#Balderdash-core

[helix-science]

At this point, the signal blocker is turned completely off. However the drone hasn't moved, meaning it's been shut down in some way. Cora isn't in the medbay, so they haven't transferred their memory over yet.

((I'll let people involved with the fight decide if its visibly broken, i wasn't online so idk how bad the medbay is.

[sepublic]

I don’t think the time loop devalues Luz not having a natural destiny as established in Witches before Wizards, because there’s no higher power deciding what Luz’s life and presence means for her; There’s no actual God designing Luz as a savior before she’s born, it’s just the laws of physics preventing a paradox. A Puritan delusional about predestination tells Luz that it’s her ‘destiny’ to meet him, but she dismisses this as balderdash, which seems to me a deliberate acknowledgment by the writers.

Luz’s lesson in the second episode was that she wasn’t going to have an empowering good destiny that would give her everything she wanted like she hoped for; Luz would have to take agency to make people like her instead of waiting to be told she’s special. That still happened! Similarly, King wanted to have been special, decided he didn’t care for that, only to be a Titan after all and find misery in the fact.

And the time loop for Luz was one of the worst, most traumatic revelations she’s ever had, it’s a core factor into her suicidal depression, motivates her into almost sacrificing her dream and happiness out of guilt, the exact opposite of justifying it. It’s something Luz has to build herself back up from, in spite of not because. There’s nuance and irony. Because if Luz’s destiny as defined by Belos is to help him hunt witches by bringing him to the Collector, Luz defies this bad destiny by saving the isles instead.

Because Luz decides what her destiny is; Luz decides what she’s here in the isles for, it’s what Eda tells her when explaining that she’s no chosen one, in the same speech where Luz decides to make her fantasy happen instead of waiting for it to be decided by another. She literally made her destiny by starting the time loop with Lilith.

Luz has to be her own kind of witch, she has to once more choose for herself whether to stay or leave even after the loop, when she’s free of it. The Titan is just some dude can’t decide for Luz if she accepts his power and becomes the chosen one she worked to become, she has to choose and keep choosing.

Even the time loop, as Luz chooses to engage with it, goes against what Belos claims she’s meant for; Luz is also choosing to help and uplift a witch that Belos hates, and when the conflict is done, uses her last hours in the past to help Lilith self-actualize. It’s not her cursed fate to destroy everything she touches in both the isles and the human world, Luz has done so much more good, and the good is something she chose to do, something she helped make happen in spite of the bad, with those who accepted her help.

Luz coming across the Portal was fate; Not in the sense that it was all planned out by some higher power. But that it’s coincidence, and it’s something Luz chooses to accept and make use of in her own way, for her own purposes. After fulfilling the time loop and having no more obligations to temporal physics, Luz still chose to go back, saving the isles not just once but a second time.

The ending of Elsewhere and Elsewhen is Lilith the witch reassuring Luz that she doesn’t need to emulate Philip the human to do what he does; Lilith being more correct than she imagined, because that human is the system Luz was trying to avoid following in the first place. She doesn’t need to be like Belos, believing God has a destiny for her, to be special. Belos was wrong, Luz did not arrive to play the role set out for her, she’s the disruptor she’s always been, rebelling against an ancestor of the system.

Because people decide, people assign meaning, people choose, there is no higher power to attribute things towards. It’s just people and coincidence, you determine but not in a Libertarian kind of way because everyone needs opportunities and chances, to be better or to be a witch, these are things that should also be given and they don’t have to pull themselves up by their bootstraps to receive. But they do have to accept.

[avdlwriting]

Our marvelous little place right there, there! Right here, where I, Sir Balderdash, stand and have stood for all my life!

Ah, the Woods!

If you are reading this, it is very likely that you are here as well, seeing as the Woods stretch over and over our entire little globe— so much so, that that's actually the name of our little globe: the Woods!

There's no borders, there's no real cities, and you'll be hard pressed to find a good, solid road anywhere. Every large-scaled attempt at civilization has only provided nourishment for the trees and bushes, which keep on growing in spite of some people's desire to be rid of them once and for all.

It's unknown how the Woods decide what's worth keeping and what only serves as soil. Some scholars state that it has a mind of its own, and that the trees and bushes are its many bodies. The Woods are, however, perfectly alright with being used for their, well, wood and leaves, as seen by the various smaller settlements across the world, primarily inhabited by long-running families that have existed long before the Woods started consuming everything in sight.

However, whenever someone uses too much of the wood provided, vines will start to pop up, dragging whatever's created into the earth alongside the unlucky fellow who so much as tried to make something. It's said that daisies bloom above these graves, and only above these graves.

The Woods often quake and tremble heavily as trees rearrange themselves. Most citizens are constantly prepared for this to happen.

Grassy mountains and rivers serve as landmarks for the Woods' citizens. There's no other way to tell how you're going, seeing as the greenery constantly moves, making it a real maze to navigate.

Some towns, like, for example, my little homeplace of Sunshine's Burrow, manage to stay alive by building their house in holes in the ground with twigs and sticks that naturally fall off the trees, or with the help of clay and rocks. These houses tend to be very cold, which is why most of its inhabitants have evolved to grow fur or thicker skin.

HOUSING

The towns don't tend to grow very far. Houses will mysteriously collapse once a certain threshold is reached, and the various quakes that plague the planet seem to exclusively target bigger settlements and places where the woods are naturally more sparse.

I've recently received a letter from my mother back in my hometown that they've started to experiment with making sacrifices to the soil, however, I've yet to hear whether it's actually working.

Recently, there's been word of a large town which doesn't seem to collapse no matter how big it grows. There's talk of this prince who supposedly talks to the world beneath him.

Personally, I think it's all fables. I suppose I'll know if I see it for myself.

EARTHQUAKES

The only things certain in life are Death and the Woods' many, many earthquakes. Seriously! The earth rumbles and grumbles at any given circumstance. Wanderers are advised to constantly be wary, before they accidentally tumble into a river or off a cliff.

The town's teacher, who was also my great aunt Hilga Nimbletoes, once told me that it's because the core of the Woods, all the way down its many, many roots, is fragile yet defensive, terribly afraid that someone will come down and hurt it, which is why it's always shaking.

Smaller towns and villages aren't as affected, as most towns have at least one witch who blesses the ground below, but the more people reside in one location, the more the earthquakes will hit. The opposite is true as well— Many unoccupied places are always quaking, without a single break.

THE CLIMATE

All the way North and all the way South, it tends to be chillier, covered in snow, while the rest of the world has a generally cool climate, with the exception of the side closest to the Summer Stars, which differs every half year. The other side will be freezing cold, and most residents will go into a deep sleep to save energy for that half year.

The Woods are relatively far away from the Summer Stars, which is why it's so cool in most places.

For this reason, most inhabitants have a thick fur over their body, or just thick skin. There are many sheep who roam the lands, and these are considered holy for their wool. Most settlements have a clear rule not to let harm come to these animals, usually punishable by exile if broken, for without their wool, life becomes considerably more difficult.

THE ROOTS

There is not much known about the roots, only that they go deeper than any man's ever gone before. No one is entirely sure where they lead.

There have been attempts to go far enough in the ground to find the end of the roots, however, all who tried ended up buried alive before they could ever share their experiences.

Many myths exist surrounding these roots. Some say that if you eat from the very end of the roots, you'll gain immortality.

A general consensus is that far beneath the Woods, beneath the roots, the Dead roam. This is by far the most common myth.

Of course, all this is merely scratching the surface of what can be found here. There is plenty more to be shared, and I would love to answer any questions you might have.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Balderdash

[specialagentartemis]

Victoriocity Appreciation Week

For @victoriocity-appreciation Day 2/3: Favorite character / favorite relationship x2 combo!

I adore our protagonists - Archibald Fleet and Clara Entwhistle are both very fun characters, and their relationship is the core of the show and it’s heartwarming and entertaining and I love how they went from “annoyed (self-appointed) coworkers” to “inseparable friends”, my favorite dynamic - but I have to say somehow it was Chief Inspector Keller who accidentally stole my heart? How did this happen.

So have a silly ficlet about Clara and Fleet and Keller dealing with a very important topic... facial hair.

(Yes, this has been on my mind.  Yes, the detail about the law requiring members of the British army wear a moustache and criminalizing shaving it off because if they were clean-shaven they didn’t appear manly enough is real historical fact.)

Of Moustache and Men

Rating: Gen

Pairings: None

Words: 878

‘… and when you meet with the War Secretary to investigate—’

‘To snoop,’ Clara said, proud and more excited than the situation probably warranted.

‘We don’t snoop,’ Newly Private Investigator Archibald Fleet said, tiredly.

‘—when you meet with the War Secretary to do anything that you think you need to do to solve this case before we have to bother with it,’ Keller thundered forward, ‘remember that you are representing the entire constabulary to him, Fleet, and I can’t have you embarrassing us—’

‘I don’t work for the police department anymore, Chief Inspector.  I’m not representing anyone.’

‘Well, you used to, and you are still well-known to those that haven’t been following the news very closely as the hero or possibly villain police inspector who either tried to blow up the Tower or died saving it, and I will not have you disgrace the name of the department that you used to be employed under by showing up in front of the War Secretary looking like a fresh-faced dandy!’

‘I—what?’

‘I don’t think you look like a dandy,’ Clara said.

‘Thanks, Clara.’

‘Dandies are usually more handsome.  And more fashionable.  And they rarely look like they died and regret every day being dragged back to life.’

‘… Thanks, Clara.’

‘You need,’ Keller said, ‘to ensure the War Secretary knows that the police inspectors only employ—or employed, rather—the manliest of men, the greatest specimens of manhood the Empire has to offer, the glory of respectable masculinity!  You can’t show up with a bare upper lip like some poet who natters on about clouds, Fleet!  You need a moustache.’

Fleet sighed.  ‘Sir—’

‘Oh, don’t grow a moustache, Fleet,’ Clara said, ‘you would look horrid, and I could not share an office if I had to look at your mustachioed face every day.’

‘Do grow a moustache, Fleet!’ Keller said.

‘I suppose it would look funny, and humor is a balm for the soul when our cases involve murder,’ Clara mused.  ‘Perhaps do grow a moustache.  It would be good to laugh when we’re chasing despicable villains.’

‘If it were up to me,’ Keller continued, with no opinion offered on the level of humor that a be-moustached Fleet would present, ‘my police force would have the same facial hair maintenance law that binds Her Majesty’s military and I would personally arrest any man who dares to shave!  Yet my recommendation keeps getting rejected for “impracticality” and “we can’t even keep up that rule in the army, Mr. Keller”!  Balderdash.  Stop shaving this instant, and could you at least attempt for all our sakes but especially mine to have some respectable facial accoutrement by the time you meet the War Secretary?’

‘The meeting is in three hours, sir,’ Fleet said.

‘And?’

‘The answer is no, Chief Inspector, I could not.  And if I may remind you, the reason I took up shaving my upper lip regularly is because you told me that even when I tried to grow a moustache I looked like a bedraggled fourteen-year-old trying to lie about my age to go to Crimea, and that I needn’t bother because you got your first army experience at age twelve, they don’t care.’

‘They don’t, and you did.’

‘… so we’re in agreement, then?’ Fleet said warily.

Keller’s magnificent moustache bristled, whether in indignance or pride, there didn’t seem to be much of a difference.  ‘I am in agreement, and you are going to be in agreement with me.’

---

‘Are you mocking me?’ War Secretary Edward Stanhope asked, as he folded his arms and leaned sternly over his desk.

‘No sir,’ Fleet said, at the same time as Clara answered, ‘Of course not, Mr. Stanhope.’

‘What, then, is the meaning of what you are wearing on your faces?’

‘Oh,’ Fleet said.

‘Do you like them?’ Clara asked, preening her large and luxurious false moustache, a perfect match to Fleet’s.

‘I thought I would be meeting with professionals.’

‘You are,’ Fleet said, ‘I mean, we are.  Professionals.  I was, ah, advised to wear a moustache to meet you, as my natural one is not… up to military standards.’

‘And as his looked so absurd and patently fake,’ Clara added, ‘I couldn’t let him have all the fun alone.  And Chief Insp—I mean, our advisor, thought that two moustaches could only be better than one.’

‘What fool advised this?’ Secretary Stanhope demanded.  His own natural moustache, which Fleet could not help but notice was smaller and less impressive than Keller’s, creased as he frowned.

Fleet spread his arms in a helpless shrug.  ‘A fool who wants very much to impress you, so despite everything I feel it would be a tad cruel to ruin your esteem of him so thoroughly.’

War Secretary Stanhope held out his hand like a stern schoolteacher confiscating a toy.  ‘Take them off immediately.’

Fleet and Clara, with varying levels of shame, peeled the false moustaches off of their faces and dropped them into his hand.

‘Good,’ the War Secretary said.  ‘Now can we please return to what you ostensible respectable professionals are here for?’

Clara leaned over to Fleet and whispered, ‘I don’t think our snooping is getting off to a very strong start.’

Fleet unfortunately had to agree.

[archeo-starwars]

I have a question I have been trying to answer. Do you know if there is any mention of fiction in universe? I know there is mythology and storytelling, but the mythology is more of a religious artifact and the storytelling tends to be in either a mythic tradition or fables. I’m kinda fascinated by the in universe implications of not having recreational fiction.

I assure you, there is in-universe fiction created for enjoyment, like (holo)books, holodramas, holofilms or even (holo)theater or opera performances  that aren’t stricly historical, mythological or religious in nature.

Sadly,  we know little to none of its true content as the sources mention usually just titles and maybe an authors what makes difficult to tell for sure what kind of stories were popular in galaxy far, far away (and the fact that we rarely see “normal” daily life of people, as in, life that is not overshadow by war(s) and great tragedies does not help at all. Especially with the whole imperial propaganda seen in plenty of holodramas). Still, here comes some of examples that could fall into “recreational fiction” category:

Holonews like this:

Quest for Quasar

Fans Don't Like Ottekvar

BALDERDASH, ADARLON - Although the entertainment industry is abuzz with the casting choice of Harlan Ottekvar for the role of Lord Baltharog in Myris Pictures' big budget Quest for Quasar adaptation, a small but vocal undercurrent of devoted fans have taken to the HoloNet to criticize the decision.

"According to the original sourcebook, Baltharog is 1.89 meters tall. Ottekvar is only 1.84 meters, maybe 1.86 in boots. Do they expect us to overlook this?" said Groz "QuasarKing327" Niclari on his public HoloNet infocache. Niclari hosts the largest fan-run Quasar infocache, and has collected nearly 1.5 million signatures in his online petition to have Ottekvar replaced. The height discrepancy is only one contentious issue (though some fans are quick to point out that the 1.89 meters came from a spin-off source, and thus is not canon). "Ottekvar is just too famous. Whenever I see his face, I think SuperKnight: The Awakening, or Webb Tenger: PeaceBuster, not Baltharog." Ottekvar himself is unphased by the outcry. "C'mon guys. It's only a holo," he said.

Quest for Quasar, directed by Mryis' proprietary HoloMaker 4.0, opens next summer. (x)

or this holonews:

Holo Critics Preemptively Bemoan Summer Season

CORE WORLDS NODE - At a gathering of the most influential media critics, Core World Critics Association President Jaysa Namoor began lambasting the holomedia industry on the upcoming summer season. "Some readers say I've been writing the same review for the past five years. Well, that's because Adarlon keeps pumping out the same holo for the past five years," said Namoor, eliciting applause from her colleagues. Her tirade included the usual attack against "cardboard characterization, offensive liquid-based humor, bone-numbing full sim effects, and juvenile anthropocentric plots." Not having seen the holos, she nonetheless panned the anticipated summer titles Cataclysm Prism 4, Whelping Day, Split Infinitive, Lightspeed Lightweight, Tenta-kill 5, Another Idiot's Array 2, Crimson Empire III and A Google of Gornts.

another holonews had this little commercial picture with the best-selling reading around 23BBY (promoted just before Attack of the Clones, which makes sense why people wrote about Dooku in-universe)

“Medstar I” book mentioned this:

Den took another sip. "If you don't mind my saying, you seem rather-unusual for a droid. How did you come to be assigned here?" At first it seemed that the droid was not going to re-ply. Then he said, " 'I am cast upon the winds of space and time, like a planetesimal spun eternally between suns.'" Now Den was shocked. "Kai Konnik," he said. "Beach of Stars. Winner of the Galaxis Award for best novel last year, if I'm not-" "Two years ago," I-Five corrected him. Den stared at him. "You have an impressive knowledge of literature for a droid." "Not really. My memory banks are programmed with more than two hundred thousand novels, holo-plays, poems, and-" "I wasn't talking about memory," Den said. "Most protocol droids have the capacity to store that much in-formation. And most droids, if asked to quote from a particular work, can access it as easily as you just did. But," he continued, leaning forward, "I've never met any kind of droid yet who could use the material meta-phorically. Which is what you were doing."

Millenium Falcon book mentioned children(?) show:

"Amelia, do you remember little Lando?" Three years old and all but a clone of his father, he was holding a toy dragon and dressed in the same outfit worn by Lando Senior. "Hi, Lando," she said, going over to him. "Is that the dragon from Castle Creep?" The toddler nodded shyly. "Perystal." "I watch that show, too! Is Perystal your favorite toy?" "I have a Prince Gothik." "Wow. I used to have a stuffed tauntaun."

and Insider 199′s short story give us the steamy Zeltron novel(s):

This ones I couldn’t check with original sources, but let’s trust wookiepedia:

The Adventures of Shane Carlton of the Rebel Alliance was a romance novel telling the story of Shane Carlton, a fictional member of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. It was widely inaccurate and exaggerated. There was a copy of the novel in the Imperial Data Processing Facility on Tazan. (x)

or

Captain Rygaen's Ploy was a holofilm where Rollo Morsai, under the working name "Jona Reeten," played a tramp freighter captain. (x)

or

Juo Deltar Faces Gamblor the Terrible was a holovid of the Jedi Action genre. It focused on Juo Deltar, a scoundrel-type adventurer and Jedi, fighting Gamblor, a Hutt Sith Acolyte.

During the Clone Wars, the Zabrak Jedi Knight Nek Lawsirk borrowed it from Hedrett Holovid, a holovid shop located in Hedrett, on Cularin.(x)

I’m pretty sure further research would bring more examples, but like you can see, people of galaxy far, far away have and enjoy recreational fiction in various shapes. So it’s less not having such fiction (holodramas are in itself the best argument for that) and more that sources do not focus that much on this aspect. Which makes sense, since most stories focus on Jedi or Sith who either don’t pay much attention to “normal life” or don’t have time or opportunity to do so.

[mail-me-a-snail]

In the Woods Somewhere

the Hugo Wallace fic, as promised :3

tag list: @crypticphantom17​ @immabethehero​ @iv0ry-keys​

In the deep, secluded wood surrounding the small village of Honeycliff, which has quite the low literacy rate, there walks a Bird Man, using his lantern to guide himself through the night and ward off preying souls. He offers flowers and useful, charming plants, but never gets too close. He is kind. His voice sounds like the wind passing along the branches in the overhang, or as the frightened novice hunter told the townsfolk, the soft padding of a wolf prowling through the undergrowth.

 The hunter tells them all about his encounter with the Bird Man in the town square, where any willing ear has formed a circle around him.

 "First, a bloody plague," complains the farmer's wife, once the hunter finishes his story, "Now a bloomin' bird man in these woods. I don't want the kids runnin' around there no more."

 "Perhaps he's our cure," the lumberjack suggests, "Them herbs might do us good."

 "What might do you good, good sirs and madams," A new voice interrupts, his cane clacking against the cobblestone, "is keeping ten feet away from each other. This plague transmits through touch, don't you know."

 "Docta Wallace," the farmer's wife exclaims, and that is indeed who the stranger is. "We didn't see you there. The hunter was just telling us a story about the Bird Man of the woods."

 "The what of the woods?" Hugo Wallace, the plague doctor dispatched to Honeycliff a few months prior, swings his beak around to look at the hunter. He doesn't miss the big gulp that bobs the hunter's Adam's apple, even through the yellow tinted lenses of his goggles.

 “The Bird Man, doctor," the man explains, and retells the story. Hugo fiddles with the raven topper of his cane. "I swear it on me mum's gravestone, Dr. Wallace, he's real! He has a beak like yours and this great lantern, bright as the sun, it is!"

 "And on what night did you see this?"

 "Last night, sir!"

 Hugo's heart sinks, and then shoots up as he realizes what's exactly going on; they've mistaken him picking herbs in the dead of night as some sort of woodland monster. It all makes sense. He should say that it is actually him, but he doesn't. He feels that some sort of mystery would liven things up around Honeycliff.

 "Fairytales," Hugo sniffs, "Pish-posh. If I were you, hunter, I wouldn't spread such stories. As the farmer's wife said, we have enough trouble on our hands—my hands—as it is with the plague. We don't need a corvid walking around on two legs as well."

 "But it was real," the hunter shakes his head frantically, "Saw it with me own two eyes."

 “Those two eyes of yours better be seeing the door to your home soon," Hugo turns to the townsfolk, who have since made the circle bigger. "That goes for all of you! You are to return to your homes. Contact is highly dangerous."

 He taps his cane on the cobblestone. Everyone takes it as a sign to leave and they do, heads hanging and stomachs grumbling for the night's supper. The hunter trudges back into the woods with the lumberjack by his side.

 Hugo sighs in relief.

 "Bird Man," he scoffs, "Balderdash."

 ----

 The lumberjack goes home. He tells his seven sons and his wife the hunter's story over supper. His wife barely believes it, while the two twins of the seven children are in awe.

 The next morning, after school is let out, the lumberjack's twins tell their friends all about it. Being children, they believe that the Bird Man is real. They make up stories to scare each other, like the Bird Man being an actual raven who comes and steals people from their beds, or even that the Bird Man is a demon straight from Hell.

 Sister Bellum, a teacher at the school, is shaken to her core when she hears such utterance, and she doesn't take it lightly. The children get a scolding and are sent home.

 ----

 Hugo picks dandelions tonight. He has more than enough stores of yarrow and nightshade to last him a week. He thinks dandelions are beautiful. His lantern hangs from a stick, swinging as he walks through the woods. He ducks into a grove with curtain of lichen, spotting clumps of mycelium growing at the base of one of the trees. He puts the lantern behind him as he starts picking them gently.

 He freezes when someone speaks.

 "Oh, Lord—" a woman gasps, and the grass shuffles where she steps back. Hugo can't see anything but her silhouette from behind the lichen. But for the woman, she can see Hugo's large, sharp beaked silhouette against a lantern's light, like a shadow puppet show. "It's you! You are the Bird Man! I've found you."

 Hugo pauses. He's sweating under his mask, more than usual. He tries hard to remember how the hunter described the Bird Man's voice; croaky and soft. It wasn't his fault he had had a sore throat that night.

 "It is I," he croaks like a fat toad, "The Bird of these woods. What have you come for, human?"

 "My husband is as dead as a nail," she says, "There's no joy in his eyes anymore! It is like he's lost the life in them eyes. He doesn't attend to the crops!"

 Hugo realizes it's the farmer's wife from earlier. It sounds like her husband's drained of vitality. He knows just the herb. He digs around his bag and brings out a root of ginseng. He throws it onto the grass in front of her. She jumps back.

 "What is it?" She asks.

 "One of my herbs, my dear," Hugo explains, "It will revitalise your husband and bring him back to life, so to speak. It goes very well with tea."

 "T-thank you," she stutters, "Truly, this is a gift from God. I will never forget your kindness."

 Once she leaves, he comes out of the grove and puts his hands on his hips. "Bloody mess, this is." He shakes his head.

 ----

 Another woman interrupts his foraging the next night.

 "What is it?" Hugo croaks in frustration, "What do you want?"

 "Not herbs, good sir," she speaks well, especially for a citizen of Honeycliff. "But...to keep good company."

 “What are you saying?"

 "You are an attractive mystery, sir, and I have...thought about you, so to say. In ways the church might have me hung for—"

 Hugo's cheeks catch on fire as he blushes. "No, no!" He squawks, "I d-do not mingle with humans in such ways! Begone!"

 "But..."

 "I beg of you, begone!" He spreads his hands out like wings and curls his fingers into claws to make a big, scary shadow.

 The woman turns tail and runs away. Hugo settles down, everything neck up completely warm with embarrassment. He can't believe it. He just can't. A mysterious stranger turns up in the woods and someone from town just wants to bed it? The plague has made everyone truly lose their minds, Hugo would say.

 ----

 It is the baker that finds him the following night in the same grove.

 "Mr. Bird Man," the baker greets politely, a hint of Scottish on the tongue. "I believe you know why I've come."

 Hugo doesn't have to see him to know it's him. He's had the baker in his mind for quite some time. It makes his heart thump against his chest.

 "And what is that, dear baker?" Hugo says over the sound of his heart shaking. "Herbs? A cure for your ailment?"

 The baker, with his thick, muscular arms for lifting sacks of flour and rough, strong hands that he kneads dough with every day, and every one of those days Hugo watches from the bakery's display window, as the dough is folded and flattened and coated with flour then flattened again, always with those beautifully freckled knuckles worrying at it. The bread comes out golden brown and beautiful, because he's mastered his craft. Hugo longs for the days when he can go inside and actually pick up the bread instead of having it delivered to his house at the edge of the village. His hair is a fiery, shaggy red, like a sheepdog, as is his beard. His freckles are numerous.

 "No. Not plants, not weeds." The baker wrings his hands. "I've come for you."

 Silence. "What?" Hugo prompts, not daring to hope that he's asking what he thinks he's asking.

 "I find you are rather a beautiful mystery. A mystery I would like to unfold, if you'd have me. Unfold, as in...You already know."

 His heart explodes. He's dead, he's sure of it. This must be heaven. It's everything Hugo ever could've wanted.

 And yet...

 Even to the baker, despite the way he smiles so brightly and the charming puff of flour still in his beard, even to him Hugo (reluctantly) says, "No, thank you." As much as he wants those calloused hands to sandpaper his own and ruin him, he can't have it.

 In the morning, the baker claims the Bird Man had sent him away with mysterious and supposedly blessed herbs. They weren't mysterious or holy; they were clumps of yarrow, corn mint, and dandelions. He doesn't expect them to know them, though. He never lets anyone see his medical process or stashes. Hugo passes by the bakery and is surprised to find it completely packed. Everyone wants to hear about the latest encounter with the Bird Man.

 The doctor couldn't care less. He just wants a loaf of bread.

 He's pissed about the whole affair and rightly so. He can't stop the thoughts of the baker that enter his head—thoughts that would make Father Avery and the Sisters thump him over the head with their bibles and have him pray for a month straight.

 Hugo goes out again that night to the forest, picking another batch of herbs, mumbling angrily to himself the whole way.

 ----

 It is a hodgepodge of people who visit him over the next few nights, an even balance of men and women townsfolk. Even the hunter was among them. He said no to each of their sexual advances, though some by personal distaste rather than touch aversion.

 The ones he sends away spread all sorts of rumours.

 The Bird Man's voice changes with your personality! Hugo had forgotten to do the voice a couple of times. He had been tired!

 The Bird Man walks with a limp. He might've tripped over a rock trying to get into the grove one of those nights.

 They are all very amusing, in retrospect. Still, Hugo thinks they're amusing in the silly, childish way. It's a lot of good fun, even with the embarrassment of the one thing they all want.

 Eventually, the baker comes back, and keeps coming the next few nights.

 He doesn't talk at first, but Hugo knows it's him by his large silhouette. Hugo sits and so does the baker, and they stare at the approximate location of where the other would be. They want to talk, but what is there to say? Hugo's already declined. Hugo cannot have him and vice versa. It's too dangerous. His clothes—they're filthy with sickness. He doesn't know what he'll do if the baker gets sick.

 They see each other in the mornings and afternoons. The baker smiles at the doctor as he passes the window. It always does something funny to his stomach, but leaves a sour taste in its wake, like yarrow. He wishes they could stop playing this cat and mouse game. Hugo wants so badly to yell in the square that he is the fabled Bird Man, and it was nothing but balderdash this whole time, so the baker would snap out of it and fall in love with Hugo Wallace instead of this...shadow.

 In that scenario, love is possible, and there is no plague. It amuses him to no end.

 In the quiet of the nights, the time after, when Hugo heads home and lies in bed, staring up at his ceiling, he has...ideas.

 Thoughts.

 Thoughts of calloused hands holding his cheek like a warm ray of sunlight, ruffling his closely shorn, messy hair, the hair that his mother had affectionately told him reminded her of a, "Shaggy black sheepdog."

 Thoughts of those hands holding his, fitting so perfectly; the doctor's palms were smoothened soft by leather gloves.

 Thoughts of those hands going...farther. Holding him down by the wrists, taking what is theirs...ruining him entirely. If they can handle sacks of flour and turn dough into beautiful pieces of art, they can shatter Hugo into billions of pieces.

 It's hard to sleep that night when warmth pools in the doctor's stomach and doesn't go away.

 On the last night of the week, the baker comes again, but this time he speaks.

 ----

 "A demon?" Hugo stands in his doorway, clutching his teacup tightly. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

 Father Avery stands in his yard, looking very grim indeed. "A demon, Dr. Wallace, that's what this Bird Man is."

 "He—it—hasn't hurt anyone!"

 "Demons needn't physically harm mortals to be called demons. They are masters of influence—do you know what they're saying, the townsfolk, concerning the Bird Man?"

 "What?"

 "They are saying...well..." Now, the Father looks flustered, pink round cheeks pinker. "...they would very much like to invite the Bird Man into their beds."

 "Oh, my." Hugo tries to act surprised. It's one of the mornings after he's been met with a crowd of townsfolk thirsting after him.

 "It is sin, doctor! Sin! To practice premarital sin with a...a demon, of all things—why, it's preposterous. That is why it is a demon—it's an aphrodisiac!"

 ----

 "It is a sin to love you," is what the baker says when he speaks, quiet. "That's what the church says."

 "Then, do not commit it. You are not a man of sin," Hugo says, "You are a pure, kind-hearted soul."

 "Then, I will pray," The baker speaks quickly, breathlessly, "I will pray every verse I know, that I've been taught. I will attend every one of Father Avery's less than joyful Sunday services and I will pray to God above for forgiveness. I'll spend the rest of my days as a man of God to repent for this sin that I am guilty of."

 "What are you saying?"

 "I love you, with all my heart. I do not know your name, or what you look like, but I love you."

 "You love the mystery of me. The story. You don't love me." Hugo is ecstatic his hopes are true but would rather ingest nightshade than have this conversation. "You love this shadow—" he gestures to the canvas of lichen that separates them. "—not the man behind the curtain."

 "...then show me. Show me your true form."

 "Is that really what you want?"

 "Yes."

 Hugo takes a breath.

 Another.

 He turns off his lamp. The area grows dark around him. He faces the curtain of lichen and pulls it aside with one gloved hand.

 In the woods somewhere, the baker finally sees the true form of the fabled Bird Man, and he gasps,

 "Doctor Hugo Wallace. It's you—you were the Bird Man this whole time?" His hazel eyes are wide in shock and his bushy red eyebrows are raised. The surprise in his eyes reminds Hugo just how stupid the people of this town are—they couldn't even connect the dots.

 "Do you still love me?" He finds himself saying through gritted teeth.

 “I cannot believe this—"

 "Do you still love me?" Hugo grips his cane tightly.

 The baker furrows his eyebrows. He takes his time to answer.

 "I don't know."

 Hugo's heart sinks. "I thought as much," he mutters, and grabs his lantern and goes. The baker springs up to chase after him, but the doctor yells behind him, "Do not follow me! Tell no one of this."

 A painful warmth is building behind his eyes. Fool he was to hope that love would stay true. In the woods somewhere, Hugo Wallace, puppeteer of the Bird Man and plague doctor, runs away and doesn't look back.

[luci-cunt]

Hi @moonsandstarsaregay​ here’s just a list of perfect Geralt and Dandelion interactions in ONE (1) chapter [btw this is basically ep 2: the one with the Devil of Posada]

(this ended up being longer than I thought because they’re too iconic, I didn’t even make it through the whole chapter XDD maybe I’ll do a part two but I’m gonna get some food and let these dumbasses rest. 

But, spoiler: they’re literally so in love + feral/ insanely smart Jaskier is 100% canon)

[G+D leaving a pub where a bunch of people moaned about the galactic fuck-ton of monsters around them but then Geralt’s like, bye we’re leaving and Dandelion’s like ‘why?? monsters?? that’s your whole job??’]

"None of the creatures they mentioned exist.”

“You’re joking!” Dandelion spat a pip and threw the apple core at a patched mongrel [side note I have no idea what any of this sentince means]. “No, it’s impossible. I was watching them carefully, and I know people. They weren’t lying.”

“No,” the witcher agreed. “they weren’t lying, they firmly believed it all. Which doesn’t change the facts.”

The poet was silent for a while.

“None of those monsters... none? it can’t be. something of what they listed must be here. At least one! Admit it.”

“All right. I admit it. One does exist for sure.”

“Ha! What?”

“A bat.”

[You don’t even need context]

“...Eh, famous witcher? Haven’t you wondered why?”

“I have, famous poet. And I know why.”

[Riding on the road]

“Someone’s following us,” [Dandelion] said, excited. “In a cart!”

“Incredible,” scoffed the witcher without looking around. “In a cart? And I thought that the locals rode on bats.”

“Do you know what?” growled the troubadour. “The closer we get to the edge of the world, the sharper your wit. I dread to think what it will come too!”

[the afore mentioned cart catches up and suddenly the driver wants to talk, interrupting G+D bonding time]

“The gods be praised, noble sirs!”

“We, too,” replied Dandelion, familiar with the custom, “praise them.”

“If we want to,” murmured the witcher.

[and then later in the same scene]

“...I marked your expression and ‘twas nae strange to me. In a long time now I’ve nae heard such balderdash and lies.”

Dandelion laughed.

Geralt was looking at the peasant attentively, silently. 

[Still later the guy asks if they want to stop by his house cause they’re going the same way and Geralt’s like ‘hOw Do YoU kNoW wHeRe We’Er GoInG?’]

“As ‘cos ye have nae other way here, and yer horses’ noses be turned in that direction, not their butts.”

Dandelion laughed again. “What do you say to that, Geralt?”

“Nothing.”

[Dandelion talking about how gorgeous the land they’re traveling through is, Geralt teasing him like ‘oh so you know about agriculture?’ ‘Duh, poets know everything my dear fellow and agriculture is v important--’]

[Geralt] “you’ve exaggerated a bit with the [significance of agriculture in] entertainment and art.”

[Dandelion] “And booze, what’s that made of?”

“I get it.”

“Not very much, you don’t. Learn. Look at those purple flowers. They’re lupins.”

“They’s be vetch, to be true,” interrupted Nettly [the other carriage driver].

[Then Geralt zones out because now Nettly’s talking]

“The Valley of Flowers, that’s Dol Blathanna.” Dandelion nudged the witcher [...] “You paying attention?”

[They get to Nettly’s house and meet the village elder Dhun who want to hire Geralt]

The elder of the village nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, it be like this,” he said. “There be this field hereabouts–” 

Geralt kicked Dandelion–who was preparing to make a spiteful comment–under the table.

[Dhun’s explaining the situation more and then--]

“...stretches right up to the forest–”

“And what?” The poet couldn’t help himself. “What’s on that field there?”

“Well.” Dhun raised his head and scratched himself behind the ear. “Well, there be a deovel prowls there.”

“What?” snorted Dandelion. “A what?”

“I tell ye: a deovel.”

“What deovel?”

“What can he be? A deovel and that be it.”

“Devils don’t exist!”

“Don’t interrupt, Dandelion,” said Geralt in a calm voice. “And go on, honorable Dhun.” 

“I tell ye: it’s a deovel.”

“I heard you.” Geralt could be incredibly patient when he chose.

[Oh and, might I just add: this is Dandelion’s perspective–he’s the one pointing out how patient Geralt can be. I stg, TV!Geralt is quaking.

And, lmao, this whole scene feels like Dandelion was teasing Geralt for not wanting to deal with other company but now that there’s a job and Geralt’s attention is more on that he’s all pissy and that’s just hilarious]

[Dandelion goes on to interupt the story about 2 more times and Geralt tells him to be quiet both times and now he’s sulking]

Dandelion cackled again, then flicked a beer-drenched fly at a cat sleeping by the hearth. The cat opened one eye and glanced at the bard reproachfully. 

[Geralt takes the job even tho devils don’t exist, Dandelion is pissed, ‘why take the job if you know it doesn’t exist!?’]

“...I take it you haven’t abased yourself so as to get us bed board and lodging, have you?”

“Indeed,” Geralt grimaced. “It does look as if you know me a little, singer.”

“In that case, I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“There’s no such thing as devils!” yelled the poet, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. “No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don’t exist!”

“True.” Geralt smiled. “But, Dandelion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn’t exist.”

[alkjdf;klasdfjkdsafl LITERALLY k;aldsjflsd WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS???]

[They finally manage to hunt down the devil and feral bard is 100% canon]

“Uk! Uk!” Barked the monster, stamping his hooves. “What do you want here? Leave or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!”

“Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?” Dandelion couldn’t stop himself. 

“Uk! Uk! Beeeee!” Bleated the goathorn in agreement, or denial, or simply bleating for the sake of it. 

“Shut up, Dandelion,” growled the witcher. “Not a word.”

“Blebleblebeeeeee!” The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. “Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuubleeee!”

“Most certainly”–nodded Dandelion–“you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home–”

[this goes on for a while. btw yes, those are the noises the book describes the ‘devil’ making aksdjf;alk]

[then they have to run away because Geralt didn’t bring his sword and they get back to the house--]

“Well, well, Geralt.” Dandelion held a horseshoe he’d cooled in a bucket to his forehead. [you really can’t make this stuff up he’s such a disaster] “that’s not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!”

“That’s the sixth time you’ve shown it to me. And it’s no more interesting than it was the first time.” 

“How charming. And I thought I’d be safe with you!”

[Then Nettly and Dhun give Geralt some old book that’s supposed to tell you how to deal with every monster ever]

He lay the book down on the table and turned its heavy wooden cover. “Take a loook at this, Dandelion.”

“the first Runes,” the bard worked out, peering over his shoulder, the horseshoe still pressed to his forehead. “The writing used before the modern alphabet. Still based on elfin runes and dwarves’ ideograms. A funny sentice construction, but that’s how they spoke then [...like a whole page of Dandelion being brilliant..]”

[^^^ that book is also unreadable but there’s a really old lady who has it almost completely memorized so Geralt flips through it to prove it and lands on this page--]

The etching showed a disheveled monstrosity with enormous eyes and even larger teeth, riding a horse. In its right hand, the monstrous being wielded a substantial sword, in its left, a bag of money. 

“A witchman,” mumbled the woman. “Called by some a witcher. To summon him is most dangerous , albeit one must; for when against the monster and vermin there be no aid, the witchman can contrive. But be careful one must be–”

“Enough,” muttered Geralt. “Enough, Grandma. Thank you.”

“No, no,” protested Dandelion with a malicious smile. “how does it go on? What a greatly interesting book! Go on, Granny, go on.”

“eee... But careful one must be to touch not the witchman, for thus the mange can one acquire. And lasses do from him hide away, for lustful the witchman is above all measure–”

“Quite correct, spot on,” laughed the poet.

[This moment--]

[Geralt] “...This time ‘tis grateful I’d be to heareth more, for too learn the ways and meanes ye did use to deal with him most curious am I.”

“Careful, Geralt,” chuckled Dandelion. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s an infectious mannerism.”

[And just over a page later--]

[Dandelion] “...ye furnished him with ammunition for two years, the fools ye be!”

“careful.” The witcher smiled. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s infectious.” 

[wcmiunofficial]

WCMI (Unofficial): CH. 32 Upheaval

‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

‘I don’t much care where—’ said Alice.

‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.

‘—so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as an explanation.

‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’

‘Alice in Wonderland’ by Lewis Carroll 

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

Many a night passed before Reginald began to feel some semblance of balance in his daily routine. Things were as balanced for him as life could be for a madman madly in love, anyway. He was sleeping better and had turned his attention elsewhere for the time being to work on new projects in his shop. Ears was more or less forcing Reggie to keep himself busy. He made it clear that it was better to be productive instead of feeling sorry for himself. So, Reginald half-followed his advice.

The sting of rejection and loneliness still lingered in his chest with a less than dull ache. To him, it felt not quite unlike the feeling of having a bruised rib that takes one's breath away if they're not careful to watch how they go about moving with such an injury. In the earlier days when a fresher, more painful wound made itself a home in his heart, Reggie confided in Ears that he didn't think he was ever going to get over Alice. Once more, Ears gave him some sound advice. Or something like that. Reggie could barely bring himself to listen to something so utterly disheartening, though some of that ideation had crept its way into his subconscious.

Consequently, being content with working and trying everything in his power to avoid the pain that plagued him in certain moments was his default. Every day still found him tightly wound and ready to spring into something – anything - that would make him feel better. But, it was no longer the worst state of mind he could be in. For that, both Ears and the Hatter were thankful.

As it turned out, giving Alice her space had been the right decision after all, the dashing and lovestruck lunatic reasoned with himself. He was quick to notice that she had been unusually friendly in passing now more than ever. It took every ounce of the Hatter's strength not to run to her and confess his undying love whenever their paths happened to cross. But Reginald new better. And he couldn't bear the thought of her loathing him again, so he kept his distance. Waiting. Hoping. With his captivated, endearing, and technicolor heart all aflutter. Though things for the both of them were still very broken and raw, he knew.

It wasn't long before The Cat caught wind of the distinctive sounds a pair of hearts made when trapped in the wreckage of emotional turmoil. Anyone who knew anything about The Cat knew that he relished in both the misfortunes and, most times, the extreme successes of the varying inhabitants of Wonderland. Alice was unaware of such a thing. Reggie, on the other gloved hand, should have seen The Cat's arrival coming a mile away. His mind was too busy to consider it a possibility. But fate would not allow poor Reggie to outrun his problems for long....

It was a particularly cold night. Reggie had just come home from a long day of work and was sufficiently exhausted, which pleased him because it meant that he had very little time to do anything else but sleep and work these days. Exhaustion was a wonderful sleep aid, he'd learned.

As he milled about his house in a brusque attempt to get himself ready to court Dreamland from behind closed eyelids, the Hatter barely noticed the purple hat that sat upon the small work table in his home. He didn't notice it, at least, until it began to purr when he walked by.

“I don't recall making a purring hat for anyone this week,” he said aloud to absolutely no one. Reggie eyed the hat suspiciously at first. “Why, I don't think I've made one of those since last spring, if memory serves me right.” He paused for a moment and then, he laughed. “And it never does!” With this revelation, Reginald waved a dismissive hand and took to bed as soon as he was washed up and swaddled into some comfortable peacock-printed pajamas.

He sighed into his pillow, comforted by the embrace of imminent sleep. Understandably, his dreams were a better place to be these days. He was on the cusp of temporary, gentle unconsciousness when the sound of his purple squirrel friend's voice struck him out of his bed violently. “You've forgotten; you haven't made a purple and pink purring hat for anyone in at least two years.”

Reggie was up in a flash. “Wait a minute! You're positively right. What absolute balderdash is afoot tonight in this here home?!”

The storming of sizable feet echoed through the hallway leading toward his in-home work area. Upon seeing the offending hat, Reggie pointed an accusatory finger in its direction and yelled, “Who sent you?” Slowly, the hat began to unfurl into the form of a familiar and terrifying spirit. “The Cat. Of course.” Reggie's voice faltered. He swallowed hard as some of his anger left him and made way for a bit of fear which crept into the very core of him.

“Why yes, some days I am that. Other times, I am not,” purred the low voice. It echoed independently of the conditions which normally make sounds echo naturally. This reverberation was always unsettling to Reggie, and he could never get used to it. Eventually, the Hatter sighed. He addressed the unwelcome visitor directly once more: “What are you doing in my home? I know your ways and I'm sorry, but I seem to be fresh out of mischief this week, so you'll have to come back later.” His voice had an edge to it not often heard by those who knew the otherwise hail-fellow-well-met Hatter. Reggie was aware of the power The Cat held over people's lives. He was mischievous, cunning, and truly neutral in nature. There wasn't a lot he cared about. Just things he happened to be entertained by. Things he would then begin to meddle in simply for his own amusement. When the inhabitants of Wonderland spoke of “The Cat”, everyone knew exactly what they meant, and would then usually beckon for the person who brought him up to be quiet, lest they accidentally summon him. It was long rumored that The Cat was something of a deity in these parts. And while Wonderland was full of madness and madmen, most there would think better than to get tangled up with the likes of him.

A ghostly, fanged grin stretched out impossibly wide before Reggie.

“I think you know why I'm here,” The Cat chuckled lowly, now floating and stretching himself over his own tail, which propped him up and rocked him back and forth very much like a rocking chair.

“I don't,” the Hatter snapped tersely, yet quietly. Oh no. He knows about Alice and I. He's going to ruin EVERYTHING. That very thought made the hair on the back of his neck bristle.

The Cat idly stretched an arm before him, examining the claws from the backside of his paw and then flipping it oppositely to curl his digits inward and examine his claws that way, too. “Oh good. Because neither do I,” The Cat said lightly. “So I was hoping you could tell me. But I suppose since neither of us know why my presence was drawn here, it means that I must linger awhile to figure out why.”

The Hatter paused for a moment, stunned. He then approached the pink and purple feline in a fierce flurry of movement, sputtering, “I don't think so! You will not stay in my home for any length of time. I have better things to do than to play your games the way I did last time.”

Last time The Cat came to vex Reggie for fun, he rearranged the Hatter's house in perfect order, drove away his lover at the time, sorted his mail, and made no less than 25 hats using every blanket in his home for their material. It drove the Hatter, well...mad. (The hats sold strangely well, however, so there was that, at least.)

The Cat remembered this all too well and never missed a chance to regale anyone who would listen about the catastrophic meltdown that ensued after he pestered Reggie into oblivion for a week. Fewer things were more entertaining to The Cat than causing Reginald to slip further into madness.

The Cat seemed to be lost in thought for a spell and then when he addressed Reggie, he could hear the smile in the dastardly spirit's voice; “Well, I suppose I'll just have to go bother Alice, then. Purrhaps she'll be able to shed some light on my current predicament.”

Alice? The thought of The Cat pestering her sent Reggie over the edge. “No, you will NOT, Cheshire!” he cried, leaping toward The Cat. Of course, the entity escaped his clutches with relative ease, seeming to disappear and then reappear on top of Reggie's shoulder. Reggie swatted there. “Listen to me – you...you fiend!” Again, The Cat sidestepped his clumsy attempts to grapple him, floating gracefully in the air too high above The Hatter's reach. “You almost got her killed, and for that, I will NEVER forgive you. You simply cannot go near her again!” Naturally, the next course of action was to grab the umbrella near the door and attempt to swat The Cat down. Of course, The Cat managed a flawless retreat there, as well, chuckling all the way. When he reappeared and sat upon Reginald's China cabinet was when The Hatter began to rethink letting his arms fly so wildly about with his makeshift weapon. There was no way he was about to ruin all his lovely tea sets in pursuit of this pest, if he could help it. A soft, frustrated lament left his lips. “My babies...”

Reggie huffed and eyed The Cat with fire in his eyes. “What are you going to do to her?”

The Cat placed a paw upon his chest, pantomiming an ache there. “Reginald, you wound me. What kind of monster do you believe me to be?”

A very careless one, thought Reggie. His mind replayed the memories of Cheshire nearly getting Alice killed all those years ago when he appeared before her, making her accidentally insult the Queen of Hearts. Though the Queen was a truly evil and temperamental old tyrant, The Cat wasn't as bad. He was still, ahem, the catalyst to a lot of unfortunate happenings, however. Things were already so raw for both Reginald and Alice, and he didn't want her to keep hurting. The need to protect her that Reggie continually felt swelled within him now. Hatter took a step forward, puffing up his chest. “Listen,” Reggie's voice crackled with all the passion of the coals of a blazing fire being stoked, “Promise me you will leave Alice alone. I will make any deal with you that you want. Just, please...leave her alone.” He tried to remain civil, but beneath his barely composed mask, Reggie was furious. The Cat noticed this, plain as day, and it did nothing except make him even more interested. “What a tempting offer! You know, I've never seen you this calm yet simultaneously infuriated before, Reginald. You truly are the Mad Hatter now, aren't you?” The Cat's taunting response barely concealed his mirth.

Tea sets be damned, the Hatter was seriously considering vaulting over the sofa before his China cabinet and capturing the irritating ball of fur that teased him so. But before he had a chance to act, The Cat had begun to fade away. The slowly disappearing visage of its signature grin was the last thing to go. The mouth flexed into eternal, gaping laughter as it announced an apology. “So sorry, old chap, but I fear I have other business to attend to. You do understand, I hope. Hehe hehehe...”

And just like that, The Cat was gone.

The room suddenly felt colder as Reggie stood there with his temper turning over into sheer panic. He broke his frozen stance and rushed to get dressed in something appropriate and warm before sprinting out into the chilly night with a sense of complete urgency. He ran all the way to Alice's without stopping. The cold wind bit his face but he didn't care. Alice stood no chance in dealing with this crazy cat on her own, he thought. I just hope I'm not too late...

[natpeabct]

Rad Scientists

As a group we have zeroed in on an educational game. Initially we were hesitant as it wasn’t one of the eight aesthetics of play however we feel as though discovery and expression are our core pillars. 

Today Charles ran an exercise where we all were given post-it notes and and to silently write down as many ideas pertaining to our core aim as possible and as quickly as possible. This was to shut us up and give a platform for everyone to contribute without being drowned out by others with more volume. This worked well for us and we produce lots of ideas that we aim to incorporate into our interactive play. Having “loud” and “quiet” people in a group setting is inevitable and there has to be an understanding within that group of how to not have anyone person overbearing and shadowing others ideas, loud or quiet your ideas are valuable and this exercise gave everyones ideas value.  

The picture attached is the outcome of our shut up exercise and the string connecting them is the “mad scientist” aspect of it as we connected the ideas that dealt with similar aspects eg. game mechanics. 

As we move forward with our project we have begun looking at other games that share similarities with ours. Four of these being Scrabble, Balderdash, Fibbage and Story Dice. All four share an English language and/or creativity aspect. We hope to compare, contrast and explore the different mechanics/styles and aesthetics and use that as fuel for any changes. 

[thatgirlonstage]

Reading Challenge 25/7/18

Book: The Woman Who Would Be King by Kara Cooney

Read: p151-157, 12% of goal

Favorite Passage:

“In her early twenties, Hatshepsut had already taken the first steps in a manly direction by ordering her craftsmen to add some masculine elements to her feminine figures. They widened her shoulders and extended the stance of her legs, even in figures wearing a queen’s long dress, to give her the active pose of a king striding forth for duty. At this point in her reign, Hatshepsut was probably only conceding to add a masculine veneer to what was, at its core, a visibly feminine depiction of herself.

Hatshepsut chose the same blended male-female depictions in her statuary; it seems clear that she wanted to retain her female core at first. Her earliest three-dimensional images show a woman wearing a dress but the headgear of a king. Later she showed herself shirtless, ostensibly bare-chested like a man, but her incongruous retention of female breasts on the naked chest makes for a shocking image. The most famous example shows her wearing a masculine kilt and kingly headscarf with a completely bare chest, accentuated by small, but clearly feminine, breasts. The statue’s body shape betrays a slight and slim woman, not the typical strong shoulders of a masculine king. Most Egyptologists doubt that Hatshepsut wandered about the palace in such attire, with her pert breasts bared for all her courtiers to see, and it should come as no surprise that this statue type, such an experiment in hybrid sexuality, was not replicated, nor displayed openly before the populace, but only kept in the innermost rooms of Hatshepsut’s Djeser Djeseru temple, where the mysteries of Hatshepsut’s female kingship could be appreciated by those intellectual enough to understand it and by the gods who had ordained it. This openly feminine representation was deemed too problematic. Soon Hatshepsut would shift all her images to a broad-shouldered man’s body accentuated by strong pectoral muscles and wide shoulders—with no visible breasts.”

Webcomic: Damn it all to Hell by kaos

Read: Episodes 1-8, 9% of goal

Favorite Passage:

Total Reading: 21% of goal

Ongoing reading projects:

Bolded means I read the most recent update today! Strikethrough means I’m caught up and waiting for an update. Plain text means I’ve fallen behind, or that I’m in the process of reading through it.

Original Webcomics:

Aerial Magic | Ava’s Demon | Awaken | Balderdash! | Beyond the Canopy | The Boy Who Fell | Cucumber Quest | Damn it all to Hell *NEW* | Hearstopper | Monsterkind | Namesake | Paranatural | Wilde Life

Fan comics:

Bark and Bite | Blue Paladin’s Journey | SVTFOE Ship War AU | The Tale of Tashi and Nima | Wavelength AU

Manga/Print Comics:

Boku no Hero Academia | Boku no Hero Academia: Illegals | Providence | Sandman

[stripesthesupervillain]

The Mad Hatter’s Guide to Happiness: Chapter 13

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Chapter 13.5

Well... here it is. This chapter. 

I tried my best.

Summary: Jonathan visits his family’s chapel in an effort to gain some type of closure.

Don’t want to read it here? Check out my Ao3!

“Dear Jonathan Crane,

We hope this letter finds you well.

It has come to our attention that you had gone uninformed due to your status at Arkham Asylum. Because of this, we were unable to get this letter to you on time.

We regret to inform you of the death of your mother, Karen Keeny. She died in her sleep after being diagnosed with a lethal respiratory infection. Our sympathies go out to you.

We feel for you on this tragedy, and we pray for your speedy recovery at Arkham and your good health.

We wish you well and hope you're able to visit some day when you're released. Stay strong and remember the good memories.

With our condolences,

The Georgia State Funeral Home.”

Jervis paused for a moment, folding the letter back in half. “Signed… three months ago.” He didn’t bother to look up at Jonathan, already knowing the man was shaking with barely contained rage. He was on thin ice and he knew it, but at this point, he didn’t care.

“I did a bit of research,” he spoke gently. “It was not difficult to find this place, I assure you. Everyone under the sun knows about you here, after all. I found out your great-grandmother was buried here, since it’s her private property, after all.” He took in a breath, choosing his words carefully. “All it said was that she was buried back in her hometown of Arlen, here. And, well, after a bit of thinking…”

“What are you trying to achieve here?” Jonathan interrupted, snatching the letter away and crushing it in his hand. He gave Jervis an accusing look. “Is some form of payback to you?” he sneered, his hand clenched around the now ruined piece of paper. “Did Nygma put you up to this somehow? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“No one brought you here but yourself,” Jervis denied. The reaction was immediate; Jonathan was tight-lipped as he held himself back from strangling him right then and there. Despite being in the wrong end of those hateful feelings, the Hatter could understand. A man who liked to control most of the conversations he had, even with psychiatrists, being talked down to was something that easily struck Jonathan in his core and pushed all the wrong buttons. Still, Tetch continued with a deep breath.  

“I believe we both know by now that your venture for the formula was balderdash from the start,” he went on. “You came here for a reason, Jonathan. I know this may not be news to you, but you have problems. Many problems that cannot be fixed with simple drugs or a few years of counseling, and I’m sure you know that by now, given your previous profession.” He dropped his eyes for second, trying to clear his thoughts as he attempted to be as delicate as possible. “I am just as sure you know that you wouldn’t have been able to do this yourself.”

“Nonsense! I was able to kill my own mother. Or, well, I would have, had I not been interrupted,” Jonathan spat.

“That was killing,” Jervis persisted. “You’re good at killing your problems away, not confronting them. You were never here to kill anyone, you were here to confront what was left behind, but you’re not very skilled in that matter. Suppose someone tries to get close or even help you, you push them away. Now now, given our line of work, that’s not completely out of the norm, but Jonathan, you almost killed Edward this morning. For a moment there, I could have mistaken you for the Joker. You are  angry. You are hurting. You are unhappy because you’ve been bearing this load for all of your life, and should you never confront this problem, you will never be happy again. You may think you’re an impenetrable fortress of steel that no vorpal blade can cut, but I know you, Jonathan. You are the Master of Fear, yes, but sometimes you forget that you are still human. Every single one of us has accepted what has happened to us, but for some reason, you’re unable to let go, and the fact we’re here proves that right now. That is why I am here. That’s why you mentioned the trip in the first place, because you knew I would follow along so you wouldn’t have to do all of this yourself. Now, if you want to leave this place right now, return to Gotham, and never speak of this event again, I am more than willing to do so. You just have to say so.”

Jonathan didn’t even hesitate. “Drive,” he ordered, sitting back in his chair and looking straight ahead.

Jervis blinked in surprise, having not expected that response, although he really should have. Blunt and straightforward, Jonathan didn’t ever hesitate. Although he had been hoping to make some sort of progress here, and even felt a little bit of pain in this moment, he was a man of his word. He frowned, looked down, and began fiddling with the wires underneath the steering wheel. Jonathan remained silent, being sure not to look out the window and towards the chapel looming not far off in the distance.

Before long, the car was started, and Jervis took a small breath as he took one last look at Jonathan. Crane gave no reaction, merely staring straight ahead with his arms crossed expectantly.

Jervis grimaced, sighed, and began to drive.

“Stop.”

The car had only moved a dozen feet before it came to a halt once again on Jonathan’s orders. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he seemed to be having an internal conflict. “I’m genuinely angry I let you talk to me like I’m some sort of patient to you,” he muttered, before letting out a strained sigh. He looked up and back at Jervis. “However… you’re right,” he conceded. “I need to get this off of my chest… just this once. Then I can leave it behind me forever.” The smaller man gave him a small smile, giving him a small touch on the arm to let him know he would be there with him. With that, they stepped out of the car, looking up towards the dark building further ahead.

Jonathan was clearly hesitant, but Jervis walked up ahead, giving him a supportive nod. He took in a deep breath, steeled himself, and began to walk, heading up the path and towards the gray, aged chapel. Jervis watched him pass by, smiling to himself as he followed after him.

Jonathan had misjudged how much they had slept, seeing as how he was never actually given the time. Once they had their heads shadowed by the thin layer of foliage above them, a bit of orange could be seen staining the few clouds in the sky. Both men didn’t seem to be too bothered, however, concentrated on the stone-bricked church that sat between two small grass-covered mounds. Jervis noticed a large stone cross just jutting out of the over-grown grass, tilting over to one side. It almost looked like one of those tombstones you would put on someone’s grave, what with the circle capturing the intersection of the cross. He would have thought it was a grave if it wasn’t so astoundingly large. Turning his attention back to the chapel, he found himself noting its rundown appearance, only adding to it’s haunting characteristics. Relatively small in size for any church he’d ever seen, but then again, one who wasn’t the religious type doesn’t really pay attention to the sizes of churches without reason. Vines had already infiltrated the gray stone and lined the walls, causing thin cracks to ebb the building. He traced them with his eyes, noticing they led up to stone-framed windows barred off with wrought iron, which were halved with spade tips. What really caught his attention, however, was now there was a nest perched upon the iron bars, just barely enough room for it and the crow to sit under the protection of the window’s frame. Speaking of crows, he only now noticed that there were more than just the one. Taking a look around, he gulped when he saw the near dozen black birds watching them from the trees and rooftop, perched in their nests and staring down at the two of them with glassy black eyes. Jervis had to admit they made him feel rather uneasy, despite them being a flock of measly birds. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, however, and instead kept focus as he approached the giant double doors. The wooden entrance was covered in spray paint, from what had to be reckless teens on a dare, showing gang tags or just to say something rude or as a tribute to the Master of Fear himself. Seeing as that the entire place wasn’t covered with the tags let them know this place wasn’t traveled to very often.

Jonathan noticed a broken chain and lock fallen to the floor near the doorway. Obviously an attempt to ward people off had been taken, but it seemed ineffective. He paused, looking down at it, finding it strange that others had been here at all. Still, he paid it no mind as he moved forward, pushing open the doors with a loud creak of the rusted hinges, leading to a few startled crows.

Speaking of which…

Jervis was startled to see even more crows populating the area, at least a good five or so nested in the pews of the chapel. “It appears you have a bit of a bird infestation,” he murmured, noticing how they seemed to watch him and Jonathan as they moved. The lankier man didn’t reply, instead going and standing where the rows of pews ended, in the center of the church and where the podium would usually be placed. Faint rays of light peered through what little space there was in the windows and decayed roof, the light seeming to center around the sole spot Jonathan stood.

Jonathan stopped there, looking up at the ceiling; age had not been kind to it. Mortar had worn away and bits of the foundation had begun to crumbled after all these years. A crow flew in from one of the open spaces, landing close to Jonathan’s feet and taking a moment to clean its feathers. He looked down at the small, considering it for a moment. He shifted his shoe towards closer towards it, watching the avian hop back an inch or so, but otherwise not move at all.

“These crows used to attack me, did you know?” Jervis perked up when Jonathan’s voice broke the silence. He tilted his head slightly, not understanding. “Pardon?” he asked for clarification.

Jonathan watched the crow in momentary silence, before turning his back to Jervis and looking up at the large wooden cross perched up on the wall and overlooking the entire church. “She would lock me in here in a dingy suit covered in putrid chemicals, and she’d sing. The crows would attack me. They’d peck and they’d claw and they’d hurt me, and she would just sing her church hymns as I screamed for mercy.” He paused, letting out a shaky exhale. “Her favorite had always been ‘Amazing Grace’.”

Another crow landed beside the first, ruffling its feathers. Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, still staring up at the cross. “As I grew older, I began to understand. I understood why she hurt me. I understood why the crows attacked me relentlessly. I understood why the other kids began to pick on me. However…. The singing. I couldn’t get the singing. Was she trying to drown out my screaming? Was this some bizarre plead for forgiveness?” His hands clenched. “I still can’t understand, and I think about it more than I’d like to admit. “It… it…” The words were on his lips, but he couldn’t seem to force them out. “It changed me. These birds, they pecked and they clawed, but they weren’t what hurt me. She hurt me. Changed me. Now, she’s gone and all that’s left of here are these crows.”

“They’re not scared of you,” Jervis noted softly, tipping his hat up slightly to get a better look at the scene. “And nor I of them,” Jonathan hummed softly, looking back down at the birds. “But… I still let her affect me to this day. As I grew older, I grew angrier. I couldn’t take it out on anything, and when you just begin to bottle all those emotions up, it just… breaks you. I stopped being able to relate to others. I couldn’t understand why the other kids were happy, nor why they still found it necessary to torment me. I stopped being able to feel sorry about myself or content anymore; I began pushing away everyone else. I wasn’t able to trust anyone anymore. I started wanting to hurt people, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to kill people, oh no, I wanted to hurt them. Beat them. Make them fear me. I thought that these feelings would die once I disposed of her, but they never went away. That event, along with killing all of my tormenters, was the only joy I had felt in… in years.” He let out a humorless chuckle and folded his arms, looking straight ahead. “I began to put all the blame on my mother. I thought that if I killed all of the people I held responsible for my misery, I would finally be happy.”

Jervis decided to stay silent, letting Jonathan speak. This was the first time he had heard about any of this. He feared interrupting it would wreck Jonathan’s concentration.

“Of course… I never got the chance,” he continued. “Even if I did… I’m sure it wouldn’t have changed anything. I never made plans to do so afterwards… I just tried to push her out of my mind.”

Jonathan lowered his head. The fading sunlight had shifted to a soft red, becoming dimmer as he stood there in the center of the ruined church. He let out an exhale, one that Jervis noticed a tremor in. With a turn of his head, he walked out of the church, not even taking a glance at the other man, who was left to watch him. Tetch looked back at the crows as Jonathan exited the building, most likely going back to the car. While it was much less eventful than he had hoped for, it was something. With curiosity, he slowly strolled over to the crows, approaching them with the same slow walk the lankier man had treated them with only a few minutes ago. Sure enough, as soon as he got close, they scattered with a caw and a few beats of their wings. Jervis blinked in surprise, watching them fly out of the open stone windows. He frowned, looking back at the other crows in the pews. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured, walking outside to catch up with his friend.

When he exited the double doors, he noticed Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. That was odd, seeing as if he was heading back to the car at a walking speed, he would still be in view; he honestly doubted Jonathan would sprint back to the car, but he wouldn’t past him. Still, he became curious, as one would, and decided to see if Jonathan had traveled anywhere else around the church.

Sure enough, Jervis only needed to walk several feet over to the side of the chapel to notice Jonathan standing a good hundred feet away. He was in front of the giant stone cross he had noticed upon entering the shrouded environment. He stood with his back to the Hatter in silence, as if considering something.  

Jervis approached him from behind, keeping his distance when he noticed just what he was looking down at.

Two grave plots were placed before the cross, several feet from each other. One was clearly aged, the small tombstone that used to mark it having been decimated by graffiti and what mist have been a sledgehammer. Almost nothing was really legible, except maybe the last few letters of her surname. However, the one next to it was almost untouched. The lack of grass showed the area had been recently disturbed, and the gravestone itself was completely blank, save for the words “Servant of God” engraved on the top. Jervis didn’t need to guess to know who these two belonged to, as well as which one was which.

"There she is. She's dead. All these years and she's really dead. I almost can't believe it," he heard him murmur, a hand on his chest and the other arm folded under and supporting the elbow. Jervis walked up, standing beside him and giving him a quick glance. Jonathan only stared emptily forward, silent; however, there seemed to almost be a glimmer in his eye.

“She felt guilty, did you know that?” Jonathan whispered. Jervis turned his attention away from the graves and to his friend, staying quiet and keeping his thoughts to himself. He would have responded had he not heard the slight quake in his voice. “She… actually felt guilty,” he continued. “But… not for abandoning her first. Not for leaving me with that monster and suffering for years while she went off like a fucking-…” Jonathan’s hand clenched against his chest. “She… she felt guilty about all the people who had died. The people who tormented me. Who had hurt me. Who had caused me to suffer. Not once had she ever tried to contact me. Never did she write me, or give me some type of closure. I… I was nothing to her. I was a criminal. And that…” His breathing hitched softly as his voice began to tremble further. His sigh was shaky as he continued to talk. “That… hurt me. It scared me to know tha-that the only thing she ever felt towards me was not remorse; not anger or disappointment or worry or hurt, but fear. Just fear… Ironic, isn’t it? Now that she’s dead, I would have preferred any other reaction.” He made an attempt at another humorless chuckle, but it faltered as he breathing became heavier and his knuckles turned white. It had begun to get harder to breathe. “I… hate you.”

Jervis didn’t speak, knowing the harsh words weren’t meant for him.  

Jonathan rubbed at his eyes with the balls of his wrist. “I… hate you…” he repeated, his breathing hitching once more as he attempted to speak properly. “I hate you. I hate you. I-I hate you. I hate you I hate you I h-hate you I ha-ate you.” His voice gradually grew louder, but the words only began to unravel more. “I-I hate you I hate you I hate you I h-hate you I hate you I haTE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

Jonathan’s body shook as he had stopped trying to clear his eyes. His thin frame quaked, jerking as he tried to take in lungfuls of air as he expelled near silent sobs.  

Jervis stood by, listening to him mumble his hatred under his breath in between chokes in his voice. The sky had turned a scarlet and was fading into the vivid shades of magenta that brought the night. Still, the Hatter did not mind, placing a gentle hand on the Scarecrow’s shoulder to let him know he was right there.

Darkness had almost completely set by the time Jonathan was able to pull himself back together, his breathing slowing and his mumbling coming to a halt. He was still nearly doubled over, his sleeves wet after wiping away any tears left over. It had seemed to be that the worst had passed. “Hatter…” he muttered under his breath, catching the attention of the denizen of Wonderland.  

Before Jervis even realized what had happened, he was pulled into a large embrace by the lankier man,  being given an uncharacteristically tight squeeze for only a moment. Just as quickly as it had started, however, it was gone. Jonathan had pulled himself away, standing straight up once again and dusting himself off. He had dried his face and seemed to have pulled himself together. Once he was finished fixing his sleeves, he took in a deep breath, and looked down at Jervis. “Can we please go back to Gotham now?” he asked, his attempt at a proper question devolving into an exhausted sigh.

Jervis, who had only just now regained an idea of what had just happened, look up at Jonathan and cracked a smile. “Of course. Let’s get out of this mimsy place,” he sighed. “Even this place has gotten too mad for my taste.”

The two trudged back to the car, one emotionally drained and the other finally able to understand why Jonathan wanted to go home so badly. This entire trip was just mentally exhausting.

“So, how do you feel right about now?” Jervis sighed, getting into the driver’s seat whilst the other slid into the passenger side. “Exhausted, stuffy, weak, pathetic, and ashamed,” Jonathan replied bluntly, buckling in and crossing his arms as he looked ahead. “However… I’ll admit that I feel better.” He smirked slightly. “I suppose I needed that more than I was willing to admit.”

“I just feel hungry,” Jervis murmured, now finally paying attention to his own needs for once that day. “And I’m craving a nice cup of tea.”

“Oh, when are you not?” Jonathan scoffed, before looking over at him. “By the way, should you tell anyone about this-“

“Even the Dormouse?”

“Especially the Dormouse, your body will never be found.”

Jervis just grimaced, having already heard these threats a million times already. “So, are you ready for the trip ahead?” he asked him, only to receive a shrug. “Perhaps,” Jonathan sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms one last time. He looked absolutely tired, despite just having nearly half a day of sleep earlier. His shoulder were slumped and he no longer held that strict posture he always forced himself to uphold. He just seemed tired. “I feel miserable,” he muttered. “Cheer me up.”

Jervis looked over in slight confusion. “Pardon me?” he replied, requesting him to clarify. “Jervis, I’m emotionally drained, I have a gunshot wound in my arm, we’re probably being chased by the Bat, and I’ve just realized I brought someone with me across southern United States in a much-too-small car and killed over twenty people just so I could have a twenty-minute crying session in front of them. I’m ashamed, embarrassed, and we’re in physical pain. I am feeling absolutely awful right now,” he complained, running a hand through his unkempt red hair. “You’re always good at cheering Nygma and I up even when we don’t want your presence. Do something.”

The Englishman grimaced as a reaction. “Oh, so I’m just a form of entertainment, am I?” he questioned, though it was clear he wasn’t taking this seriously at all. “Oh don’t give me that,” Jonathan huffed. “Go on. You usually have a knack for a good distraction. Say something that will irritate me like you always do. Something annoying or will start a debate. Something that will take my mind off of all this mess. I want to think about something else. Anything else.”

Jervis furrowed his brow, looking down. “Jon?”

“Yes?” Crane replied, looking over.

“Remember when you were talking about your mother?”

“It happened twenty minutes ago.”

“And you were saying you hated her over and over again?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Why are you bringing this up?”

“Jon?”

“What are- yes?”

“You had an accent again.”

Jonathan stopped, staring ahead. “That should just about do it. Let’s get out of here.”

“It was the same word. ‘You.’”

“You can drive now, Tetch.”

“You said it a very silly way again. Almost like ‘yew’.”

“Jervis, please start driving.”

“You seem to have trouble with that word.”

“Hatter I swear on whatever messed up god you believe in-“ Scarecrow hissed, causing Jervis to just break into a soft chuckle and began getting the car to start. Once the engine had turned on and the car was ready, he sat back in his seat, a small smile gracing his face. He looked over at Jonathan, who just looked like he wanted to take a nap and never wake up again. He thought back to the events he had just experienced; the crows, the graves, Jonathan expressing despair for the first time since they had met years earlier. It made him smile softly, feeling as though he had done something right for once. Not just right when it came to his line of work, but the entire experience just made him feel better.

“Hare,” he spoke softly, catching the other’s attention rather quickly. “What?” the March Hare sighed with an impatient tone. Jervis didn’t let it impact him, though; that was just how Jonathan was. “If you ever feel the need to, well, talk about something, Edward and I are always here to hear you out. At least one of us should be. You just need to say so. We will keep it all between us. No one else has to know about this ever.”

Jonathan merely scoffed in response, looking away from him. “I'm still angry I'm not the one who's saying all this fluff to you instead.” He paused, resting his hand in his lap. “Though, I’ll keep it in mind. I… I appreciate it, Hatter.”

With that, they left the rural area, neither one of them ever looking back.

[chingonabrujita]

The Role Of Science

As I stated before, research is going to be the cornerstone of this little project. It has to be, really. Scientific research tells us how the body works. The fields of anatomy and physiology tell us how the body is constructed and how it operates, respectively. Subsets of these fields, namely biomechanics, kinesiology, and exercise physiology, give us specific data on how the body moves and how it responds to physical activity. Without that information, we'd be stuck with a process of guesswork, and that's not good for anybody. It helps to understand what science actually is. I don't mean the pop-culture treatments of science; unless you've actually gone through some kind of post-secondary education, you may be convinced that science is what you see in TV shows. I can go ahead and tell you that it's not based on mad scientists working in hidden lairs; it's not rogue misunderstood geniuses making strides that the rest of the orthodoxy rejects. It's certainly not a 'belief system' that just happens to be opposed to emotion and faith. At its core, science is a process of observation and description. You see something happen, then figure out why it happened. That's all science is once you boil it down to the basics. You watch something happen, describe it in as much detail as you can, and then figure out why it happened. As you might imagine, this process can get quite in-depth, and most experiments will often raise more questions than they answer. Despite claims to the contrary, this is the greatest strength of science. It can update itself and constantly opens up new avenues to explore. We're always refining our knowledge and understanding. It's not a matter of having unchallenged absolute truth. It's a matter of constant learning. We've formalized this process into a series of steps called the scientific method. In broad terms, the researcher will come up with a hypothesis, design a way to test that hypothesis, then gather the data from that test to figure out what actually went on. A hypothesis is simply an idea or concept that can be tested: the sky is blue, grass is yellow. In reality, a hypothesis is usually very specific, some statement that can be tested in detail. When the average person says 'I have a theory...' and then goes off to talk about whatever he thinks about some subject, he's actually talking about a hypothesis, not a theory. In science, 'theory' has a different and specific meaning. The hypothesis is a question that needs to be tested, and thus either proved or disproved. The test of a scientist's hypothesis is the experiment. Experimentation has to be tightly controlled to ensure that there's nothing to confound the results. For example, if you're doing a study to figure out whether or not darkness helps you sleep, it won't do you much good to do it in a loud room. You'd have no way of knowing what was affecting sleep - is it darkness, or is it the fact that the room is loud and keeping your subjects awake? In this example, the loud noise is called a confounding variable, which makes it impossible to know if the thing you're studying is actually responsible for the effect. If you can't establish a cause-and-effect relationship, then it's impossible to say that X causes Y. This is why controlled research is important, to narrow down the exact cause of the effect we're watching. A big chunk of experimental design is about removing or minimizing confounding variables. If we don't do this, we can never be certain that there's a cause-and-effect relationship - we can't know if what we think is the cause is really the cause. When we have a hypothesis that stands up to repeated experiments, then it's formalized into a theory. Now as I mentioned, laymen tend to use theory and hypothesis interchangeably, implicitly meaning 'an idea I have about something or other'. In the science world, a theory is a hypothesis that has been tested and tested and tested again; through all that testing, it's remained true. A scientific theory has a proven track record, so we can assume that it holds true in all the circumstances we can test; certainly there's no reason to call it into question. Obvious examples of this would be things like gravity and germ theory. They've been tested so thoroughly that we just take for granted that they're true, though once upon a time they were just somebody's working hypothesis.

That leads to another thing I need to touch on. Scientific theories are explicitly designed to be falsified; they need to be tested and challenged. That doesn't mean we want them to be wrong; it means that we want them to be as accurate as possible, and this means they must be open to new data if they are wrong. A theory that has withstood scrutiny is a theory that's reliable. On the other side of the coin, a theory that's called into question by a new observation is a theory that will need to be updated – because it might be wrong. It's a process of constant refinement and learning. The ability to challenge and refine knowledge is the difference between a scientific theory and dogma. I can't emphasize this point enough. Science isn't about always being absolutely right - it's about being as right as possible with what we know. Case in point. Everyone's heard of the theory of gravity. Isaac Newton first formalized this back in the 18th century when he had a legendary run-in with an apple, or so the story holds. To this very day, Newton's ideas on gravity are considered fundamental to physics. Gravity is quite possibly the easiest of all theories to test, and I don't think anyone outside of Wile E. Coyote has ever come across an exception. Now, what would you say if I told you that Newton's theory of gravity is wrong? Poppycock? Balderdash? Not so fast. Back in the 1930s, one Albert Einstein came along with his theories of general and special relativity that stood Newton on his ear. Relativity is a complex mish-mash of concepts that are quite beyond this book, but the gist of it is that Newton was wrong - but only in circumstances that don't tend to arise on Earth (astronauts can notice the difference down to billionths of a second due to the difference in gravity in orbit, but that's about it). As far as anyone on our planet is concerned from day to day, Newton is absolutely correct. Yet he was still wrong. So what happened? Well, modern physics is still using Newton's concepts of gravitation because they're still accurate. We only invoke Einstein under those conditions where relativity fits better - when things are moving very fast, or when things are very very heavy. The classical theory of gravity, as Newton's work is known, wasn't thrown out; it was improved. Newton wasn't wrong, he was just incomplete. He simply didn't have any way to test things in the way Einstein did, and since it was completely irrelevant the the world of humans, it didn't matter. It was only when we reached out for further understanding that we discovered the greater detail. That's the role of a theory in science: it will stand as long no new information contradicts it. When we're talking about a well-tested and well-understood theory, the odds of it being thrown out completely are next to zero. Gravity isn't going anywhere, as one example. If something comes along to expand on the theory of relativity, you can guarantee that we'll still rely on Einstein's work. The new theory will only define new phenomena – it won't contradict anything we already know or anything we've already observed. Theories are refined and improved, but very rarely are they contradicted. This is unfortunate in an age where we have a sensationalist media that thrives on controversy, because they'll make it seem like any minor flaw or issue is suddenly a 'great controversy'. I don't care what the news or some web article tells you, science just doesn't operate like that. The reality is that we understand a great deal of how the final picture will look; missing a few pieces doesn't change that. Mass-media science reporting would have you believe that a puzzle, obviously creating a picture of a mountain, was really showing you a cat – just because you were missing the piece that contained the mountain peak.

It's never about absolutes, really (you see what I did there?). The point is not to think as right/wrong, but 'most likely correct' or 'probably not possible' based on the current body of evidence. When a scientist says something will 'never' happen, the implied meaning is 'so unlikely based on what we know that for all purposes it will never happen'. This is alien to a society so used to thinking in simple polarized terms like good vs. evil, but that's how things are. Which brings me to the field of exercise science. Unlike physics, chemistry, or even biology, exercise science isn't a fundamental subject. It's a subset of physiology that looks at how the body responds to physical activity. What this means is that in practice, it's not a very specific or well-understood field in comparison to others. Exercise science is comparatively vague, leaving open a lot of room for interpretation. There's as much creativity, and dare I say art, involved in the field of physical conditioning as there is genuine research. Aha! Science can't tell us anything! Not quite - the whole discussion on the scientific method throws that reasoning out the window. Just because we haven't finished the puzzle doesn't mean we can't tell what the final picture is going to look like. Exercise science still has quite a bit to tell us. The trick here is parsing it into useful terms, not just throwing it all out because it's not 100% complete. A lot of people seem to think that science has to give you a specific workout program, and never ever be wrong, in order to be useful. A lot of people will put science on the back burner, giving more credence to their own experiences. In both cases (and plenty of others) this boils down to people just not understanding the role that science plays - and not understanding how to apply the information that it gives us. Like any field, you'll start out with a broad understanding. With time and research, the knowledge will gradually filter down to greater detail; and that's the real power here. By narrowing things down, research establishes boundaries. It doesn't necessarily give us specific details and protocols, and you wouldn't expect it to do this. But it does give us general starting points. Most important of all, it tells us what doesn't work. You may wonder why that's important. Why should you care what you can't do? You want to lift weights, and you need a program to do that, right? It's important so that you can see through misinformation. Further, knowing what not to do is how we establish starting points. You'll always rely on trial and error to some degree, but you can make that process much easier by ruling out things that won't be productive. All that said, we have to be careful. Research does have very real limitations and we have to acknowledge those. Too many people treat research like an almighty gospel, as if presenting an abstract or two can justify any claim. It doesn't work that way either. When you look at a research paper, you'll find some common themes. First and most notable is the abstract, which is a brief summary of the research and the results of the experiment. This is useful because it lets you get the key details with a quick glance. A well-written abstract will cover all the bases and give you the idea of what the paper is describing. However, there are nuances and subtleties that an abstract just can't convey, and when we're interpreting a paper to figure out how useful it is, you have to look at the whole thing to make sure it's applicable. Research papers are written with certain common content. They'll all go into details on their initial hypothesis, or what they're wanting to test out; they give details regarding the actual experiment, including who or what was the subject, how the experiment was performed, how data was collected and so on; they'll detail the results of the experiment and any data collected; and finally the authors will usually discuss the results, how they relate to existing research, and what can be taken away from the paper. This is all done for good reason. Research is all about transparency. If you go into detail with regards to everything you did, then other researchers can duplicate your results and confirm your results. If you make an unusual choice in your experimental design, people can see that and note it. If your results don't fit with the rest of the data, you can explain why: maybe it was something to do with your actual test, or maybe it had to do with how you collected your data. In short, you have to consider a lot of variables when you're interpreting a study. In exercise-related research, there's a few recurring issues we have to look at in particular. Most research into exercise deals with either aerobic exercise or with rehabilitation. As you might gather, this isn't terribly useful for generalizing into strength-training concepts, let alone something specialized like bodybuilding. Although the West is starting to catch up, a lot of what you read about is actually taken from older Soviet-era information, which, while not bad necessarily, can be hard to corroborate. Once we start to look at the Western research into actual strength exercise, we start to see a common theme: 'untrained subjects'. Now, in some ways this is good because at least it's done in humans. However we run into some potentially major issues because we've seen it demonstrated repeatedly that an untrained person just doesn't respond the same way as someone with years of experience. Lots of strength-training studies will demonstrate amazing results in untrained subjects, but comparatively few of them account for this so-called 'newbie effect'. Beginners can get away with lots of things; often they will still improve in spite of what they do, not because of it. When we're trying to establish a cause-and-effect relationship, this can throw a huge wrench into things. It gets worse. The bulk of the research into the actual biochemistry and physiology is done in rats. While there's a lot of similarities in humans and rats, there's a lot of differences too. There's plenty of examples where things that happened in rats didn't pan out in humans; that's a big weakness. This is a favorite tactic of the supplement industry, actually. They love taking some rat research or weakly applicable research in humans and then claiming it supports their new magic product. They conveniently ignore the fact that not only is that data not applicable, but they also have exactly nothing showing their claimed results in humans. Besides the claims of the product users, of course - but that's not placebo effect or anything. See also my earlier point about controlling for variables; when you don't perform research in controlled conditions, you can't be sure that your attributed cause is creating the effect. Since giving out free supplements to bodybuilders is almost the definition of 'bias' and 'placebo effect', these testimonials have to be considered highly suspect. And of course all of these objections can apply just as easily to any workout routine, or any study that looks at strength training. The good news is that recent years have given us a good number of studies that have started looking at these factors in humans. It's still not perfect, but the picture is shaping up to be much clearer than it ever has been.

Finally, there's a limit to the resolution of research as it applies to any single individual. It simply can't apply to every last person in a literal sense. There's always going to be some deviation from this norm. This is where the creativity and trial-and-error aspects come into it. We can establish general starting points and guidelines, but these are derived from statistical analysis. Your mileage may vary, and in fact it's highly likely to deviate from the general rules by at least some degree. I say this because one of the big objections I see is that science 'doesn't apply'. I have a hard time seeing how that can be the case; by definition, science just watches and describes. To say that science 'doesn't apply' would be suggesting that somehow your body just happens to differ from everyone else's body. Last I checked, humans all had the same basic physiology. Your body will have specific responses within the boundaries that research describes, but you won't ever do something that's just completely out of left field. There are ways to account for your individual needs, though, and the fortunate thing is that nobody will deviate that much from the baseline. You need to adjust things to the individual, yes, but that doesn't give you permission to go do anything you feel like just because 'everybody's different'. You still have to obey the guidelines, even if you have flexibility within those guidelines.

To see more about bodybuilding and training advice please follow our blog. We offer MK 677 Reviews and Roidtest videos with links to products

[versatilepoetry]

Inspired Me All The More.

Don't you worry sweetheart. Your relentless kicks of ridicule towards my impoverished form; inspired me all the more; to give invincible fortitude to all those infirm on this planet; haplessly deteriorating on every step they tread, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your contemptuously ostracizing stare towards my creative fantasizing; inspired me all the more; to evolve into a whole new unlimited gorge of regurgitating freshness, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your unsparingly lambasting every ingredient of my unparalleled sensitivity; inspired me all the more; to perennially stir the chords of compassion amongst all those with an inexplicably shattered soul, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your snobbishly ignoring even the most genuine screams of my agony; inspired me all the more; to lend a commiserating ear; to all those who had none else than the walls to converse, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your unfathomable disdain towards my writing my own books of poetry at home; inspired me all the more; tospawn rejuvenating verse for all those miserably circumscribed by the walls of the inevitable fodder-yielding; robotic corporate office, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your stony silence towards even the greatest of my triumphs and accomplishments; inspired me all the more; to ebulliently pat my fellow compatriots; as they inched towards their ultimate philanthropic paths in life, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your using me and every ounce of my cherishable assets; inspired me all the more; to unrelentingly look out for all those patrons on this fathomless Universe; who inherently admired me solely for what I was; and as I was born, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your vindictively exploiting some of my inadvertently acquired weaknesses; inspired me all the more; to encourage all those flagrantly depressed; to perpetually conquer the devil in them; with their in-born souls of divine righteousness, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your tyrannical blackmailing me to mollify even the most infinitesimal of your desire; inspired me all the more; to extend my healing hands to all those sinfully divested of the joys and rhapsodies of miraculously vibrant life, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your lividly don't-carish attitude towards each act of my poignantly overwhelming concern for you; inspired me all the more; to tirelessly render every ingredient of my existence to the selfless service of all miserably extinguishing and jailed humanity, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your spurious cleansing of the dust over my heart-felt poems instead of reading them; inspired me all the more; to perpetuate their timeless essence to even the further-most cranny of this boundlessly effulgent Universe, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your envying me from the core of your heart whilst others of your kind kept incessantly chatting of their hubbies; inspired me all the more; to appreciate the richest of the richest philanthropists on this earth; with the greatest of humility, Don't your worry sweetheart. Your viciously abusing me right infront of my very own kin for my sheer innocence of commercial life; inspired me all the more; to become the voice of all those diabolically oppressed by the uncanny vagaries of the uncouth planet, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your lackadaisically turning your head to the direction of the dustbin at every sensuous whisper of mine; inspired me all the more; to coalesce every ingredient of my mind; body and soul; with the ravishingly spell-binding landscapes of mother nature, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your finding time to read and admire even the most meaningless piece of balderdash on this Universe-whilst making a worthless stool of my priceless poetry to sit upon; inspired me all the more; to recite each line of my heart-rendering verse to the Almighty Lord in the sky, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your unabashedly devouring the most appetizing morsels of food on this earth whilst merrily watching me starve; inspired me all the more; to disseminate every penny of my wealth towards the blissful fulfillment of every haplessly deteriorating living kind, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your lifelessly switching over to the other side of the bed -everytime I came with an inferno of unbridled compassion in my eyes; inspired me all the more; to inexhaustibly romance with the voluptuously igniting fabric of the beautiful night, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your over-indulgence in every other conceivable activity on earth-except looking towards my passionate form; inspired me all the more; to uninhibitedly languish on the open streets; indefatigably searching for my ultimate soul mate in life, Don't you worry sweetheart. Your unthinkably divorcing me- just in order to lead a life of unprecedented luxury-seducing the richest kings of your choice; inspired me all the more; to forever surrender each instant of my life to the Creator; marry the innermost tunes of my heart; which were unbreakable and inseparable for an infinite more lifetimes.

[paulflynnunrevised]

From my election website

In many years serving Newport as an MP I have never lied to my constituents.

My main challenger in this election begins with what is, at best, an attempt to mis-inform, at worst, a lie. She claims to be the only candidate who backs the PM’s line on Brexit. UNTRUE. I already did-by voting for Article 50. Ignorance of that fact is no excuse. I have made clear that as a Remainer as was my Tory opponent, I fully accept the democratic vote of the people of Newport. I have already been working for a good deal for Newport’s Airbus and steel jobs and for the best settlement for the environment.

Had they checked, Newport Tories, would have found that I have been very active as a member of the Welsh Affairs Committee pursuing this aim including a visit to Brussels to probe Welsh hopes post-Brexit.

This unnecessary election was called on the falsehood that parliament threatens Mrs May’s Brexit plan. Balderdash! The PM says she is worried about opposition from SNP and LibDem votes. That’s a total of 60 against 650! Some threat. The Commons voted 494 votes to 122. Even the Lords have agreed to accept Mrs May’s plan. To suggest otherwise is an untruth. What a terrible start for someone hoping to represent this city of democracy. Indulging in a cheap deception is unworthy.

Deepening the Divide There is a great deal of empty posturing from the parties after the Manchester tragedy. Most of it is unconvincing self-justification. Of course our foreign policies have increased terrorist attacks. Read below how hundreds of recruits to our armed forces were assured that putting their lives on the line in Iraq and Afghanistan stopped terrorists from attacking us here. I called that a ‘lie’ at the time. I was expelled from the Commons for refusing to withdraw the word ‘lie’. It was then and remains now entirely justified. On the question of being wise before the event, in late March 2003, I wrote to Tony Blair about Iraq:

“Our involvement in Bush’s war will increase the likelihood of terrorist attacks. Attacking a Muslim state without achieving a fair settlement of the Palestine–Israeli situation is an affront to Muslims, from our local mosques to the far-flung corners of the world. A pre-emptive attack of the kind we have made on Iraq will only deepen the sense of grievance among Muslims that the Western/Christian/Jewish world is out to oppress them. This will provide a propaganda victory to Osama Bin Laden and can only increase his support and the likelihood of more acts of terrorism.

In the Commons you repeated that it is an article of faith to you that Britain and the USA should have a common foreign policy. Fine when there is an American President such as Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Carter or Clinton: disastrous when it is a right wing fundamentalist Republican such as Bush.”

September 19th 2012

Hammond offered a despicable justification for more war without ending. ‘Four hundred and thirty British service personnel have given their lives, and we intend to protect that legacy by ensuring that the UK’s national security interests are protected in future by training and mentoring the Afghan national security forces.’

His argument is, to justify the waste of 430 lives by foolish politicians, more lives should be lost. Since the expulsion of al-Qaida there has been no threat to British security from Afghanistan. The Taliban attack us because we are occupying their country not because they plan terrorism on the streets of the UK.

Later on Monday afternoon I began to read the list of the fallen in Afghanistan. 25 of my Early Day Motions have filled 13 pages of the Commons motions paper for the past two weeks. I previously sought an arrangement for the full list to be read in the Commons. The Speaker courteously stopped me. ‘Mr. Flynn raised with me his view that there should be a formal oral recording, periodically, of lives lost, and asked me to look into the matter. I said that I would, and I am doing so, and I think it wise to proceed on the basis of consultation. I intend to speak very soon to the Leader of the House, the shadow Leader of the House and various others about the matter, and then to revert to the hon. Gentleman.’ I was delighted with that assurance and ended the reading.

Tuesday dawned with the news that ISAF had fallen for the precise Taliban trick that Hammond said would never fool him. Humiliated, he was dragged back again to the Commons.

I asked: ‘The role of our brave soldiers is to act as human shields for Ministers’ reputations. The danger to our soldiers has been prolonged by those on the Front Bench who have the power to stop it. Other countries have removed their soldiers and are not doing, what we are doing, in arming and training our future enemy. Is this not similar to the end of the First World War, when it was said that politicians lied and soldiers died, and the reality was, as it is now, that our brave soldier lions were being led by ministerial donkeys?’

The Speaker asked me to make clear if I was saying a Minister was lying. There was only one possible answer. My head was full of the deceptions of vain ministers since 2006, the avoidable 430 deaths and 2,000 soldiers who return home broken in mind and body.

‘Yes, ministers had lied’ I said. Exclusion was inevitable and a price worth paying.

April 16th 2016

Paul Flynn I am very much enjoying the hon. Gentleman’s authoritative speech. Will he confirm what he has just said, because it is a matter of some importance? I was expelled from the House for saying the same thing some years ago. Will he confirm that the story that those young people going to Afghanistan were actually stopping terrorism on the streets of Britain was an untruth; that those people were deluded into going there in the belief that they were defending their families here; and that the only reason the Taliban were killing our soldiers in Afghanistan was that we were there and that as soon as we came out they lost interest? Does he think that there was a continuing deception of our soldiers, many of whom lost their lives?

Mr Adam Holloway (Tory MP)

I entirely agree with the hon. Gentleman in the sense that the original invasion of Afghanistan was highly effective and that the Afghan people essentially removed al-Qaeda and the Taliban, but unfortunately it was the disastrous NATO deployment to Afghanistan that whipped up the insurgency. I shall come on to that point in a minute if I may.

As I was saying, people do not get promoted for telling the truth. I sent my first draft of this speech to a friend who is a well-known and courageous BBC foreign correspondent. He emailed me, saying, “Reminds me of being attacked for negative coverage that I put out in Iraq and Afghanistan by officials who later admitted, either privately or in memoirs, that things were actually worse than I was saying in my news reports.”

The agony of Manchester will haunt us forever May 25, 2017 Edit Leave a comment The memories of the faces of children and others photographed in happy times have moved us all especially when we hear of the futile brutality of their deaths. The shock and hopelessness gives way to facile solutions.

Beware the posturing of politicians and groups with vested interests. We have drifted into a world of division between the west and east which cannot be swiftly resolved. During my time on the Home Affairs Committee we sought solutions. The imperfect Prevent programme and court orders were welcomed and all found wanting. Blame was easy where the failures were paraded before the committee. Devout young Muslims complained that they had been bullied by the law for their religious beliefs. The 7/7 murderers were not detected and frustrated by the police or secret services in spite of abundant evidence.

Solutions are demanded. They are provided-even when they are meaningless. As a result of the murder of Jo Cox all MPs have been inundated by security advice. Expensive equipment has been installed in our dwellings. It may be thought ungrateful to point out that none of these precautions would have prevented the killing of Jo. The ‘Something must be done’ political myth rules. Even when that ‘something’ is an expensive folly.

David Blunkett expressed his regret today for sending Armoured Personnel Carriers on the streets near Heathrow in 2003 when there was a claim of a possible missile attack. The public were terrified. Sending troops in to help the police protect an empty House of Commons looks like a hollow grandstanding gesture. It also invites criticism on the run-down of police numbers.

Good judgement is blurred by emotional turmoil. When parliament returns rationality should inform policy. It is excusable for any system to miss a lone wolf terrorist operating without accomplices. That appears to be the case with the Westminster terrorist armed with knives and a vehicle. But legitimate questions must be answered in the case of a terrorist who had self-advertised his murderous intentions and terrorist connections for years. There is culpability.

Tories flounder and upset their core voters May 21, 2017 Edit Leave a comment Senior citizens are alarmed and upset by Tory plan.

Apart from dementia itself what could be more worrying than a Dementia Tax? The triple whammy of blows to the income of mature citizens is bitterly resented. For decades the elderly had inflation nibbling away at the value of their real fixed incomes. Now, they greatly value benefits that are universal and protect against inflation. Means testing creates stigma of handouts. The elderly have long memories of the old despised Poor Law ignominy of the past.

The loss of universal benefits given to achieve a level of fairness will be strongly resented at a time when the Government still plan vast multi-£Billion giveaways to the super-rich. It’s no surprise that there is a backlash from senior citizens. Will the Tories do a u-turn as they did on the planned National Insurance rise? Possibly they will.

Letting the their smiling mask slip has revealed the mean face of the Nasty Party. This election is all about their ratting on their election promises of 2015 and imposing a new austerity that will degrade the NHS, pensions, environmental policies, education and welfare.

Who wants five years of that?

Will bullying and omerta work? May 20, 2017 Edit Leave a comment The Newport West campaign this time is unique and wonderful.

The previous candidates were a mixed bunch-but none were accused of cancelling an appointment with a distinguished journalist from the national press and then ‘dodging’ her phone calls. It’s eccentric PR for a candidate who is unknown in the constituency and was imposed under duress here.

Feature writer Janice Turner from the Times newspaper arranged to meet me and the Tory before embarking on the train ride from London. When Janice tried to confirm the arrangements for meeting on the train, the Tory candidate ‘cancelled the meeting then ‘dodged her phonecalls’. Newport West has attracted UK interest as it’s the only constituency in the UK where Tory HQ has imposed a ‘shortlist’ of one. Bridgend had two and they are in open revolt. The rest of the ’empty’ constituencies had a choice of three. I have a theory about the reason which I will give at the Hustings.

There were no shortage of Newport based Tories who wanted to be on the shortlist to challenge the Cardiff based candidate who had lost her two previous elections in 2010 and 2011 and was not subsequently readopted by the constituencies where she stood or any others. The 2015 candidate in Newport West complained in a tweet that he was denied a place on the shortlist. A brilliant London-based Newport Tory is ‘hopping mad’ that he was excluded from the shortlist. The truth will come out. Former Tory candidate Iain Dale of LBC knows the inside details from an impeccable source. So do I. Iain humiliated Andrew RT Davies in a radio interview by repeating the same question 8 times.

It’s still baffling. Why should a candidate run away from national publicity in Tory sympathetic newspaper? Could it be that Tory HQ told her to pull out of the interview for fear that the reporter would ask why she was imposed. If that was the tactic it backfired. The Times reported without qualification that the Tory ‘is from Cardiff and was imposed on the constituency’.

It’s hardly started yet but it’s already almost the most interesting campaign I’ve ever had. The best was when the Tory candidate’s personal pension policy was to ‘ship Newport pensioners to Eritrea because poverty is relative.’

Three weeks to go. Time to find whether the policies of omerta and the Tory HQ bullying Newport Tories works?

Rhodri’s Welsh Labour May 18, 2017 Format Post format: Image Edit Leave a comment Rhodri Morgan Tribute.jpgThis is a blog I wrote in 2009 in preparation for the book, Dragons led by Poodles.

September 26, 2009

Anthracite and gossamer Rhodri Morgan’s creed is the anthracite Labour of Aneurin Bevan and Jim Griffiths not the gossamer Labour-lite of Blair and Mandelson.

The ugly power grab by Tony Blair to choose Wales’ first leader for centuries eventually helped Rhodri. He was unquestionably Wales’ choice triumphing over London’s choice. Wales was blighted by generations of politicians promising home rule who failed at Westminster. Rhodri’s generation honoured the dream. Never again, will we have alien princes and governor generals imposed on us.

In awe we witness the outpourings of his encyclopaedic brain reminiscent of the poet’s schoolmaster, ‘and still they gazed and still the wonder grew that one small head could carry all he knew’.

Rhodri’s language is direct, honest and unadorned. When New Labour explained the credit crunch in soothing verbal ectoplasm, Rhodri was asked what will happen. ‘God knows’ he said. We all understood that. In spite of few opposition corgis snapping at his heels, Rhodri’s popularity continues to soar. He is a beacon of straight forward honesty in the cascading mire of sleaze that is engulfing politics.

Comfortable in his skin and with his nation, Rhodri has led Wales with vision and courage. The deeply egalitarian personality of Wales can cwtch up to a leader that everyone knows by his first name. Sports loving, humour inspired, untidiness-phobic, history maker, beer-tasting, casual dresser, two language wordsmith, Mwnt holiday-maker,universal friend, jargon-free talker, Real Labour rooted, international Welsh diplomat and icon, Rhodri has done Wales proud.

What a shame ten years is such a short time in politics.

Press treat Tory stunt with contempt May 17, 2017 Edit Leave a comment The shameless piece of Tory cynical opportunism had the treatment it deserved from the press.

BBC Wales hardly mentioned the deathbed conversion of the Tories to abolish the tolls on the Severn Bridges. Previously the Conservatives had tried to pull a fast one by trying to prove that a cut was good. It was actually an increase – from nothing to £3.00. They have behaved like fairground hucksters. Perhaps now they know they can fool some of the people only some of the time.

Some Tory candidates are leaping up and down with feigned joy. Oh Dear! They’ll learn.

Labour Pressure forces Tory U-Turn May 16, 2017 Edit Leave a comment Labour has forced yet another Tory policy U-turn, this time on the rip off of the Severn Bridge tolls.

Theresa May’s Tories have surrendered to Welsh Labour pressure to end the Highway Robbery of Severn Bridges tolls.

Former Minister Alun Cairns planned to deceive the public by promising to cut tolls to £3.70 and then to £3.00 as though he was offering a bargain. Then a new wheeze. It was to be cut to £1.50! Great. But bothways. Not great! It was a con. This year the 50 year debt on the bridges will end. Any charge will then be a rip-off as local people are already paying full road taxes. The Tory con has been exposed. Toll-free bridges are our right.

This has been one of my calls in the General Election campaign following the Tories persistent refusal to end the cash cow of the bridges. In 1992, the clear promise was to end all tolls when the debts had been paid. Without this election the Tories would have persisted with the double-taxation for local bridge users.

Campaign diary, 26th April-2nd May May 15, 2017 Edit Leave a comment This election diary was published in House magazine on 4th May 2017.

26th April

Failed to be called for terminal PMQs so I raised a point of order about the health of members. Had Mr Speaker noticed the outbreak of Parliamentary Tourette’s caused by the Crosby chip implanted in the brains of Tory MPs. It compels them to make involuntary noises of repetitive mantra syndrome by saying ‘Strong and Stable’ every 18 seconds. Triple offender Michael Fabricant denied that the thing on top of his head is a chip. I’ve always thought it was a dead cat. But he denied the House further details.

27th April

My oral question on Brexit’s threat to Welsh farmers had a characteristically vacuous and meaningless answer. Minister said he would secure ‘the best possible free trade agreement.’ Time for farmers to dig out the worry beads.

Seeking the truth, I asked the David Davis to explain “Why we are going into this premature election? Remainers have fully accepted the decision and voted for article 50, as did the Lords. Isn’t the real reason for this election the Government’s wish to rat on the promise made two years ago—a five-year promise—not to raise taxes, and to respect the triple lock? What lies ahead on the economic front is a great sinkhole into which our economy will fall in a tailspin.

In the final Point of Order of the Parliament I said that our electoral system is the most vulnerable it has been since 1880. There is powerful evidence of foreign Governments interfering in the elections in America and overwhelming evidence of money being paid in huge amounts, entirely invisible to the system, using algorithms, botnets and artificial intelligence. The Electoral Commission does not have the tools to deal with interference of this kind. We are trying to run a modern election with the tools of the 19th century. Mr Speaker replied with kindness and courtesy.

28th April

Furiously writing election literature, trying to be persuasive without giving out too much information to opponents. The polls are dire but I am consoled. Newportonians have kindly been voting for me in elections since 1972. No sign of any Tory opponent but some prominent councillors are angling for support. Our election-winning machine purrs into confident activity. Evening exchange of unpleasantries with John Redwood on LBC.

29th April

Shock! My Tory opponent in 2015 tweets that he applied to be shortlisted this time but was rejected. Ingrates! What genius do they have lined up against me? Double shock! Tory Party Wales have imposed a shortlist of one on Newport West rejecting the Newport contenders even though they are all ‘strong and stable’. Their party will now feign unity but the resentment is palpable. The voters will not like this. Perhaps a vote bonus for me.

30th April

Furiously cleansing internet sites of the ‘MP’ appendage. Writing blogs and articles on interrupted campaigns plus a therapeutic ventilating shout on Paul Ross’s Radio show. News of the Tory candidate who is employed by an MEP and lost two previous elections in winnable seats. Third time unlucky, I hope.

1st May

Nation’s brain is deadened by merciless soundbites plus May’s insistence on speaking only to lobotomized Tories locked in hermetically sealed rooms.

2nd May

Visit from depressingly well-briefed reporter from the Today programme urging me to slag off my party. Told him that the Labour Party Wales has its own Leader who gained three seats last May in the Assembly election that we had lost in 2015. Reporter promised to be equally nasty to the Tory candidate. Optimism would not be reasonable. But every election surprises. Waiting now for the meek to inherit the majority.

2017, a unique election… May 15, 2017 Edit 1 Comment There has never been an election like this. Party loyalties are breaking down. I have been touched by the numbers from other parties who have promised to vote for me.

There is outrage that a candidate has been parachuted into Newport and accepted by Newport Tories only under the threat of disbanding their Newport party if they did not toe the party line. So many people have said to me, ‘Can you keep a secret? I am voting for you.’ My lips are sealed. The kindness of political opponents is welcome. I have long respected individuals from other parties. Many are old friends. They understand my devotion to our city above all other issues. That’s what keeps me angry and passionate.

Might mean nothing. Might mean a lot. 30 of my team were out canvassing this morning. Just 6 in a Tory picture, including 2 MPs & a Councillor!

Many are now asking the question, what will 5 years of hard right Tory Government do. Accelerating privatisation will degrade the NHS, Education, the Welfare state and put back cruelty into fox hunting. All the great reforms over the past 70 years will be under attack.

Fake News? May 12, 2017 Edit Leave a comment Interesting the the Argus is running a FAKE NEWS love-in this morning after an appalling fake news headline that Tories up, Labour down.

Using the old trick of comparing apples with pears, they compare an election RESULT with a POLL. The last poll that had vast publicity in Wales was one that put Tories on 40 and Labour on 30. This POLL puts Labour on 37 and Tories on 27. That is Labour up, Tories down.

This is FAKE NEWS.

  F

Former Labour Party Shadow Commons Leaders and Shadow Welsh Secretary (July to September 2016), Shadow Minister for Welsh Affairs and Social Security (1988-90).

Author of Television in Wales (1973), Commons Knowledge: How to be a Backbencher (1997), Baglu 'Mlaen (1998), Dragons led by Poodles (1999), How to be an MP (2012), The Unusual Suspect (2012), Clockwinder Who Wouldn’t Say No: The Life of David Taylor MP (2012),

  automatically copied from Paul Flynn - Read My Day http://ift.tt/2rZu4PZ (hopefully before Mr Flynn has revised it).

[gamesdownload-blog]

Use Your Words Download Full PC Game Reloaded

Use Your Words Download Full PC Game Reloaded

Use Your Words Download Full PC Game Reloaded

From time to time an idea is greater critical than chewing your food. It become the Spring of 2015, and my friend Julian Spillane and i sat at a Mexican restaurant in Queens. We had recently begun to collaborate on what has now turn into Use Your phrases. As I chomped an embarrassingly large chunk of a carnitas taco, a lightbulb seemed above my head. “hey… what if our tagline became… a video game for humorous americans and their unfunny pals?” My mouth lost some cilantro that day, however Use Your words gained a philosophical cornerstone.

One in all my favorite game genres turning out to be up become the sparse “write your own comedy” birthday party online game style. I cherished Quip It!, the new Yorker cartoon Caption video game, and Balderdash as a result of they gave me and my pals a platform to jot down jokes and make every different snort. And whereas I loved more time-honored card-based birthday celebration games, I all the time wished I could just write my own answer instead of looking forward to the correct card. once I discovered that you might handle a console video game together with your smartphone, I began piecing collectively my concept for the most efficient birthday celebration video game. The basic concept was standard: The game presents a setup for a funny story, and avid gamers get points for writing the top-rated punchline.

However as Julian and i threw lower back margaritas and bounced ideas round over tacos that day, neither of us realized how many steps could be worried in definitely pulling off a video game not just for funny people, however additionally “their unfunny friends.” In checking out our early prototype, we observed that many gamers bought anxious as soon as they found out they needed to be funny. they might assure us they weren’t funny and ask if they could watch in its place of enjoying. they might repeat after every round, “You guys recognize I’m now not funny, correct?” I’ve been a class clown considering that I could talk, so fending off any possibility to get a laugh is antithetical to my complete being. however once more, we had been making a online game for humorous americans and their unfunny friends. So, we had to experiment.

Our first massive alternate became the timer. We concept that giving avid gamers 60 seconds per answer would provide the online game a pleasant manic tempo; as a substitute, it flustered players and locked up the funny part of their brains. unusually, after we extended the period of time gamers had, they had been finished in less time and with much less fuss. We started to figure out that psychology was simply as vital to make use of Your phrases as our code and our artwork. The timer repair taught us that on occasion just the phantasm of ease can in reality make interactive comedy less difficult comfortably by using relaxing the participant. however how might we use that same conception to aid gamers who were too fearful to even try? answer: We satisfied them that they didn’t should.

SYSTEM REQUIREMENTS

MINIMUM

OS: Windows XP / Vista / 7 / 8 / 10 Processor: 2 Ghz Dual Core or higher Memory: 1 GB RAM DirectX: Version 9.0 Network: Broadband Internet connection Storage: 1 GB available space

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Themes in Jekyll & Hyde

Identifying the main themes in Jekyll & Hyde allow us to form a basis for a short story, the book makes remarks towards many different themes, but its central ones are clear. This novel helped shape the urban gothic genre, and at its core, it is a commentary on:

The Duality of Human Nature is probably the most obvious theme in “The Strange Case of Dr.Jekyll & Mr.Hyde”, as man is not truly one, but two. The novel takes this a step further by adding transformation in appearance as well as personality, and an item that allows Jekyll to perform this, but it is nevertheless a central theme that Jekyll’s angel vs devil personas suggest that even the most respectable of people can have dark secrets

Scientific Development, and the debate between what is considered real and rational science and what are obsolete conceptual disciplines - note that Lanyon believed only in true science over what he calls Jekyll’s “balderdash”, this is of course until he is proved wrong by Hyde’s unholy transformation in front of him

Nature vs the Supernatural, Utterson & Enfield are blind and blissfully ignorant to many of the evils around them, they are rational gentleman who struggle to come to terms with anything outside of the realms of their common knowledge. 

The Important of Reputation for the Victorian Gentleman - Even when he is almost certain of Jekyll’s involvement in a murder case, Utterson’s respect for Jekyll and preference to avoid a scandal (despite him being a lawyer) causes him to not report it. The same theme comes up several times in the novel, as Utterson seeks to find answers whilst still preserving Jekyll’s dignity and upstanding reputation

There are many more themes, but these are the most central, other themes include violence against innocents and silence. When we consider these central themes, we get a feel for just what Jekyll & Hyde is trying to achieve in its narrative, and from here, we can take influence and respond to this through the means of a short story. 

LLC, S. (2017) Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Available at: http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/jekyll/themes.html