the morning your longer self stretches her limbs, washes, thinks about being ‘she’ as she pulls on a turquoise jumper, so good on skin the colour of tamarind flesh, a long skirt in pig’s blood, Malvolio tights, black boots laced up.

Before a mirror she wanders her hands over the pleasing stubble on the back and sides of her head, dressing the length on top into a sleek pompadour.

(Your grandmothers’ hairstyle is now subculture fashionable but you wear it anyway, you’re the age of two grandmothers together and want to remember what you had.)

The morning walk to the cafe brings smells from the flats: running water and clean skin, burnt toast, bacon fat sizzling, hot dusty radiators. There’s strange comfort in witnessing others’ routines.

Coffee is taken quickly before the man with a rough-haired jack comes for his—tame dogs never like you, the cafe’s too small for a scene.

For two decades you’ve been teaching. You like interaction structured around things you know and love, boundaries defined. Every 5 years you make yourself move; you enjoy this while you can.

Knitting today. To make the cowl you’ve planned, students discard needles and knit like this: thick yarn knotted onto wrists, loops drawn over fists, wool on skin, weaving on flesh. Your students’ concentration is your delight; it staves the hunger somewhat.

Once you tended silkworms and cotton bolls, had a great loom under the belly of your stilt house; your family once wore the fabric you grew, span, wove.

Now it’s only you, the narrowness of your single self.

(But the cowls will warm your students, so this will do.)

That evening returns you to your alma mater. Female Abjection and the Monstrous Feminine in Thai Cinema, the email said. Open to all. It’s sure to be diverting.

You’ve not yet been to the Bloomsbury buildings—when you studied languages, it was the School of Oriental Studies at 2 Finsbury Circus and you were a man hatted and trousered, as it sometimes suits your fancy. The institution’s re-invented itself: cosmopolitan, international, politically active, inclusive.  (Coy about its hand in training Empire: to control a people you know their tongues, their hearts.)

You sit and are lectured on a self Othered through others’ eyes.  Except for one Thai man, the lecturer cites theorists and academics like her, white and Western.

She says, “There are no feminists in Thailand—Thai women don’t really identify as feminists; it’s just not done. People talk about South-East Asian women having power and ownership, but…” she shrugs.

(It’s never occurred to the lecturer to ask what a Thai woman thinks of herself, let alone a krasue’s view of her own condition.)

You think of spitting in her tea. Wouldn’t make much difference to the taste; your lips are primed. But her words will survive a thousand years: she’s adding to the sum of human knowledge. She doesn’t need your curse—no, it wouldn’t make much difference at all.

There is loyalty, still, though you’ve been here so long and it’s your countrywomen who fear you most, who have always kept their distance from you, who would reject and destroy and silence you instantly if they knew your tastes.

But you were made by them. You are their monster. It’s hard to believe others would believe you. The hunger you’ve mastered, mostly, but grieving anger and loneliness thunders through your whole interior.

You suck your teeth and go home, fill yourself with sweet warm rice. A collection on your kitchen shelves: rice scraped white, rice left red or brown or black, rice so delicious wives forget husbands.

(Is it good or bad you’ve only found husband-forgetting rice? Perhaps men are more easily forgotten by wives. You’ve no inclination for husbands: the sum of your knowledge on this subject is that they’re common.)

Once your fork and spoon are closed, an invitation appears, curling hand tracing bright in the air:

You are invited to

A Midnight Cake Tasting

for the delight of the Witch Ambrosia

at the Hollow Oak, Hampstead Heath

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Perhaps she’s only inviting you out of kindness, politeness, obligation. Perhaps she won’t be there. Perhaps this is a trick. But she’s asked, and you accept.

You go as yourself, your honest, smallest self. When the clock strikes the hour you hover, unsure.

“Come in, love, I’ve been waiting so long,” says Ambrosia.

The witch leads you in, steps winding like shell chambers into the earth. Her home smells like a home should, is full of things neatly kept, herbs bunched, cables sorted. In the lamp light you see her fine umber self dressed in a gown of fresh plum, face framed with raincloud hair in a thousand braids. You know at once she is splendid.

“Oh, is that for me?” she says as you give her a rich saffron scarf. Thanks is a gentle touch to your cheek.

The table is spread. Together you enjoy black rum cake and rose-bright sorrel, dark fruits wondrously spiced.

You begin with, “I thought I’d say hello.”

“So did I,” says Ambrosia, “it was about time.”

“Will you come with me tonight?” (why are you so awkward, what could she possibly—)

“I was thinking you’d never ask,” she smiles.

Up above, Liquorice Grin says, Ah, you’ve brought a new lovely friend.

You dance together, fox fur coppered in ghost light. Ambrosia shines like a moon. Your heart shouts. You are full up of her.

  END

    The Simplest Equation

by Nicky Drayden

  I’m doodling in the margins of my Math 220 syllabus when she walks into the classroom like a shadow, like a nothing, like an oil slick with pigtails. She scans the empty seats in the most calculating manner and I shudder when she spots the one next to me. Her knees bend all the wrong ways in her jeans as she walks up my aisle, and her head is a near perfect ellipsoid that could’ve fallen out of any geometry primer. She sets her backpack on the floor between us, then maneuvers into the chair with the grace of a lame giraffe.

“I hope I’m in the right place,” she says as she finally settles—her English impeccable, though she exhales the words more than speaks them, typical of her kind. “Partial Differential Equations?”

I nod, trying not to notice all those rows of tiny pointed white teeth crammed into her mouth, but then she smiles and it becomes impossible not to. I swallow hard, somehow managing to extend my hand.

“I’m Mariah,” I say, my eyes tracing along the brown of my skin until it intersects the blue-black of hers.

“Kwalla,” she says. “Two syllables. Not like the bear.”

I force a laugh. It comes out easier than expected.

“Nice doodle,” she says, looking at the squares and swirls and meandering lines. “Very symmetrical.”

“Mmm…” I purse my lips and cock my head, then with a single tap on the screen, I reset my syllabus to its virginal form.

She’s not the first Ahkellan I’ve met. There are a couple hundred here on campus. They come to Stanford when they can’t get into Vrinchor Academy or Byshe, or any of the other prestigious schools in their system. Bring us your next best brightest, has become our new school motto. Yale, Harvard, and the other Ivy League schools split a couple dozen Ahkellans between them, but California’s consistent temperatures are much more appealing to a race that goes into involuntary stasis when the weather dips below forty-three degrees.

After brief introductions, Professor Gopal drones on about semilinear equations. I listen and take notes attentively, afraid to let anything slip past me. I used to love math. Now it’s the bane of my existence, always more of the same lifeless problems. But I’ve got too many credits and too little money to think about changing majors now. So I buckle down and frequently pull all-nighters just to squeak by with Bs.

I glance over at Kwalla who’s busy solving problem sets on her notebook, two chapters ahead of the professor already. This class is probably a joke to her, just a way to rack up a few credits before applying for an interstellar transfer. But she seems pleasant enough, and none of the other Ahkellans I’ve met have ever shown anything that resembled a sense of humor, or an appreciation for art for that matter.

“Hey,” I whisper, keeping the resentment out of my voice. “You looking for a study partner?”

Kwalla nods, then smiles at me again. I desperately resist the urge to protect my soft spots.

    Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, we meet at Meyer Library, hustling through the stacks for table space among towers of old, dusty books. When my grades slip, we add another study session Saturday afternoons in her dorm room. It smells vaguely of sandalwood, and the paneled doors of her closet are neatly lined with posters of angst-ridden Ahkellans. Their slick, black faces are dour and their postures nonchalant—reminiscent of late twenty-first century brood bands, stuff my parents used to listen to.

We sit cross-legged on her bed… well, I sit cross-legged, and she sits in some variation of the lotus position that teeters on an optical illusion with all those joints of hers. Our notebooks are spread out between us. Kwalla’s explaining Fourier transforms to me for the third time, and we’re both beyond frustrated. I try to listen, but my mind drifts, and before I know it I’ve created a doodle that spans half the page, covering the miniscule amount of calculations I’d started.

Kwalla sees and makes a purring sound I’ve come to recognize as mild irritation.

“Sorry,” I grumble. I lean back against the wall and stare out the window at her prized lake view of Lagunita. Students horseplay on its shore, blue-gray water lapping at their ankles. They laugh, living life and enjoying the “college experience,” while I’m cooped up in here, breathing stale circulated air and staring at integral curves until my eyes bleed.

I heave a sigh. “Maybe I should drop the class. Drop out of college. Drop off the face of the Earth while I’m at it.”

Kwalla smirks. “You’re depressed. Good.”

“Good?” I slam my notebook shut, turn away from her, and fume like a shuttle on its launch pad. Just when I was beginning to think she was a pretty decent person, or Ahkellan. Or whatever.

“Yes, it means you’re close to understanding the story of this equation. It’s a classic tale of love and loss. It’s meant to be depressing, yet beautiful at the same time.”

I roll my eyes as she resets to a clean page and starts the equation again. She works downward, shuffling constants and variables, swaying like a concert pianist. When she’s done, a single tear trickles down her cheek.

She glances up at me and notices that I’m crying, too. “You saw the story this time?” she asks with hopefulness in her voice.

I slowly shake my head, more confused now than ever. “Not even close. I was just trying to figure out how to tell my parents that I’ve wasted their hard-earned money and the last two and a half years of my life. I hate math.”

Kwalla recoils as if my mathematical slur negates her very existence. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Give me a break,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I might not get your ‘stories’ but you don’t get how incredibly hard this is for me. I wasn’t born a genius like you, solving proofs while still in the womb.”

From the grit in my words, I expect Kwalla to ask me to leave, but instead she lays a spindly hand on my knee.

“I’ve worked hard to get here, Mariah, but what you say is partially true. Math is our first language, and we crave it when we’re born like you crave your mother’s milk. It is our first friend. Our first love. Our first everything.” Kwalla pauses, face riddled with uncertainty, then draws a black pouch from her backpack. She unties the drawstring and slips a large, tear-shaped crystal into the palm of her hand. Hundreds of facets speckle the ceiling with light, so beautiful. “I’ve never shared this with anyone,” she says timidly.

“It’s amazing…”

“I haven’t even started yet,” she says with a laugh, then leans close so I can get a better look. Foreign symbols are etched into each cut side of the crystal. “It’s a yussalun, a calling piece. It’s similar to your auditory instruments, except… well, it’s probably easier just to show you.”

Kwalla holds the piece up in front of her like a trumpet, but several inches away from her mouth. Her thin fingers tap across the facets and the air above the piece crystallizes into an intricate fractal pattern, a living snowflake that blooms sideways and then stretches for the ceiling with all its might. Buds gracefully unfurl to the rhythm of an inaudible beat, stirring up a sense of wonder within me. Then the ice crystals slow, becoming thinner and more delicate until they peter out with a hopelessness that fills me with inexplicable grief.

“That was the equation we’ve been working on,” she says after we’ve both had a chance to catch our breath. “Now do you see?”

I nod, feeling wounded and vulnerable. There’s a terrible rawness inside my chest that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and yet I crave more. I need more. “Do another,” I whisper.

So she shares her favorite stories with me, and together we sit pensive for mysteries, hold our breath for thrillers, and giggle at the titillation of cheap romance—each fractal evoking an emotion, pure and intense and untamed. After the sun no longer shines through her window, each fractal leaves a slight chill in the air, so we slip halfway under the covers and Kwalla shares with me a fractal with a perfect heart at its base that dazes me with childlike joy—an equation simple enough to solve itself. Then we throw the covers over our heads and I can��t tell where I end and she begins, so I giggle and Kwalla giggles, then she laughs, and I laugh.

    Our professor posts the scores to our midterm exam outside the classroom door. With great trepidation, I type in the last four digits of my student ID and the page slowly scrolls down, pointlessly melodramatic. My finger shakes as I trace my way across the screen over failure and mediocrity and more failure until I reach the grade for last week’s exam. My chest explodes with delight when I see the 98.5.

I’m so giddy I can barely stay seated as I wait for Kwalla to arrive. Thanks to her, I’ve rediscovered my passion for math. I busy myself solving practice problems that tell tales of triumph in the face of adversity. I’ll pick the best one and share it with Kwalla tonight. In these last couple weeks, she’s taught me how to play her yussalun, turning water molecules in the air into icy fractals the size of a toy poodle, though mine pale in comparison to hers. The bluntness of my fingertips makes it difficult to tap the right facets, but what I lack in accuracy I make up for in perseverance. I’ve caused more than my fair share of fractals to wilt, however, when I get it right, math and story collide, forming something exponentially more magnificent than the sum of its parts.

Her seat is still empty. I wait as long as I can stand it, then ditch class a few minutes into Professor Gopal’s lecture. The phone rings and rings as I race to Kwalla’s dorm. Through her door, I can hear her speaking in an Ahkellan dialect sounding something like a rooster trying to fog up a mirror. A deeper voice follows with the tin ring of an IVT, an instantaneous voice transmission, cheapest way to call intragalaxy. Against my better judgment, I knock softly. Kwalla answers with an uncontainable smile, and nods for me to have a seat at her desk.

Her conversation stretches on for another ten minutes, and as she paces barefoot across the blue carpet, I admire all the ways her legs bend from beneath her skirt, and how the fluorescent light overhead glints on her skin—like iridescent rainbows set adrift across the night’s sky.

“I can’t believe it!” she shrills after she finally disconnects. “It couldn’t be more perfect! I’ve been accepted, Mariah. I’m going to Byshe!”

“That’s wonderful!” I say, and despite the rip in my heart, I really mean it.

Getting into Byshe is worse odds than matching all the balls in the Bippho Trans-Galactic pick-twelve. Optimism has never been my strong suit, but maybe if I study hard and get my grades up, I could apply to Byshe next year. Kwalla could tutor me the rest of this semester and maybe even a few weeks into the summer. I nod to myself, impervious to the laws of probability and blissfully ignoring the fact that I can barely afford out-of-state tuition, much less out of solar system.

“I’ve got some news, too,” I say.

Kwalla sits down next to me, and her eyes get wide and glassy. “You passed!”

“Nu-uh. I nearly aced it!”

“This calls for a celebration!” She pulls her yussalun out from its pouch and hands it to me. “Here, you play something nice while I pack.” Her voice trails off at the end, a whirlwind of excitement deflated by a sudden prick from reality.

“Pack?”

“If I don’t catch the next shuttle up …” Kwalla says, voice pitched high and words running together as she tries to stitch together some sort of excuse for wanting to get the hell out of here. I don’t blame her, not with the life she has waiting for her across the stars. Kwalla tilts her head forward, and after a weighty silence, she leans against my shoulder. “I’m leaving for Byshe in the morning.”

    I can’t let her go without showing her how I feel, so after she’s fallen asleep, I slip out of bed and onto a spot on the floor where moonlight from her window falls across my dimly backlit notebook. I work through the whole night, scribbling down the story of us, the fun we’ve had in our short time together, and all the could-have-beens for our future. It becomes unwieldy, our equation, and even with the tiniest font, it still won’t fit on one screen. By the time I finish, my fingers are cramped, my brain is tight, and I can barely see straight. But the story is magnificent, engrossing, tragic.

Careful not to wake her too soon, I cradle the yussalun in my hands and prepare to share. Our story takes nearly thirty minutes to play, and when I’m done, I sit back and let it expand into the room. Two concentric buds sleepily emerge and form a base, then sprout three arms each, spiny like a starfish. They curl and coil, each arm to the beat of its own drummer. I marvel at the beginnings of their different stories, and my heart flutters as I try to keep up with them simultaneously.

At a meter high, I start to rouse Kwalla so she can see it as the first bits of sunlight shimmer across the fractal’s crystalline surface, but just as I lay a soft hand on Kwalla’s shoulder, the fractal begins to wilt. It steals my breath as I watch, my mind churning over the equation, wondering if I’d made a bad calculation or misplayed a note. But I couldn’t have made a mistake, not on something this important.

All at once, the arms spiral up with the grace and might of a dancer, recursive shapes predictable yet mesmerizing. My creation reaches for the ceiling, and I grin in anticipation of the final blossom, but the fractal is thickening like an insatiable sapling and not tapering into delicate buds. I exhale and my breath lingers in the air, coldness striking through my nightshirt as I realize this thing is far from stopping.

“Kwalla!” I scream, lips cracked from the moisture being sucked from the air.

She doesn’t respond and I shake her. Kwalla stirs for a moment, as if trying to fight through impending stasis, but then she goes still.

I take a swing at the fractal with her desk chair, smashing off one of the frosty tendrils, but it grows back with a vengeance until all is symmetrical again. Logic gives way to adrenaline and I scoop Kwalla’s body up into my arms.

“Fire!” I say, over and over through the hallways at the top of my lungs, figuring it will draw more attention than yelling “fractal!”

Someone pulls the alarm, and we all scatter outside and across the street. I rub warmth back into Kwalla’s limbs as onlookers wait for signs of smoke and flames. Of course they never come, and when rumors start circulating about a prank, I think that maybe I’d overreacted. An explosion of terra cotta tiles silences those thoughts as the fractal pierces the roof of Kwalla’s dormitory. Exposed to the night air and the moisture from the nearby lake, the fractal accelerates, busting brick and shattering glass. It’s odd, but no one panics or frets over lost possessions. We just watch, completely captivated.

The fractal doesn’t slow until it’s demolished both wings of Lagunita Court and the adjacent parking lot, and even then, it’s not quite finished. A single thin stalk stretches up for the stars, and it reaches, reaches, reaches—wispy recursions sprouting like a vine on its way to the stratosphere. With some effort, I pull my gaze away and watch the crowd. There’s not a dry eye to be found, including Kwalla’s, her body cradled comfortably against mine.

“I had no idea,” she exhales weakly, “…that you felt so deeply. It’s the most incredible story I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll miss you,” I say before she has a chance to make well-meaning promises we both know it’d be impossible to keep. I savor this moment, because in a few hours, she’ll be on a plane to Houston, just one small step on her long journey home.

    There’s a flurry of media coverage and threats of my expulsion, but the Board of Trustees changes its tune when news of the fractal reaches Ahkel and impresses even their most renowned intellectuals. Suddenly I’m no longer a disgraceful delinquent, but one of Stanford’s brightest scholars, and any blemishes on my academic record are written off as me being a genius misunderstood in my own time. I laugh at their antics. At least it distracts me long enough for the numbness inside me to fade.

A week later, my phone hums in my pocket while I’m doodling in Professor Gopal’s class. I fish it out so I can check the caller ID. My heart slips to my toes when I see it’s an IVT number, and I scramble out of the classroom on rubbery legs.

“Hello?” I say into my phone. “Hello?” I say again, harder this time, as if it’ll get my words across subspace faster. There’s only a slight time dilation, but the seconds drag on like days. I hang onto the sounds of rustling static, waiting for Kwalla’s voice.

Only it’s not Kwalla. My disappointment is short lived, however, when the caller identifies herself as the dean of the Mathematics department at Vrinchor Academy. She says she’s eager for the opportunity to take a closer look at how I derived my equations, and that if I’m interested, there’s a spot for me in the upcoming school year, full scholarship. I don’t bother holding back my elation, and even though a billion miles separate us, I’m sure the dean’s ear will be ringing for days.

I return to class and respectfully gather my belongings, though my classmates couldn’t have missed my screams. I nod at Professor Gopal, and he smiles knowingly. I can’t believe I’ll be living a dream, studying under the best minds in the galaxy, devouring math in all its forms. And of course it doesn’t hurt that I’ll be a quick shuttle’s ride from Kwalla, just two planets away.

I race across campus, cutting through manicured lawns, dodging traffic, and pushing myself through the knot of tourists gathered in front of our fractal. I fall to my knees, chest heaving and smiling wider than any sane person ought to. My warmed skin braces me against the deep chill the fractal emits. Despite my best efforts not to look like a complete fool, I still draw stares and the attention of a camera lens or two.

From the corner of my eye, I swear I see our fractal moving. Changing. Of course that’s impossible after all this time—probably just an odd reflection of sunlight or the shadow of a passing cloud. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a date with destiny tonight: a passport to find, flights to book, a whole planet to say goodbye to and above all, I’ve got a new story that’s itching to be told.

  END

    “She Shines Like a Moon” was originally published in Lackington’s and is copyright Pear Nuallak, 2015.

“The Simplest Equation” was originally published in Space and Time Magazine and is copyright Nicky Drayden 2014.

This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.

You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes.

Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon with a poem by Joanne Rixon, and an original story by A.C. Buchanan.

Episode #40 – Fiction by Nicky Drayden and Pear Nuallak was originally published on GlitterShip

[garkgatiss]

John’s Rejected Alibis

The case montage at the beginning is Sherlock test-driving alibis for John’s murder of Mary. Sherlock uses his case-solving skills to find an alibi for John that will stand up to the full force of his deductive powers, discarding a bunch of ideas along the way.

This is the most morbid thing I’ve ever theorized... sorry in advance. 

1. Dusty Death

I won’t name the client out of respect but she came to us because of her late husband. His body was recovered from the sea near Falmouth...

“He drowned, Mr. Holmes. That’s what we thought. But then they opened up his lungs: SAND.”

A weak first attempt at an alibi. Can’t fake a drowning, of course. “Superficial.”

>>> Bonus subtext for John and Mary appearing to love each other (water), when really there was only sand.

>>> Bonus bonus subtext for “dust,” which is made of “people,” which means “John”...

2. Mr. Hatherley

Mr. Hatherley came straight round to Baker Street in a terrible state. He was white as a sheet and bleeding from an awful wound in his hand. Exactly how he came by this wound was at first confusing...

This is the worst one... This is John, showing up at Baker Street out of the blue after murdering Mary and approaching Sherlock for help. 

Sherlock is blindsided... unless that’s all part of the alibi.

“It’s the wrong thumb.” 

John is a lefty - something about the alibi won’t work because the wound is on the wrong hand.

>>> Alternatively, to pull from The Ballad of the Were-Wolf by (real-life Victorian poet) Rosamund Marriott Watson, it’s Mary who arrives with an awful wound in her hand, “Oh, why is your cheek sae wan, gudewife?” with a confusing explanation of the circumstances in which she received it...

>>> And, uh, infinite bonus if the knife that Sherlock stabs into the mantle at the very beginning of the montage is Chekhov’s Gun???

3. The Duplicate Man

How could Dennis Parkinson be in two places at the same time? And murdered in one of them?

“It’s never twins.”

I’m reading this as a nod to the entire plot of TAB. Is John framed for killing Mary, while he simultaneously has evidence that she lives? (Is “a pre-recorded video intended to be delivered posthumously” the way they’re explaining away this evidence?)

4. The Circus Torso

A limbless body found decomposing inside a trunk in left luggage office in Waterloo station couldn’t be identified...

So carving her up and stashing her in Waterloo station (SORRY! IT’S NOT ME, IT’S THE SHOW) won’t work; you could still find evidence of Mary’s secret tattoo in the lymph nodes under the armpit. Identifying Mary’s body in this scenario still leads right back to John.

5. The Canary Trainer

Andrew Wilson was an unusual man with an unusual hobby. He seemed to had no connection with the man whose life was so abruptly ended one freezing night in November...

His next idea is to invent someone with no connection to Mary to supposedly have killed her.

“Sherlock, you can’t go on spinning plates like this.”

John tries to rein him in: it’s too fancy, too complex. Only lies have detail?

6. The Cardiac Arrest

Joel Fentiman was found strangled in the bedsit he shared with his brother. They had always got on well and there was no sign that this situation had changed...

John actually killed Mary in their own home. A home Sherlock has to imagine for the purposes of fabricating this alibi, because he has never been there. 

But of course it couldn’t have been John who did it, because John and Mary love each other. Everyone knows that! 

Eh, not a particularly strong alibi, but it was worth playing out.

“The heart medication you’re taking is known to cause bouts of amnesia.”

“Yes, I think so... why?”

“Because the fingerprints on your brother’s neck are your own.”

We see John take Mary’s carotid pulse in the aquarium and leave fingerprints of blood there. These fingerprints must be real. This means Sherlock has to invent a story where John is present at Mary’s death - otherwise the fingerprints are a giveaway. 

>>> Bonus subtext for “heart medication” causing bouts of amnesia, i.e. Sherlock erasing things from his mind palace that cause sentiment (things like Redbeard?)... or Sherlock erasing things because of sentiment... like Mary being evil. No wonder Sherlock thought Mary and John “had always got on well and there was no sign that this situation had changed”!

The Jellyfish

... we could never have known there was a potential assassin lurking close by. An assassin who turned out to be...

“A jellyfish.”

“I know.”

“You can’t arrest a jellyfish.”

“You can try.”

“We did try.”

This is what they pick, what we see in the episode at the aquarium. The fish story. They worked it all through, and even IF you figured out that the wound in her chest is an exit wound and Vivian Norbury could not have shot her from where she was supposedly positioned, you can’t arrest a jellyfish.

Unfortunately, with the MP’s son who died in his car, Sherlock’s alibi betrays the fact that Mary died a week before the “extremely serendipitous flash explosion” that was meant to have killed her in his story.

Unfortunately, the holes in this alibi, as we were told in HLV as Sherlock deduces his own gunshot, include:

Where is the bullet?

The glass should have shattered.

The glass should have shattered. 

THE GLASS SHOULD HAVE SHATTERED.

No one was shot in the aquarium. The whole aquarium scene is a lie; the fish are the fish story. Like the MP’s son, Mary actually died a week earlier. The showdown in the aquarium is the exploding car: it cleverly conceals the fact that she was already dead. The fact that the aquarium glass doesn’t shatter is the giveaway.

[catachan-jungle-fighter]

Redone Shard Wolf's Arc End

Shattered panted as he leaned against the side of the crater, the two remaining Sorcerers among the Shard Wolves with him, the cries of the men and women who he dragged with him into damnation sounding out across the night sky alongside the shouts and weapons fire of the Mad Wolves who hunted them alongside the countless allies the Council had made...

-

John pulls his Handaxe from his belt and plants it in a Shard Wolf's head as he rides past on the back of one of the Seventh Section's warbeast's, hopping off and using the corpse as a landing pad. He rolls off the body and flings his axe he had torn from the traitor's skull into another before yelling "TO THE HILT! KILL THEM ALL! DO NOT LET A SINGLE ONE SURVIVE!" The answering yells and shouts of his Wolves causing a smirk to rise on his face as he begins to jog deeper into the shattered remains of the traitor's camp.

-

Anna whimpered in a ball as the Mad Wolves rode past and cut down her comrades, the Harpoon that had speared her leg leaving her overwhelmed by sensations... yet when she lifted her head she saw gas masked figures surrounding her crater, everyone of them wearing Jungle Fighter garb.

She closes her eyes as the Flamer's those figures carried were ignited, and she was sent screaming into the depths of the warp by the flame that devoured her flesh and bone...

-

Henryk swings his Chainsword at the massive beasts the Cavalry Wolves rode past him, barely scratching the armor or the few exposed scales, before he is jerked into the air, his chainsword falling from suddenly nerve less hands, and as his eyes begin to close, his head tucks into his chest and he sees the twin lances that penetrated his chest and carried him...

-

Toxic giggles in a dark way as he shoots the traitors in their legs and arms, dragging them into a crater one by one before tossing a canister into the pit, a gurgled scream rising from the trapped traitors as they choke to death on their own organs... he then pulls another canister from his vest and tossing it into the pit which ignites the gas that he had used and incinerated them...

-

Sara smashes the skulls of any traitors that near her, the elderly former Arbites delivering crushing blows to those who were foolish to rush her, a stubber pistol Barking it's shots as she picked off others...

-

Jane continued hunting alongside her Purging Warpack, any traitor unfortunate enough to cross their path being burnt to ash by the group of pyromaniac's, Jane repeating the same phrase over and over "For Nox, The Fallen, and the Betrayed..."

-

Evra spins her Scythe in a intricate fashion, lopping the traitors arms off before she delivers a blow to the man's neck that decapitated him, the trail of limbless bodies behind her marking her path quite clearly to the Wolves who had fallen behind her dervish of death...

-

Quiet pops out of the shadows of the ruined camp, stabbing traitors and dragging them away, the sounds of their screams being used to draw in others to their deaths...

-

Iron and the Tree brother's made their way through the ruined camp easily, any enemy who made it past the withering fire of the two Ogryn's Ripper Guns, being beaten to death by Iron's augmented hands...

-

Tiv and Riv marched alongside Battle Servitors that wielded weapons constructed by the Bolt's specifications, the traitors that died by the weapons learning their false gods would fail to save them from a gruesome death...

-

As all the Wolves finally reached the center, Broken rises from the crater alongside the two Sorcerers...

The sorcerer's manage to attack once, the warp fire blast killing two of Jane's warpack before they are cut down by a wall of weapon's fire from a variety of sources...

-

The Eldar reveal themselves among the trees, the Mad Wolves who had gone to hunt the traitors down who had fled nodding in respect to the Xeno's who had dealt with those who had run, their mangled remains decorating the ground...

-

Broken begins to laugh madly before he says "let bygones be bygones? I'll praise the Corpse on his fancy chair three times a da-" his hand barely raising his corrupted Devil's Claw in time to stop the over hand strike from John, the normally smiling and boastful man literally growling as he goes into a strange stance...

-

John let's the trance of the Blades take him, the stance he takes being a mixture between the two styles he practiced, and he begins to Dance...

To John it seemed as if the world had faded, his blades rising and falling in slow motion against the Bastard who harmed his daughter, each strike of his weapons leaving a mark on his foe...

-

Broken screamed in pain as he was hacked apart by the man who he had thought he could bait into recklessness...

He screamed louder as one of the blades took his hand off at the wrist, then again as his other hand joined the fallen...

-

The Wolves watched on in Silence as the Sixth Councilor slowly peels the traitor apart, each blow wounding the traitor heavily but not killing him...

-

Evra walks forward as John's Dance comes to a stop, Broken barely recognizable as a human under his wounds, and before he can even attempt to speak her Scythe had taken his head off at his neck...

-

John pants as he turns to Jane "Gather as many fuckers as you need, grab Melta's, Flamer's, everything that can burn the area and scorch this fucking place till we can see it from space..."

-

And so, the Shard Wolves died one by one... alone and frightened, their prayers unanswered as they were hunted like animals by the entire force of the Mad Wolves...

Broken died, his body cut to pieces by John in a Blade Dancer's trance, before his head was taken by Evra for sending her only daughter into a coma...

The warp tear remains were sealed by a mass of Psyker's working in tandem with a force of Blanks...

The Eldar aided the Wolves in hunting down those traitors who fled into the trees, soon being regarded as honored allies of the Mad Wolves...

The Space Marines who joined the fight had led strikes against the hardest fronts of the traitorous Wolves, the Wolf Priest and Bloodclaw's claiming the Honor of slaying a group of Possessed...

Madame Scyla, a former Assassin turned Healer with the aid of the Wolves, sent her best killers to the Wolves aid, and they returned with stories that reignited that fire in her belly...

The other scattered forces who had joined the fight were rewarded and given various rewards for their aid, the greatest reward going to the Inquisitor who supplied a Exterminatus device to use after everyone was extracted from the world... her reward being several dozen frozen containers of Geneseed the Wolves have recovered over their time of service alongside the weapons and armor of several dozen chapters that had disappeared or thought dead...

Hirex was stuck telling the Inquisition exactly where he had been for the last 40 years, and why exactly he went AWOL...

And the Geist's prepared to return to their Homeworld alongside the Wolves of Catachan, after they slain the traitorous forces led by a madman...