#Cloud Authentication Market

[sagarg889]

Cloud Authentication Market Share, Development by Companies Outlook, Growth Prospects & Key Opportunities by 2022-2032

A recent market analysis by Future Market Insights predicts that the cloud authentication market is worth US$ 11,279.2 million in 2022. Over the projection period, a CAGR of 14.4% is expected to be achieved in the market.

The BFSI industry is among those with the highest information sensitivity. Cloud authentication is being aggressively adopted by the sector to safeguard client data and guard against fraud and data breaches.

Most telecom and IT organizations are embracing the Bring Your Own Device (BYOD) trend, which is anticipated to accelerate the market for cloud authentication as a service. E-commerce is also among the most cost-conscious industries and one of the companies that hackers target the most owing to the possibility for payments and the vast amount of financial transactions made using credit and debit cards.

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Adopting cloud authentication is therefore seen as the most secure choice for companies.

Over the years, both large enterprises and SMEs have primarily used cloud authentication. Features like automatic user account provisioning, workflow and self-service management, Single Sign-On (SSO), password management, and access governance are useful for large enterprises.

However, the more authentication elements there are, the longer it takes to complete a single task. Fraudsters can also quickly obtain a user's physical sim card and access IDs by using methods like sim swapping or switching. These factors are anticipated to restrict the growth of the cloud authentication market.

Key Takeaways

The cloud authentication market is likely to have a CAGR of 14.4% during the forecast period.

Historically, the cloud authentication market had a CAGR of 12.6% between 2017-2021.

The value of the cloud authentication market is expected to be US$ 12,753.4 million by 2032.

Based on type, the multifactor authentication segment has a 68% share in the cloud authentication market.

Based on the enterprise size, the very large enterprise (1000+ employees) dominated the market share by 26% in 2021.

North America dominated the cloud authentication market with a share of 32.9% in 2021.

During the forecast period, the cloud authentication market in South Asia & Pacific is likely to showcase the growth of 22.5%.

Immense Prospects For Major Key Players

IBM, Microsoft, CA. Inc, Secureworks Inc, Oracle Corporation, Intel Corporation, Onelogin Inc, Hewlett Packard Enterprise Development LP, Sailpoints Technology Holdings Inc, and Ping Identity are some of the major players in the cloud authentication market.

Manufacturers must focus on creating linked production processes that allow them to pinpoint potential growth opportunities and create new revenue streams.

IBM released the security IAM suite V1.0 in August 2020. Access manager, security identity governance and intelligence, security directory suite, and security identity manager are among the security tools included in the latest version.

Oracle released an improved version of their IAM solutions in November 2020. (Oracle Identity Cloud Service). It enables typical IDaaS use cases, including social login, password-less login, strong and adaptive authentication, bidirectional synchronization to on-prim, and others.

The creation and advancement of open standards for safe authentication are the main objectives of a worldwide business organization known as the FIDO Alliance.

Key Players

IBM

Microsoft

CA. Inc

Secureworks Inc.

Oracle corporation

Intel Corporation

Get More Information on this Report @ https://www.futuremarketinsights.com/reports/cloud-authentication-market

Key segments

By Type:

Single

Multifactor

By Enterprise Size:

Small Offices (1-9 employees)

Small Enterprises (10-99 employees)

Medium-sized enterprise (100-499 employees)

Large Enterprises (500-999 employees)

Very Large Enterprises (1000+ employees)

By Industry:

Service

Distribution Services

Public Sector

Finance

Manufacturing Resources

Infrastructure

By Region:

North America

Latin America

Europe

East Asia

South Asia and Pacific

Middle East & Africa

[techninja]

Unlocking Secure Digital Identities: Exploring the Identity as a Service (IDaaS) Market

Safeguarding Digital Frontiers: The Evolution of Identity as a Service (IDaaS) Market

In today's digital age, where online transactions and interactions have become ubiquitous, ensuring the security of digital identities has become paramount. Enter Identity as a Service (IDaaS), a rapidly growing market that offers innovative solutions to manage and authenticate digital identities securely. This article delves into the evolution of the IDaaS market, its key drivers, and its implications for cybersecurity and digital identity management.

The IDaaS market has witnessed remarkable growth in recent years, driven by the escalating threat landscape, the proliferation of cloud-based services, and the need for seamless user authentication mechanisms. Organizations across various sectors are turning to IDaaS solutions to enhance their security posture, streamline access management, and ensure regulatory compliance.

One of the primary drivers fueling the expansion of the Identity as a Service IDaaS market is the increasing adoption of cloud computing and mobile devices. As businesses embrace cloud-based services and remote work arrangements, traditional perimeter-based security measures are becoming obsolete, necessitating a more dynamic and adaptive approach to identity management.

Moreover, regulatory frameworks such as GDPR and CCPA have heightened the importance of robust identity management practices, compelling organizations to invest in solutions that offer greater visibility, control, and accountability over user access and data usage.

IDaaS solutions offer a range of benefits, including enhanced security, scalability, and flexibility. By outsourcing identity management to specialized service providers, organizations can leverage advanced authentication mechanisms such as multi-factor authentication (MFA), biometric verification, and risk-based authentication to fortify their digital infrastructure against cyber threats.

Furthermore, IDaaS platforms enable organizations to centralize identity management across diverse environments and applications, simplifying administrative overhead and ensuring consistent security policies across the enterprise.

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Looking ahead, the IDaaS market is poised for continued growth, driven by ongoing technological advancements, evolving regulatory requirements, and the imperative for robust cybersecurity practices. However, challenges such as data privacy, interoperability, and the evolving nature of cyber threats remain key considerations for organizations seeking to adopt IDaaS solutions.

In conclusion, the IDaaS market represents a paradigm shift in identity management, offering organizations the tools and technologies needed to navigate the complexities of the digital age securely. As businesses continue to embrace digital transformation initiatives, the role of IDaaS in safeguarding digital identities and protecting sensitive information will become increasingly vital, shaping the future of cybersecurity and digital identity management.

[operafantomet]

Hi there. Idk if this question has been asked before, but where do they find the fabric for the mandarin coat?

I'd say there are as many answers as there are versions of the costume. But some pointers:

Many of the early versions were made with partly antique embroidered textiles from the Qing dynasty. These were a popular collector's item in the 19th and 20th century, to the point where some of them were never intended for use in China, they were made as souvenirs. The original design by Maria Bjørnson suggests antique Chinese fabrics, with a hem showing the classic water-and-mountain motif, the collar being a cloud collar usually seen in women's attires, and the hat a decorated winter hat.

Even if all these costumes are made from scratch rather than bought, I thought it could be interesting to compare it to a similar authentic Chinese robe - without the collar - dated to the 1890s and sold by Augusta Auctions some years ago:

This robe has a badge - an insignia of rank and position of a Mandarin official in the Qing dynasty. These were used both on the chest and back, and the bird or otherwise animal told onlookers all they needed to know, if the person was a civil or military employee, and how high up in the system they were. The badge is not featured in Bjørnson's design, but it has showed up in a few costumes. Maybe most proninently in Michael Crawford's original West End costume, which Bjørnson would have supervised:

To my eye it looks like many of the elder costumes (up until c. 2005) used a lot of antique or vintage fabrics, but used on a new base. Details to look for is distinct gold couching, re-used badges, special dragon embroideres, antique collars and tabards, fringework etc. I am quite convinced some of these are antique or vintage details, like the China blue tabard with water and mountain motif used by John Owen-Jones in West End c. 2002:

The cuff and details on one of the original Australian robes, and continued to shine in the World Tour up until 2015 or so:

The tabard of the Swedish/Danish version, first made in 1989 and still in use in 2019 (maybe not too visible in the stage photo, but definitely when seen up close backstage!):

As a contrast, newer costumes tends to be brassier and bigger, with less embroidery and more appliquées and trims. It looks to me like they mostly rely on new fabrics and materials, maybe with some elements of elder embroidery. This collar made for Ben Lewis in West End is a good example:

And the recent German version, here seen on Mathias Edenborn in Hamburg. It's a costume I got to study up close and I couldn't spot any particular details that looked old:

And this Broadway robe with what looks like a very new firefly pattern brocade and embroidered gold trims appliquéed on:

So why this change? I guess it depends on what is available. Qing textiles has become more rare on the open market, and more expensive. Elder textiles are also more fragile, while new textiles will handle wear and tear, dry cleaning etc. better. Some of these costumes are used on stage up to eight times a week, after all.

Due to the fragility of elder textiles, they may have to cover the embroidery with fine mesh. This dulls down the effect and makes the costume heavier, so it's not always ideal. Better then to use new stuff. Here's an early 1990 West End one covered with mesh, to protect the embroidery:

A last aspect is of course that by using elder textiles you may put specific meaning-bearing motifs on which ideally shouldn't be there. The beautiful embroidered Indian fabric with elephants and swastikas - in India a symbol of the sun and good luck - which appeared in an unfortunate Danish Elissa skirt is a good example. Luckilly the costume crew knew what they were doing by including the five bats - for good luck - on this Broadway Mandarin robe:

If you plan on making your own costume, I would say: Create the base of a Chinese brocade (silk or synthetic) with predominantely black or dark blue base and polychrome pattern. As an inspiration, here's the robe, collar and tabard - fairly undecorated - in making for Scott Davies (top) and Ben Lewis (bottom) in West End, with photos generously shared by head-of-costume Ceris Donovan:

For the back: Go for a main motif, and build everything around that. And layer! Gems upon trims upon embroideries upon fabrics. The more structure, embroidery, couching and details the various materials has, the better. And then add some on top of that.

Note that it varies if a production do both the robe, cloud collar and tabard. Some production only do two of these, some do all three. But whatever the case, the costume with hat should create angles, texture and lines that makes him stand out from the previous scene, where he wore black and white and tight-fitting clothes.

In West End I think they source it in the many amazing fabric shops in Brixton and Soho, including Borovicks, as well as antique dealers. For Broadway I know a lot was bought in the fabric district in NYC. Other productions may be equipped with fabrics and trims from these, or they may source their own materials locally. I also noticed that the Chinese (left) and Japanese (right) productions tend to use more red and purple fabrics for their versions, which I would think was also locally sourced:

So yeah. As many answers as there are versions out there...

[fbfh]

pleaseeee elaborate more on dilf logan huntzberger being obsessed with reader- bc quite frankly i’m obsessed with him. also thank you so much and i absolutely adore your writing and wish you the best! p.s. please don’t feel like you have to write this and feel free to ignore it!

YES. I COULD GO INTO HEAVY DETAIL. AND I WILL.

god you really are just everything Logan wants. you're so kind and sweet and sexy and full of life, you're intelligent and well spoken without being pretentious or fake, you're authentic, and you have all this figured out in your 20s for god's sake. most of his peers don't have a fraction of your good traits, and they don't seem to care to pick them up. and the craziest part is that it doesn't even feel like much of an age gap to him. you connect on so many intellectual and emotional levels, you just get each other, you like being around each other so much that you don't even notice. you're not a 40 year old and a 20 year old, you're just Logan and you. he's never felt that... at home with someone before. in all fairness though, one benefit to the whole age gap thing is how differently early millenials like Logan and mid gen z like you view stuff like work and adulthood. Logan was lucky to break through into his carreer (among his many other privelages) when working hard actually did pay off, when labor wasn't exploited nearly as much. so when you open up to him about how you don't want to work, you don't want to kill yourself over a shitty job just to make ends meet, you want to go to farmer's markets, and watch clouds and read books, you want to be able to enjoy life slowly, it really hits him what a perfect match you are. you make Logan feel so excited, so understood, so safe, and Logan gets to give you everything he knows you deserve, and knows more than he's known anything that you'll be in the 5% of successful age gap relationships. because it's not a statistic, it's you and Logan.

[mariacallous]

When Microsoft named its new Windows feature Recall, the company intended the word to refer to a kind of perfect, AI-enabled memory for your device. Today, the other, unintended definition of “recall”—a company's admission that a product is too dangerous or defective to be left on the market in its current form—seems more appropriate.

On Friday, Microsoft announced that it would be making multiple dramatic changes to its rollout of its Recall feature, making it an opt-in feature in the Copilot+ compatible versions of Windows where it had previously been turned on by default, and introducing new security measures designed to better keep data encrypted and require authentication to access Recall's stored data.

“We are updating the set-up experience of Copilot+ PCs to give people a clearer choice to opt-in to saving snapshots using Recall,” reads a blog post from Pavan Davuluri, Microsoft's corporate vice president for Windows and devices. “If you don’t proactively choose to turn it on, it will be off by default.”

The changes come amid a mounting barrage of criticism from the security and privacy community, which has described Recall—which silently stores a screenshot of the user's activity every five seconds as fodder for AI analysis—as a gift to hackers: essentially unrequested, preinstalled spyware built into new Windows computers.

In the preview versions of Recall, that screenshot data, complete with the user's every bank login, password, and porn site visit would have been indefinitely collected on the user's machine by default. And though that highly sensitive data is stored locally on the user's machine and not uploaded to the cloud, cybersecurity experts have warned that it all remains accessible to any hacker who so much as gains a temporary foothold on a user's Recall-enabled device, giving them a long-term panopticon view of the victim's digital life.

"It makes your security very fragile,” as Dave Aitel, a former NSA hacker and founder of security firm Immunity, described it—more charitably than some others—to WIRED earlier this week. “Anyone who penetrates your computer for even a second can get your whole history. Which is not something people want.”

In addition to making Recall an opt-in feature, Microsoft’s Davuluri also writes that the company will make changes to better safeguard the data Recall collects and more closely police who can turn it on, requiring that users prove their identity via its Microsoft Hello authentication function any time they either enable Recall or access its data, which can require a PIN or biometric check of the user’s face or thumbprint. Davuluri says Recall’s data will remain encrypted in storage until the user authenticates.

All of that is a “great improvement,” says Jake Williams, another former NSA hacker who now serves as VP of R&D at the cybersecurity consultancy Hunter Strategy, where he says he's been asked by some of the firm's clients to test Recall's security before they add Microsoft devices that use it to their networks. But Williams still sees serious risks in Recall, even in its latest form.

Many users will turn on Recall, he points out, partly due to Microsoft’s high-profile marketing of the feature. And when they do, they’ll still face plenty of unresolved privacy problems, from domestic abusers that often demand partners give up their PINs to subpoenas or lawsuits that compel them to turn over their historical data. “Satya Nadella has been out there talking about how this is a game changer and the solution to all problems,” Williams says, referring to Microsoft's CEO. “If customers turn it on, there’s still a huge threat of legal discovery. I can’t imagine a corporate legal team that’s ready to accept the risk of all of a user’s actions being turned over in discovery.”

For Microsoft, the Recall rollback comes in the midst of an embarrassing string of cybersecurity incidents and breaches—including a leak of terabytes of its customers' data and a shocking penetration of government email accounts enabled by a cascading series of Microsoft security slipups—that have grown so problematic as to become a sticking point given its uniquely close relationship with the US government.

Those scandals have escalated to the degree that Microsoft's Nadella issued a memo just last month declaring that Microsoft would make security its first priority in any business decision. “If you’re faced with the trade-off between security and another priority, your answer is clear: Do security,” Nadella's memo read (emphasis his). “In some cases, this will mean prioritizing security above other things we do, such as releasing new features or providing ongoing support for legacy systems.”

By all appearances, Microsoft's rollout of Recall—even after today's announcement—displays the opposite approach, and one that seems more in line with business as usual in Redmond: Announce a feature, get pummeled for its glaring security failures, then belatedly scramble to control the damage.

[quills-of-freedom]

Short Story ~

First kiss with Reiner Braun 💋

Female Bodied Reader X Reiner Braun

You're just about halfway through cadets and the tension between you and Reiner has been thick for a while now. Caught in a downpour, his true gentleman self certainly shines through and you just can't seem to resist his authentic charm...

Tag list info here 🐙

Themes: Fluff. Soft.

Warnings: None.

It’s into year two of the cadets. Reiner finally has you all to himself as you browse the market stalls in the quaint town of the Trost District.

But a summer shower quickly dampens his already low spirits, knowing these feelings for you are strictly forbidden…

As the sky began to darken over Trost, Reiner glanced up at the gathering clouds and wondered if he should call it a day. He was reluctant to; it wasn’t very often he got to have you all to himself.

His golden eyes glanced at you as you pondered over the stall you were standing at – the vendor excited to show the wares. His eyes then fell to the pavement under his feet. You looked gorgeous as usual. The white dress hugged your curves and it flowed right down to just above the ankles. He’d noticed the glances you'd gotten from men, of course he did. He also noticed the second looks he had gotten.

Eyes filled with envy.

Those men thought you were a couple and Reiner secretly loved it. What he wouldn’t give for that to be true.

“Reiner?” Your soft voice called out, snapping his attention.

“What do you think of these gloves for Mikasa? They’d definitely help with her training.”

Sweet y/n.

Whenever you had spare money, you would spend it on your friends. Mikasa had been getting blisters from her pairing blade hilts. They’d joked she takes out her frustration towards Eren’s behaviour out on her grip; pretending they were his neck.

“Uh, yeah. I think they’ll come in handy, sure.” He replied half dazed.

“Everything okay?” you ask as you hand the salesperson the cash. “You seem a bit out of it.”

He instantly pulled up his usual facade. “Me? I’m fine. Looks like it’s going to rain though. We should head back.”

“Okay.” You smile slightly, taking the paper bag with the leather gloves inside. You both began to walk down the street back towards the barracks.

He silently kicked himself.

He wanted to take each step as slowly as possible, trying to wring out as much alone time as he could.

When did it get so bad?

If you didn’t have your swarm of friends around her constantly, and Bertolt didn’t act as his shadow, maybe he wouldn’t be so desperate to be alone with you in the first place.

Why did he even want that though?

He wasn’t dense. He knew he had a soft spot for you and despite his best friend’s warnings, he ignored his advice to stay away. It got worse and worse like an neglected cavity in a tooth. The longer he left it, the deeper you bore into him. He wondered if the pain of a toothache would be better than this constant yearning to be near you.

When did he become so pathetic? When did he become so… weak?

Reiner Braun was the strongest male in the 104th with the highest grades. Dedicated. Focused. Yet this H/C’d girl walking beside him with her sparkling e/c eyes could easily bring him to his knees.

He’d gone through the implications in his head over and over. His friends from back home wouldn’t approve. It’s not like they didn’t like you… In fact he was surprised how well you got along with them.

It was because they didn’t join cadets to fool around with beautiful women.

They were there to return home. Home… He wondered what his family would think of her. That was when he shook his head.

No.

There wasn’t any use in going down that trail.

“Oh no…” You wince as fat rain drops began to fall from the swollen clouds.

It was a summer day so you didn’t think to bring a jacket. In fact, none of your friends earlier had been wearing one.

Within seconds the heavy drops were crashing down all around you both, people ran for cover and merchants began to hurriedly set up a canopy over their goods.

Reiner grabbed your wrist and began to run.

With his free hand, he began undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“Summer shower.” He explained. “It won’t last long, but it’ll be a soaker.”

Women around you let out a squeal as a loud rumble of thunder echoed out over the town. Puddles were already forming as Reiner hurriedly led you down the clearing street. As you ran, water splashed around your ankles as the water was already collecting on the road.

“What are you doing?!” you called out over the loud crashing of water. “You’ll catch your death!” By the time you uttered the last word of your sentence, he whipped around and lay his large shirt over your head before returning to pull you along.

Not long after, you’d reached the stables where the transport horses were kept. It was deserted, being the cadets weekend off and were carting the soldiers to their home towns for the next couple of days.

“Dont want that pretty dress to be ruined, do we?” he joked, yet his face stayed serious.

“Reiner…” you whispered in awe, inaudible due to the crashing rain.

Reiner pushed open the large wooden door of the hay storage barn, before ushering you inside.

“Are you crazy?” you laughed once they were tucked in away from the downpour.

Beads of rain rolled down his bare flesh, trailing down his pronounced pectorals and solid abs.

Reiner shrugged. “Didn’t want you getting cold and wet.”

Your eyes softened gorgeously as he turned to rub his hand over his hair, getting excess droplets off him.

His back muscles flexed with every small movement before he turned back around, Goosebumps raising on his skin and his nipples hardening from the chill.

The barn was filled with the relaxing sounds of the heavy pattering of rain on the wooden roof above your heads. This was the side of Reiner you’d been waiting to see.

You knew he had it in him, underneath the crude jokes and the flirting attempts. He was a gentleman through and through. He just liked to hide it for whatever reasons you didn’t know.

His shirt was warm and his scent rolled off it into your nose.

You hadn’t realised how much you actually enjoyed his smell until now. It sent waves of comfort over you, like the smell alone was his big strong arms wrapping around your body, ensuring your safety and comfort.

Yes.

You’d decided.

You had been pondering on your feelings towards your classmate for a little while now and wanted to be sure. The torment of professionalism as well as distractions from training had been hanging over your head.

But there was just something about him that you were pulled to.

He jumped a little when you placed your soft hand gently on his forearm. The skin across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes instantly heated up, turning a hue of pink.

You were so close to him and he got what he always yearned for – for your skin to be touching his.

The next thing he knew you were reaching up and planting a tender kiss on his cheek.

The breath caught in his throat and that pinkness burned more brightly. Every muscle in his body tensed and his eyes enlarged slightly. But what really sent his chest thudding, was when you pulled the kiss away.

You kept your face close to his, now bearing the same pink hue. Your gorgeous eyes glistened, long lashes framing them beautifully. You smiled adorably, pulling at his shirt that was now draped across your shoulders.

“Thank you…”

You spoke softly, your hair a little messed up from the shirt, but it just made you look even more beautiful.

“For what…?” he replied in a haze.

“Being you…”

Those last words penetrated straight through his macho exterior and felt like they pierced into his heart, injecting some sort of warm fluid that quickly spread across his entire chest.

He didn’t even think.

It was like he went on auto pilot and his instincts just took over.

Placing the side of his index finger under your chin, he tilted your head up slightly and closed the gap between you, gently pressing his lips against yours.

His heart smashed against his solid barrel chest as you return the kiss, your lips softer than he had ever imagined them to be.

You run your hands up his shoulders and hung them, opening youe mouth a little wider as you kissed, giving him full permission to explore your mouth.

He did so without hesitation.

Sliding his tongue passed your sweet lips, he entwined it with yours.

It felt like fireworks and explosion were going off around him and he thought he could see stars behind his closed eyelids.

Having you kissing him and getting to be this close and intimate with you was the best feeling he’d ever had.

The adrenaline was richer and sweeter than any fight he’d been in or any training exercise.

It just felt perfect.

It began to get heated pretty quickly as your pace quickened slightly, deep exhales leaving his nose and his brow became furrowed and desperate.

You truly did make him feel weak.

He handles you gently. Although he knows you're strong, you also felt delicate, like his big lumbering body could break you at any moment.

Your fingers run through his hair and you press up against him, his arms wrapping around your form in a sweet embrace.

Although he thought he was the luckiest man alive to be able to kiss you, his body quickly began needing more.

He battled with it, keeping it under control and letting you now take the lead of the kiss.

You gently pull his pouty bottom lip with your teeth, making it that much harder for him to not throw you down and lift up that dress.

Instead, he settled for a pleased grunt, his brows creasing deeper as he became hungrier.

You slowly pulled away.

He pressed his forehead against yours, unable to hide the dumb grin that spread across his face as he caresses your hair with his right hand.

“What’s with that goofy grin?” you joked quietly; her sweet breath warm on his face.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He replied, his grin stretching further.

Smiling, you lower your head almost shyly at that titbit of information.

You then fix your eyes on his. “Really?”

“Of course…” he looked genuinely surprised. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Oh stop.” You laugh.

He took your hand and placed it on his bare chest over his rapid heartbeat. His honey eyes not removing their gaze from yours. “I swear.”

You didn’t know what to say.

“Well, you have awful taste.” Was what you settled for.

But having Reiner Braun, of whom didn’t really catch your eye at first, now you'd gotten to know him, was extremely attractive; his chest bare and holding you close like this set a burning desire deep within you.

One that you would have to keep under control.

…For now.

You gently place your hand on his jawline before replacing your mouth onto his.

He let out a small unintentional exhale from his nose, more than happy to slide his warm tongue back inside of your mouth.

Your hands gently caressed his broad shoulders, pace quickening and teeth grazing his lip.

You didn’t want to let things get too heated too quickly, but battling your urges seemed like an uphill battle. He’d grown on you a hell of a lot over the last year and a half and having him hold you like this felt amazing.

As Reiner kissed you, he pushed away the little voice inside of his head that was telling him this was all a big mistake and he had just complicated things massively.

He didn’t care.

His feelings for you had always surpassed the doubts that swirled around in his mind. And now, knowing you had some reciprocating feelings it was incomprehensible that he would now turn his back on you.

He grazed his hand lightly up your arm as he slowly and almost gracefully devoured the inside of your mouth. Your skin was the softest thing he’d ever touched like some fine silk from a faraway land. He almost felt like he was ruining you, just by having his unworthy hands upon your flesh.

You pull away once again and he sealed the kiss with another gently peck.

“This is crazy…” you sigh, taking a step back. “We’re training to be soldiers.”

“I know how you feel, believe me.” He muttered, a frown tugging at his mouth. “But I think life’s a little too short to be putting good things on the back burner.”

You pondered on that for a moment.

He began to feel desperate. Now that he had your affections within his grasp, he wasn’t about to let them slip through his fingers.

“I mean…” he took a step forward and took your hand into his large pair. “I know I joke around a lot but you…”

He paused for a moment, choosing his words.

“I didn’t kiss you with the intention of just having you then leaving. …I want us to be together. Properly. Hell, if we weren’t in Cadets, I would be asking you to marry me right now.”

That blushing hue returned to his face as he shyly looked away, not used to spilling out his feelings like this.

But the humiliation and discomfort would be worth it if he managed to gain you as his own.

Again… When did I get so weak?

You do a better job than he at hiding the grin that was threatening to spread across your face.

Instead, your face matched his reddening tone.

“Are you saying… You love me, Reiner Braun?” you spoke softly.

He pushed away every instinct that told him to run and hide.

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am.” He replied steadily.

Now it was your turn to ignore her instincts to run.

“R-Reiner. It’s not that I don’t care for you too, I do. But… Ah, it’s complicated.” You grimaced. “I don’t know when.. uh… I’ll be ready to…” your face was almost glowing at this point.

“Hey hey…” he soothed. “Its okay. I love you. I don’t care about waiting.” His face returned to the familiar serious soldier expression you were so used to seeing during training. “Even if you’d wanna wait until after marriage. I don’t mind.”

You squirm uncomfortably. “Its not that. Maybe we can talk about it… Another time?”

It perplexed him but he didn’t mind. “Of course.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“So…?” He melted back into that cheeky smirk.

The classic Reiner grin. Mischievous and cunning.

“You wanna give this a shot?”

You had noticed the rain had slowed to a stop, the clouds had moved on and the sun was shining once again.

You'd known Reiner now for almost two years. Spent every single day pretty much in his presence. You'd worked together, laughed together and well… Now this.

You reminded herself how strong that urge was to kiss him only minutes ago. Why you initiated closeness in the first place. Your mind fluttered through the pages of your recent memories and how he had been making you feel these days, and how your eyes have been lingering upon him a little longer than you'd have liked.

You let out a sigh before smirking back at him. “Sure. But don’t get comfortable now. Just because you have me doesn’t mean you can start slacking your charm.”

You playfully pushed his cheeks together with your index and thumb, resulting in a chuckle rumble from his broad chest.

“I swear it.” He grinned, kissing her.

“Come on. We’d better head back.” You smile, handing him back his shirt.

[tanadrin]

Like, I might ask questions like--how ugly does someone have to be before they deserve reconstructive surgery? How violent does the event that marred their features have to be? How intrinsic? Are genes really intrinsic to who we are? How do we differentiate in a principled way between “mundane” dysphoria (which we call “vanity” and devalue) over “deserving” dysphoria? Is it not equally cruel to look at a trans person, someone whose features have been ravaged by jaw cancer, and someone born to features society as a whole strongly devalues, and say “you just need to learn to love yourself?” And how do we--or more likely, a faceless bureaucracy whose primary incentive is cost-cutting--as an external observer, make a principled distinction between mental states we cannot observe, especially when our judgement is also clouded by what we value, what we think of as “normal” or “desirable” (or “vain” or “silly”)?

(There are more mundane harm-reduction questions, too, like “should people who want crazy body mods have to go to untrained or semi-untrained underground professionals to have them done, or can we let doctors do them without stripping them of their medical license?” Which isn’t relevant to the question of who should pay for it, but it is relevant to the overall question of “what attitude should we have as a society towards bodily autonomy?” Which I think informs the previous question.)

And I think--though I might get shit for this--our attitudes on this question can also be influenced by the disgust responses inculcated in us by society. After all, authentic beauty is something that is treated as being both normative and effortless. So society sneers at (and we are taught to sneer at) anyone who tries to achieve normative beauty through external means (and to treat anyone who aspires to non-normative aesthetics as a lunatic or a freak). They are necessarily shallow, silly vain rich people wasting their money, at best the victims of capitalism or marketing.

But capitalism and marketing didn’t invent beauty standards; they didn’t invent humans wanting attention and validation and sex from each other; they certainly didn’t invent cosmetics, or the desire to look youthful. I think it is often much easier to blame vast abstractions for what are in fact very old, very common human impulses. And I think it’s a little bit cruel to look down on people for being subject to those impulses, given that we are all subject to them to one extent or another.

[ausetkmt]

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[fran-in-the-deep]

Hi hi hi I feel it is my moral and legal obligation to request 28. I don't really have more thoughts than that so just go crazy. Thank u love u hope you're doing well - faye

28. German Christmas Market

A/N: Thank you for giving me another reason to write for this very specific prompt. I did not anticipate for this to get so long, nor for the Deutsche Bahn to become a major point of contention, but I thought it would be funny and very authentically German. Also I got stranded at a train station on the way home for the holidays, so I had some time.

Christmas Special - Hange x gn!Reader (Collage AU)

~1.8k | lots of fluff

It had been a nice idea initially, going to the Christmas market for a date. Have some overpriced hot punch and sugary food, look at nice lights and decorations and hold hands. All that preferably in the next biggest town over, where every second booth wasn’t run by students from uni you both knew. Going to a Christmas market and on a date on top of that was to get a break from daily life, not to get yet again reminded that the person who was making Crêpes for you still hadn’t done their part of the group presentation that was due in two days. Last years Christmas market had not been fun.

This year, the big obstacle would be even getting there. It had snowed a day ago and while snow was rare and it settling for long was even rarer, the time Hange and you arrived at the train station of your small town, everything still looked like winter-wonderland.

“I swear the app said our train wasn’t affected.” Hange’s glasses were foggy from their breath, scarf pulled up to their nose. “You saw it too, right? When I checked before we left?” They asked you before returning to their phone, checking the following connections only to find out that they were all cancelled as well, while you were half looking over, half leaning on their shoulder, huddled together against the cold wind blowing over the platform. Dressed in thick coats with various layers underneath you still felt them shiver slightly.

You wrapped your arms around their shoulders, trying to give a little bit of reassurance before Hange would start to blame themself for not having anticipated this specific situation. Because it wasn’t their fault, neither was it of the people working for the German railway, they must be extra stressed thanks to that train-wreck of an infrastructure that worked really good except when it didn’t. And sometimes that felt like more often than not. The German railway services did not like winter-wonderland.

“At least we’re not stuck somewhere else this time.” Upon voicing your thought, you felt Hange shake with giggles. “What is it? Was that so funny?”

They looked up at you, still in your arms, pulling down their scarf so you could see their wide grin. A small cloud of condensed breath escaped them. “I just remembered the time we went to the Aquarium on our second date and had dinner after. And then on the way back back home, we hat to sit in the train for two hours in the middle of nowhere because someone got stuck in the toilet cabin.”

“See, it could be worse.” You commented with a small chuckle. It should not have been so funny, but the way Hange told it was.

“Nah, it’s half bad.”, Hange leaned forward, pressing a short kiss to your lips, “As long as a have you. Or no, wait. I’d gladly get stuck at any train station, as long as it’s with you. Or something romantic like that. Also, we still have all afternoon to spend time.”

Their cheeks and nose were tinged slightly pink when they leaned back, although that could be from the cold. Somewhere on another platform, a train was announced. It started snowing again, the kind of big flakes that should only exist in cartoon movies. Still standing at the now empty platform, Hange followed your gaze, taking your hand in theirs.

“You know, we could still try the whole Christmas market date, you don’t have any group presentations this year, have you?”

“Thankfully not.”

“Then let’s just go in, grab some food and make a run for it.”

And who were you to say no to that? Hange grinned, before pulling their scarf up to their nose again, only leaving their yet again clouded glasses and a few stray strands of hair visible between the scarf and beanie.

The latter with its sew-on patch of a long long fish that looked like an eel, but wasn’t quite one (maybe a little bit), wearing a Christmas hat was the latest product of Hange discovering that you could just order stuff like that on the internet. It had “HAPPY PHOLIDAE(S)!” patched under it, a pun that had been settled on as “Fröhliche Weihnachten!” was too long of a saying to fit into a beanie and “Frohes Fest!” didn’t lend itself well to puns with marine species names, scientific or common.

When leaving the train station, the two of you passed more exasperated travellers having gathered around the big display in the main hall that showed the current delays and cancellations.

“I hope they’re not gonna be stuck long.” Hange commented before stepping outside in the cold winter air again.

In typical winter afternoon fashion, the sun nearly set in the short time it took you two to make your way through the increasingly busy pedestrian zone. The closer you got to the Christmas market, the more Christmas-y it got. What had been a few front store windows with Christmas-Tree and snow themed décor slowly turned into lights being spun on ropes above the street and a random tree here and there. Hange slipped on some mushy snow leftovers from earlier that day when pointing them out and while you were fully prepared to go down with them by the way their hand still clasped onto yours, Hange caught themself rather quickly.

“You alright?” They asked you as if you were the one who just stumbled.

Gently bumping against their shoulder, you told them not to worry about you too much, just as the first wooden booth came into view. It was built to look like a small cosy hut with a bunch of Christmas decorations and lights thrown over it. Steam rose from the warmth of the Crêpe stoves that were hidden behind a stack of nutella jars. Next to it a booth that sold candles from plain to giant angel motives, as well as the kind of preciously self made ones that seemed to be too pretty to light.

Hange naturally gravitated to the candle booth to look for something fish related, strategically scanning the display from left to right while you looked from the other side. It was a game, a habit by now, to just look for fish related stuff wherever you went and help Hange search, even if you didn’t end up buying anything.

The same always counted for you, Hange had made it a habit of bringing little things around that either reminded them of you, they thought were funny or you’d like. With their associative way of thinking, that could either be something you didn’t know you needed or liked before and now cherished it deeply, or a package of napkins for a reason you didn’t really understand but that made perfect sense for them.

“Hm.” Hange brought their free hand to their chin, leaning slightly forward over what could be a starfish shaped candle or just a Christmas Star. “No, that’s not it.”

You hadn’t found anything either. Yet Hange didn’t dwell on it long, looking back at you instead.

“Let’s be basic and get some Crêpes with nutella then. I’m paying.”

“I’m paying the next time then.”

“Alright alright.” Hange laughed as they pulled you to the other booth with them, ordering and paying for the two Crêpes. The awkward waiting time and shuffling around to somehow signal you two had already ordered and no this wasn’t the start of the queue, everyone leave us alone please while we hope nobody will try to make small talk with us, just waiting for the food, thank you very much. It was worth the freshly made food though.

“We should get roasted almonds or something, we could take that home.” Hange suggested, munching on the Crêpes after some time to cool down on the way to the central market place by the church where most of the Christmas market was located.

It had a look of a small village with all the small wooden huts, yet in contrast to an actual village, there was a lot going on. Lights, decorations, the constant smell of food, sweet and savoury, Christmas songs blurring with the voices of people. A busy place that was mainly visited by families with their toddlers or friend groups of various ages from school to middle aged. The small town was too small and the Christmas market too insignificant to attract any buses with old people from across the country.

“Alright.” Hange took your hand again after quickly finishing their Crêpe, keeping you close as you tried your best not to get separated in the busy lanes. You looked at some of the handiwork displays together, one did woodworking, selling nativity scenes, another sold notebooks and paper works, there was another candle merchant and several booths with jewellery. None of them fish themed. A disappointment. These booths were tucked between the more dominant food booths, most of them selling sweet food and the one giant bratwurst grill in the middle.

After some time, you bought some hot punch for Hange and you in mugs that cost an unusual big pledge on top, but they were yellow and shaped like an old boot and hideous, so money aside, you needed to keep those. With those in hand you retreated to an alley outside, away from the noise and people for a bit.

“I forgot how loud kids can be. And just people. And we didn’t even find anything cool.” With a sigh, Hange rested their head on your shoulder. “At least it’s not as boring as I thought it would be. And we have avoided the booths by people we know.”

You were glad to have taken a break as well, all the intensity suddenly breaking in on you as you leaned against Hange in return. How were they so warm even through the like ten layers of winter coat? Your thoughts were interrupted when Hange lifted their head.

“Let’s just grab some more food and eat somewhere else. I think that’s enough Christmas market for me today.”

“Sounds good to me.” You shifted slightly to have a better look at their face.

“You’re the best, love.”

With these words, Hange pressed another kiss to your lips, soft, gentle, lasting a little longer than the last. The kiss tasted like punch, really sweet and somehow like Christmas. Whether or not it was celebrated, just more quiet hours spend together with the people you loved most.

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

A/N: I'm super late, but Happy Holidays to everyone, hope these days are as good as it gets. If you made it till here, have some fun facts: "Schmalzkuchen" is a very tasty kind of fried dough but an ugly word in German, then I found out it's "lard cake" in English and just no. Pholidae are very cute and also called "gunnels" in English, in German they are called "Butterfisch" (yes, butter fish), which is also very cute. They have two subfamilies, four genera with a total of 15 species according to Wikipedia. So that's a lot of cute fish.

[butididntpourthewhiskeys]

D O P A M I N E 

Chapter I 

“There’s a side to you, that no one really gets out there. And I’m glad they don’t. Because that way, I can still have you all to myself somehow.”

April 13, 2032 

She closes her eyes momentarily, sort of forces herself to take this moment in properly. For once. She moves her head to the left, her eyes wandering down the majestic hills of the city of Portofino. The sound of an old Vespa driving down the serpentine streets far, far away. The warmth of April sun kisses her skin, almost a bit too strong for her taste, right here, right now on this beautiful Friday morning. Not a single cloud in the sky. The full bliss of the mediterranian sun kissing her warm skin. She smiles slowly, not sure whether it’s her soul tingling her chest and making her break into this facial expression or whether it’s just the sun on her face, forcing her to twinkle her eyes together. But in this moment, everything is okay. She closes her eyes again, takes a deep breath to soak it all in. The nervousness in this moment. The tingling feeling in her belly that is truly a mixture of nervousness and excitement. The fears, and also the happiness that comes with it. The gratefulness, she was taught by life. The awareness of the fact that some things can’t be controlled. Sometimes, for the better. Sometimes for the worse. 

Within a few moments, she can already hear his bare footsteps over the checkered tiles, making his way back to the rustic breakfast table she’s sat at here outside. The sound of a porcelain mug touching the marble stone table. Taylor opens her eyes, knowing very well that who she will find with her eyes will instantly bring this feeling of Peace back onto her chest. He shields his face from the sun, moves on his chair a few inches away to ensure that he can have his breakfast in peace, without the sun tingling his eyes that much. He should’ve grabbed his sunnies before stepping outside. She can read his mind like a book.

Tayor just sits there, reaches for the coffee mug he just placed in front of her and takes a first sip. God, she loves this coffee. He got it at the farmer’s market at the Mercato Del Giovedi last week. Hazelnut and Vanilla aroma. He’s explained the process of how to make the perfect Italian espresso to her for half the day when she commented how great the coffee was, that he placed next to her in bed that morning. A little ritual he knows she can’t live without anymore. The sound of an espresso cup being placed next to her bed after a long night of getting no sleep again, and walking the corridors back and forth from room to room, trying to soothe and carrying the weight of a little insomniac - the little boy version of herself and him. The smell of coffee and the feeling of gentle kisses being placed on her temple, followed by his firm and familiar hand on her arm and the whispers of i love you’s in the air. Mornings with him. 

She knows he loves roaming around the various Italian market on weekends in the area. His love for trying new foods and then forcing her to eat whatever new fruit he just got, or whatever new coffee-making technique some Nonna at the local coffee shop has taught him is one of the things that simply ‘came with age’ as she teases him so often. But all of that teasing is just her way of avoiding to say these words that everyone has on the tip of their tongues. Those words that are easier to say than any other. He’s happy. He’s not just found her, but also a new love for life and a sense of curiosity and belonging that he maybe craved for thirty years of life. 

Life, before her. 

Still, she’s convinced he talked her into buying this house in the hills of Portofino, just to have best access to coffee, lots of it, fresh italian ice-cream and authentic Pasta alla Vongole, right by his doorstep.

“We should invite Suki and James tonight as well. To celebrate. I’m having a good feeling about this.” he says, placing his coffee mug in front of him again, smirking over to her side of the table. His phone still in his hand, he carefully places it next to his plate. His eyes are a little puffy, after all it’s been a long night again. But the happiness in his face is undeniable. And she hates it. She hates his premature excitement that will most likely just result in disappointment again. Taylor takes a deep breath, just brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. He can tell she didn’t like that comment, but he won’t ever change when it comes to this. He won’t ever swallow down the fact that he just knows. He knows it will work out. It has worked out before, and it will work out again. And he knows her well enough to know that whatever optimism and calmness she lacks, he’s here to balance it out for her. That’s why he’s here. To be for her, what she’s been for him for so long.

“First of all, it will be the same result as every time. Heard it from me first.” she says, raises her hand as if she’s going to win this one with him. Even though there’s no winning in this. She knows so much better. He just leans back sitting in his chair, the warm tiles under his bare feet. He knows where this is going, crosses his arms over his tattoos and patiently waits for her to finish her speech.

“Second, I would certainly not tell anyone else but my mother tonight. If I would even tell her, to be honest. Probably not. Which is also irrelevant since it’s definitely not going to be…”

“What’s with all this scowling, grumpy cat?” 

In the process of taking a slice of melon from the big plate he placed in front of her, she just stops for a second. Looks at him with the face he enjoys more than anything. She’s half mad, half smirking, her bangs still all over the place, as always in the mornings. She hates it when he doesn’t properly react to her dramatic statements, and instead just focuses on making her crack a smile. She hates it, but she can’t live without it either. He knows that as well as everything else about her. 

“Grumpy cat died years ago. The internet knows.” she says trying to act smart, and starts eating her breakfast.

“Pretty morbid. Wow. Didn’t know this side to you until now. A bit scary but I like it.” he teases in a thick accent, and she just gives him one last provoking look before cutting the slice of melon in half with her knife. He smiles his cheekiest smile, just sitting across her in the shade. She knows him for so long, and these mundane conversations are as familiar to her as the feeling of home she gets when hugging her mom or listening to new music with her dad in the car. Yet he still gets her somehow. Yet he still has the ability to challenge her mind completely and in each conversation. 

“I just hate that you’re getting your hopes up, when..” 

She doesn’t have to finish her sentence, already witnesses him moving his chair to sit closer to her. It’s his way of shutting her up. His arms immediately open up, and almost like a reflex, she just melts into these, feels his arms wrap around her from both sides. The most familiar smell in the world in her nose. His big hands holding her so tight over her white tank top that she’s slept in last night. She closes her eyes, her small hands clawing a bit more into his skin over his t-shirt than she usually does. Her nose in his shirt. His lips on her ear. Her small fingers digging into his tattooed skin. 

“No matter what, it’ll be fine, baby.” 

He half mumbles, half kisses her gently in his dark voice, slowly, right over her ear on the spot between her bangs and her temple. She nods, as a natural reaction to him, both eyes still closed. She doesn’t know why, but he’s the only person she believes when he says something like this. Because she knows where it comes from. Because he knows what ‘things not being fine’ is actually like. Not like most people.

Still pressed against his torso, she opens her eyes, not moving a bit. The warm breeze of Italy’s morning air in her face. She’s safe here, in his arms. She’s finally where she was always meant to be. 

“I know. I know.” she replies slowly, believes what she says for once, sitting on one of these balcony chairs and being fully sunken into him. 

Within a matter of seconds however, the peaceful quiet is over. The big balcony door opens a second time today. Taylor feels him slowly pulling back, ending the hug as Andrea already stands there in the door frame. A little blonde curly-head next to her, who is almost unable to reach Andrea’s hand with this massive height difference between them. Still confidently, he makes his way across the patio door, taking one step after the other, not even stumbling a little bit this time. With a proud smile on her face, Andrea looks at the couple that just ended their hug. She can feel that something is in the air between these two. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but someone woke up from their nap and protested for mom and dad.”

Taylor feels another wave of warmth on her chest, but this time, it’s not the sun lighting her up from the sky. It’s his eyes. These tiny green eyes in the smiling face of this little human. The reason that everything makes sense again. The reason, everything had to happen exactly the way it did. 

Even before she can react, the curly-haired man next to her seems to have the exact same reaction as her. As loving and happy as always when he interacts with his son, it takes less than a few seconds before he’s picked up the little boy on his green socks, gently throwing the little child up in the air, then picking him up and stealing his chubby cheeks what feels like a million kisses. These little giggles in her ears have the potential to heal her entire soul right there. Andrea notices. She smiles at these two boys, just like Taylor does. 

“Mate, it’s almost eleven thirty. Are you a teenager now? Sleeping until noon? Like dad?” he asks his son while standing there with him in his arms, right in front of two of the most important women in his life. Andrea laughs at this comment already, but Taylor still sits there, just looks at her boys with a smile. Marlowe seems to be busy again touching Matty’s tattoos on his arms with his tiny fingers. One of the greatest fascinations this little boy has when being in his dad’s arms. He doesn’t understand yet why his dad has these little drawings under his skin, and everyone else doesn’t. 

“Well, if you’re up all night entertaining your parents, then you’ll also sleep until noon I guess.” she says, clearly mocking her little baby on his arms. The tall man in his boxers just laughs at his son on his arm, who looks less interested in these words by his mom than anything else. He seems to have enjoyed the action with his dad from before though. Just points with his finger to the air again. He loves the lemon trees in their yard. Every morning, the two of them go take a look at these trees. He will never forget the little face he made when Taylor gave him a tiny slice of lemon to try. A face for the books. Priceless.

“Mamma..” he suddenly mumbles, his tiny grabby hands pointing to the blonde woman on the chair in front of the breakfast table. It takes less than five seconds and he passes his baby to Taylor, who immediately reaches with her hands across the small body and places him right on her lap. One hand on his chubby warm thigh, the other pressing the little curly head onto her chest. It feels like a reflex, almost. The most natural movement, that only a mother will understand. And Marlowe’s reaction tells her the same. He gets quiet all of the sudden, seems to have returned to his place of safety and comfort. The arms of his mother. His home. 

“Do you want to try some melon, honey?” she asks after pressing a kiss onto his head from up where she is. She can feel him reaching for the fruit on her plate, and she patiently hands him a tiny slice. The little boy looks a bit confused at the fruit in his hand, then slowly moves it to his mouth. He touches the sweet fruit with his tiny tongue once. Taylor just watches him carefully, just like Matty does. He’s already laughing at his face. He’s never tried this type of a cantaloupe before. 

“I think he likes it.” Andrea says with a smile on her face. Taylor moves her head down, trying to see any type of reaction in Marlowe’s face. He doesn’t look as disgusted as yesterday when she gave him broccoli for the first time. It seems to be pleasant enough for him to continue sucking on the fruit the way he does. With sticky hands she holds the fruit against his mouth again, feeding him carefully to not ruin the little white trousers that Andrea has put him in this morning. 

“Do you want some breakfast, Andrea? I can also make you the coffee from yesterday you liked…” Matty says, a hand on her mother’s arm. She loves how close they are, just how close they’ve become in the past years, quietly focuses her gaze on the small creature on her lap. Unreal how much she loves just every single movement this little human makes. Just quietly sits there, on her lap, eating his watermelon with a smacking sound and drooling all over her hands again. 

“Oh I’m good, honey.” Andrea answers him, “I was actually going to take him for a walk by the beach before Scott gets here.” 

“When does Dad arrive again?” she asks, her head looking up to her mother. Just when she was about to answer is when Marlowe starts shaking his head dramatically. 

“What? You don’t like it?” Taylor asks him confused and he just shakes his head enthusiastically. The man standing next to Andrea just breaths out amusedly at his son.

“But you just had half of it?” 

Marlowe shakes his head again, so much that he could almost fall off her lap. If he’s got one thing from his mother, it’s the dramatic way of giving answers.

“No.” 

“Okay, okay.” 

“Let me get you a napkin.” Matty mumbles, disappears inside the villa again. Taylor just looks at her son, manages to reach for his sticky hands right before he was about to touch his tiny shirt. Andrea laughs at the two of them. This little boy needs less than three minutes to turn the entire table into a mess. 

“When did he fall asleep last night?” 

Taylor sighs, holding his tiny sticky hands in hers, before kissing his head again a few times, patiently waiting for her husband to get back with some kitchen paper. 

“Around four in the morning.” 

Andrea sighs. “This little night owl.” 

Just in this moment, the brown-haired man with the dark brown curls, just like his son but with some grey hair in between, approaches his wife and hands her the kitchen paper. She begins drying the little hands, then thankfully smiles at her mother who takes the boy from her lap again, so that Taylor can clean her own hands too. Sticky hands and eye bags. A normal morning in their house nowadays. 

“Are you going to the beach with grandma?” Taylor says excitedly, and Marlowe smiles. She laughs gently at her happy baby. 

“Did you use the sunscreen in his room? We also have the little hat from…” 

Andrea smiles at her grandson’ father, who’s standing right in front of her, his big hands securely holding these tiny feet he made. 

“I’ve raised two children, Matty. I’ve got it all under control.” 

Taylor just continues drinking her coffee, has to smirk at her mother lecturing him. He tends to be a little control freak when it comes to Marlowe sometimes. His worst fear constantly being that anything happens to him, or Taylor. A fear that grew in his chest through fatherhood. Maybe it’s because he knows how easy it is to make a mistake that can impact your entire life. Maybe it’s because the moment Marlowe opened his eyes, he knew he’s got a reason to be better.

“Mom, I have a meeting at eleven, and..” Taylor turns her head to look at her husband, “When are you leaving again?” 

With a sigh escaping his mouth, he puts down his coffee mug one more time this morning, then takes another look at his phone on the table next to him. 

“I’m leaving for the airport around 1.” 

Andrea nods. 

“So you can still say goodbye to your dad when we get back, Marly!” The blonde grandmother whispers into her grandson’s ear. The little boy doesn’t really seem to understand. “Just one night without daddy. Just one.” she adds in a cooing voice, but Marlowe doesn’t seem to really care, is busy moving his little chubby legs on her arms.

“Let me open the gate for you guys..” the grown curly-head says, signaling Taylor to remain seated. She still gets up once, mumbles a little ‘have fun with grandma, baby’ into these chubby cheeks, then watches the three of them disappear inside the house again. She takes a few steps onto the balcony rail, just stands there in the shade for a few moments. Her hands on the cold metal, her bare feet on the sun-warmed tiles. She’s still nervous at the thought of before. Secretly wishes he would finally come back now, so they have clarity for once. 

Taylor notices how she starts biting her lip again. She needs to stop doing that whenever her anxieties creep up again. 

Within a few moments, she suddenly feels a different sensation. Two hands hugging her from behind. One hand that lands on her bare stomach under her tank top. The other one gently wrapped around her torso. She moves her head to the side to face him, but he’s faster, already presses a few gentle kisses onto her side. She turns around, was just about to ask him to go take the test from the bathroom sink when she sees what he’s holding in his hand. For a second, she feels her throat tightening. Only then she realizes that he didn’t look at the result either yet. Right in the palm of his closed hand, he holds the pregnancy test. And he’s as nervous as she is. Taylor feels the metal railing in her back. His still empty hand steady on her naked skin. 

“Did you..?” 

“I didn’t. Let’s do this together, love.” 

Taylor nods, and he can feel her anxiety in his throat. She looks terrified, and he knows why. After two miscarriages, a dozen shots of hormones in the mornings and sheer disappointment month after month, this isn’t as joyful anymore as it used to be. 

“It’s negative. I know it. I feel it..” 

“Shush.” he says, a grin on his lips again. She just sighs. 

“Okay, you take a look and just…tell me.” she says, her arms crossed now. Her palms are sweaty. Her heart beats to her throat. She just looks at the forty year old with a worrisome face. He strokes the skin on her bare arm once, gives her one last reassuring look, before he then takes a look at the test in his hand. She doesn’t even look at it. Only looks at his face. He’s quiet for a second, then looks back at her face. 

“It’s negative.” 

She doesn’t say anything, just nods. She knew it. She knew that this was her last attempt at having another baby. She never thought it would haunt her this much. The fact that it’s over. That Marlowe will most likely have to grow up without a sibling. That she will never experience this miracle again, with the love of her life. She just swallows, nods again and again. Her arms still crossed. Matty immediately takes a few steps back, then places the little plastic test on the table next to him just to make sure he has both his hands free. Free to wrap them around the blonde woman as tight as humanly possible. And so they stand there. Barefoot on the warm balcony floor, her hands around his back, his holding her head as tightly to his chest as he can. It’s almost as if he would try to squeeze the sadness out of her. His arm stroking her back up and down, just like he did years ago when she got off stage, only to learn that one of the most influential people in her life has passed away. Just like he did back then, when she was in her twenties and crying over some guy who broke her heart not once, but twice. 

Matty moves his hand, strokes her hair to the side, then presses a long and gentle kiss onto her head. 

“We’ll just keep trying, baby. It’s gonna work out.” he whispers, his accent thicker than usual, and slowly lets go to be able to take a good look at her. She doesn’t look into his eyes, just looks down and nods slowly. She doesn’t believe him, and he knows. 

“At least we have one baby. Some people don’t have any…”

“Hey, look at me.” 

He places both hands on her cheeks, forces her to look at him. She’s scared, and he knows that look too well. 

“Marly will have a sibling. And we will have another baby. I promise.” he takes a pause. A warm breeze blowing her hair to the side. 

“Believe me?” 

She nods. Not sure if she just did to make him happy, or in order to make herself believe that he’s right. He comes closer to her, kisses her lips gently. For the first time, today. She tastes like the sweet melon she had a few moments ago. His fingertips touching the ends of her bangs. 

“I love you.” 

Taylor smiles, just nods when he automatically gets closer again to kiss her forehead, right above the messed up bangs once. They fall into another hug, Taylor doesn’t say anything else. He hates feeling her pain. He hates this so much. 

“You told me yesterday that you and Jack wanted to work on some stuff next week. How about I try to reschedule my session in London next week, and we all fly out to New York and I work from home with our little buddy? And you can take the week to work with Jack in the studio. What do you think?”

She smiles. He knows her so so well. So well, that he knows that the only thing soothing her now is work. Music. The thing she considers the first love of her life. Taylor nods, her hands touching his stubbly cheek once. Never did she think they’d get to this point. Never did she think he’d be the only thing she ever got right in this life.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to..” 

“Hey, no big deal. I can reschedule easily. So..” 

“Matt..”

He looks at her awaiting a reaction. She never calls him by his actual name. Both their eyes meet and he gets the same goosebumps as he did fifteen years ago, for the very first time. 

“What if..” she stops. She fears saying these words. He feels it right away. She still stands there, back against the balcony railing, hair as curly as always in this humidity, her hands this time on his arms. 

“What?” 

She sighs. One look into his eyes is enough to know that there’s nothing she can’t tell him. 

“What if we will only ever have one baby? What if it doesn’t…? What do we do, if..” 

“You want to know what we do if it’s only you, Marly and me?” she looks at him with big eyes, seems to genuinely want an answer from him. But all she gets is the most honest look that a human can carry. Mixed with his kind eyes, that hug her soul from within. His eyes have the ability to tell her so much, without him using a single word. He worships her. He will never not love her, because she really did change his life. She did change him, pulled him out of the darkest dark just with being who she is.

“Then it’s us three. Taking on the world. Like the three musketeers.” 

She looks into his face, their foreheads touching already. She nods slowly. She likes that thought. She likes the safety that comes with it. The first time in her life that it’s not a boyfriend, a partner, or just her lover standing in front of her and saying these loving words to her. It hits different, because it’s him. Not someone she met and fell for, a bad decision that led to another backdoor romance and that ended in sobbing cries and trust issues on end. It’s someone who utterly, completely, and unmistakably knows her. Her, her baggage, her past, and everything in between. And so does she. She’s seen him at his lowest, and still chose to see the best in him. Always.

His hand reaches for hers and they intertwine them carefully. She doesn’t say anything else, just appreciates his face that gets closer to her head again. These familiar lips that land on her forehead again, and the smell in her nose that truly feels like home in her heart. She’s glad that her mother is out for a walk with Marly. She needs this moment with him alone. She needed it more than she thought, after being apart for a week. 

“We’ll be just fine, baby. If I know one thing about us, it’s that we’ll be just fine. Because there’s nothing..” he whispers, then takes a pause that makes her almost emotional. She doesn’t know why, but something in her tells her that she better soak this moment in. Soak it in, hold onto it, never let it go, and stick with it forever. Her hands hold onto him even tighter. They haven’t moved in minutes.

“There’s nothing that could ever come between us, baby.”

She buries her face once more in his arms, breathes him in. It’s been so many times in her life, when she said those words to people she now considers strangers. It’s been so many times in her life, when she’s heard those words, begging, wishing for them to come true, only to find that they were the reflection of a moment in time. But with him, right here, it feels like a lifetime. He steals her cheek one last kiss, then slowly ends the hug with her. 

“Let me get you some of the cornetto di chociolate I got yesterday. You need it. You deserve it.” he says, his horrible Italian pronounciaton already making her laugh. In his grey boxers, the white shirt he slept in and his curly hair in all directions he smiles at her one last time, then leaves the patio. 

_______________

“What does the little duckie say?” she asks, both hands with a firm grip around the tiny torso. She moves her legs up and down in the pool, enjoys the warmth of the summer sun on her skin whilst getting the perfect refreshment by splashing her legs into the pool. The little curly-haired boy on her lap, learning forward with fascination on his face, just splashing his tiny hands on top of the water in the pool. She can’t help but laugh, because the little floating duck that Matty got him last month doesn’t seem to interest him at all anymore. Instead, he’s all about making the refreshing water splash as much as possible with his small hands. And Taylor lets him. It was smart of her to change into her bikini before sitting by the pool with this little rascal. 

“Is that so fun?” she says, already laughing at her son. He stops for a second, looks up at his mom then. Drops of water running down his chubby cheek. Taylor steals the little man a big kiss. The little blue hat he wears makes his chubby face even cuter than she thought was possible. 

“Are you tired, honey?” she says to him quietly, can see his eyes getting a bit smaller and his tiny body losing some of his balance. A clear sign that someone’s in need of a nap. Taylor adjusts him on her arms, slowly and carefully gets up from the poolside where she was just sitting at and makes her way back to one of the sun beds. She moves her sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head, then reaches for one of the towels that she wraps the little boy on her arms in. He doesn’t seem too impressed by Taylor drying his little arms, just patiently remains on her arm. He then slowly places his head on her shoulder. She knew he was exhausted. A mother’s intuition is never wrong.

“I know. Let’s take a nap, baby. I need one, too.” she whispers, her hand already protectively on his little head, her lips pressing the most gentle kisses onto the little head. She carefully sits down on the sun bed, happy that she’s now in the shade, right under the big umbrella. It really has gotten hot in the midday sun, hot but also gloomy. A type of weather they barely have whenever they stay in their Italian home. The sky’s grey already and she almost feels like it’s starting to rain soon. She’s even more thankful to be sitting here under the big umbrella that shields the both of them from the few drops of rain that are now visible in the pool. Her son chose the perfect timing for his little afternoon nap. Taylor slowly leans back, adjusts the baby on her chest. He already fights sleep, and Taylor is glad. She could need a nap herself after last night. She carefully wraps the towel around herself, making sure the little wet body is covered. Both hands around the tiny body over the towel, her lips whispering sweet nothings into the little damp head full of curly hair, gently kissing him to sleep. 

It takes less than five minutes and the most heartwarming baby snores are audible in her ears. His snores, and the soft rain on the umbrella above her. There’s nothing as refreshing as the light rain in the hot midday sun. She smiles silently, both hands still around the little body, her lips still glued to his head. Unbelievable how much peace she’s found on this crazy journey called motherhood. Unbelievable that she’s found this peace with the person she least expected it with. 

Taylor’s head falls back, her arms still wrapped around her baby while she allows herself to closer her eyes, too. 

Peace. 

Finally. 

The patio door opens and she hears a few pairs of feet on the green grass of her garden. A little confused, she opens her eyes first, then lifts her head and turns to where the sound comes from. And then, everything speeds up. Everything speeds up, but slows down at the same time. The rain has stopped, even though a dark grey layer of clouds now fills the sky. She can see her parents walking towards her. Tears in her father’s eyes. Andrea’s sobs in her ears now. Tree walks right next to them, and a stranger too. She doesn’t know what has happened, but the only thing she feels herself doing is holding onto the little sleepy bundle in her arms even tighter than before. Almost as if she knew. The next thing she perceives is her father carefully reaching for the sleeping baby in her arms. She hates to let go, but feels her stomach dropping by the look into her mother’s eyes. He gently takes the warm baby from her chest, leaving her cold and alone. She catches one last look of her father carrying the little boy inside, then turns her head back to her crying mother, not knowing yet that this will be one of the moment changing her life forever. She hears her crying words. She feels Tree’s and her hands holding hers, frantically. Almost as if they would want to try to keep her from falling over, right here. She hears her mother’s words but then again, they won’t reach her mind. There’s been an accident. The doctors have tried everything they can. He’s been brought to the hospital, but it doesn’t look good. She’s so sorry. She’s so so sorry. 

Taylor still doesn’t seem to comprehend, still sits right there on the same sun bed she’s just watched her child fall asleep on. Holding him in her arms, thanking god for bringing peace into her life. She still doesn’t understand, feels two set of hands caressing her from both sides. Destroyed and crying faces staring into hers. She doesn’t understand. It’s impossible. They can’t be talking about him. Him. Her everything. The blonde woman looks from Tree, back to her mother, then to the stranger next to them, right by their poolside. She shakes her head, feels the realization of these news sink into her bones. She feels sick all of the sudden, a wave of sharp pain erupting in her chest and spreading throughout her entire body. She starts shaking, her heartbeat rising instantly. She shakes her head again and again, unable to accept whatever has just been said to her. Andrea gets up, starts hugging her daughter, but she still just shakes her head. Shakes her head again and again until sharp cries slowly escape her mouth. Sharp cries that turn into desperate screams that echo through the entire house, up until the front yard, down the hills of Portofino and right to the rest of the world…

To be continued.

[lunarsilkscreen]

Long-Term Strategy for Game Series Support

We're entering an era of Long-Term support for Video Games Series. (THAT'S A LIE, WEVE BEEN THERE FOR A MINUTE NOW.)

As Developers and Publishers start shutting down online services for older games (and in some cases disabling the game entirely)

Which is necessary, considering that servers take money to continue running. And older game players simply aren't bringing in revenue to keep the lights on. (Because they're not bringing in any money)

The question that AAA developers should be asking; "How do we integrate our games backend into a shared eco-system in order to reduce costs for each individual game, and increase adoption of newer services/games for our players?"

This is a question that must be asked because Developers and Publishers already know how difficult it is to retain profits while competing with the Resale and Third-Party markets like GameStop.

Many developers have started creating "Always On" services which require the game to be connected to the internet in order to play offline portions. (To verify authenticity that the game was purchased from an official source and not pirated.)

After-all it's hard to continue paying for online services if pirates are using them.

Still, services like Hearthstone provide a free service, free product, and still manage to turn profit. Part of this is because of the competitive environment and sponsored tournaments.

By offering a prize, plenty of players can be convinced to play, just in case they feel like going pro next year.

But they probably won't. Despite that; the game is incredibly fun to play. Except when several players in a row have the exact combo that enables them to keep tempo, and so you gotta grin and bear it till it becomes fun again.

Or buy more cards.

Still, how do you create an environment for the casual players of casual games. Like Animal Crossing, or Pokemon. Since most Pokemon players aren't competitive.

After a half-a-decade, the business model dictates that you sell a new game to replace the old one.

Part of the problem here is that each new game has a lot of the same content as the old game, and thus; in order to switch you need throw away your old save file and start from scratch.

Many players that would do that just because they can would have done so already. And so older players may end up giving up both the old and new, simply because it's easier to do so.

Despite the newest games having a lot of the same content, a lot of old content is lost. Like the Story. What would traditionally be called the "Movie" or "Novel" portion. Depending on if it was a cutscenes or several hundred lines of text.

And so in order to re-experience the old content; many players may instead choose to simply to pirate the old content, or read about it from online sources.

Part of the solution is to simply offer the old content to new players. And to try to convince older players into the new areas by allowing them to bring their old content and achievements with them.

This can be accomplished a few different ways. Crypto is one way to create a ledger tied to a players account so that they can share their content between platforms and games.

Nearly every platform, PlayStation, XBOX, and while Nintendo doesn't offer a platform specific variant, game often still include achievements.

And this system can be used to store certain content on a player basis to brought into newer or different games.

This would also enable cross-game items/content/achievements that players could bring with them from series to series.

Which would be a boom for cross-promotional purposes. And by creating an environment and a system that enables to store this in the same place(cloud). You could also control for DataBase specifications in order to reduce size and increase speeds for each individual game.

Now, I am pretty well Versed in Learning Content Distribution. SCORM(This is an acronym you don't need to know, and would only raise more questions if I explain it, so I'll stick to the surface here.) SCORM, TinCan, and xAPI (not to be confused with Twitter) are specifications created for the Learning Management Environment (Education, College, Government, and corporate training models) in order to do exactly what I'm talking about with as little or as much data bandwidth requirements, is relatively secure and includes cross-service achievement-like systems.

As well as content-distribution systems.

I would assume there's a way to integrate it with Crypto. It would replace the monkey WEBMs with something more substantial.

And this service or system would allow not only players to bring their accounts and achievements and items with them from game to game (or from game to social media) but games to communicate with each other.

Again, I'm thinking "Eco-system" here. Publishers would be able to do large-scale cross-promotional events with many games simultaneously. And enable platform-hoping between games with content from each individual event.

What this means is that you would also be able to provide a place for those old games to exist, even if they don't participate it the Events anymore. AND encourage players to try new and other games because they don't lose their original save files doing so.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

They had come to see the book. It was a rarity, a curiosity, even in this most fertile age of literature, with more novels published each year than the last - for, amongst such endless propagation, few survived even a decade down the line. There had been no reason to cling to a single rigid tome, no veneration of the classics, ever since the authors went extinct.

It had happened almost overnight. There had been signs, in the build-up: a sky that darkened at the edges, a scarlet glow beneath the waiting clouds, as computer programs slowly learnt to emulate, to replicate without the usual tells, but the breakthrough had been night and day.

Up until that point, human authors had still stood head and shoulders clear of their artificial usurpers. But once a certain level of fidelity had been reached, they found themselves suddenly surpassed and superseded: they were left to gather dust with their typewriters and keyboards and other obsolete apparatus, taking their place as the latest casualties of progress.

The editors had briefly come to fill their niche, like the terror birds who clung on when the great therapods were gone, able to fine tune this sudden glut of raw material, putting their name to it, still perched on top of the food chain. But it was only a stay of extinction, and soon the software had evolved again, able to churn out perfect novels every time.

Publishers also had their time in the sun, having survived the meteorite's first impact and growing wealthy on free manuscripts, but their part of the production line was perhaps the easiest to automate, having mostly just required time and certain contacts, and the machines could draw upon plenty of both. In fact, they could dispense with the marketing, the retailers - they simply sold a printer with the program installed, and left each purchaser's books to be unique. Every home became a publishing house, and therefore none of them were.

"Is it old?" one of the visitors asked.

"The 20s," the owner confirmed, conjuring up images of that broken time, a world recovering from plague and war.

That had come just before the tipping point, the greatest expansion since the invention of the printing press. Readers could conjure up whole libraries on a whim, and replace them just as easily, the words pulped with the paper and recycled into something new.

There had been fears that the machines would be limited, producing variations on the same theme, restricted by their lack of true imagination, but nothing had been further from the truth. As the products of more input than any human brain could ever dream to hold, they went far beyond any of their forebears, an imagination unlimited by memory or computing power, but free to dream as only a computer could.

If Lovecraft wrote of horrors that no mortal mind could comprehend, the program could produce them, understand them, and describe them on the page. If Asimov envisioned the future, the program could predict it. All world-building was put to shame by software which could simulate whole galaxies, write with perfect historical accuracy, or explore inaccuracies and their consequences with access to all the data that had ever been preserved.

But aesthetes still sought out authenticity, and that brought them to his door. His book was hand-bound in that antiquated way, wearing its maker's mark along its spine, a badge upon its back spelling its name in bar code runes, as much old produce was known to do, before the computers learnt to recognise by shape instead. Somebody had illustrated the cover by hand, finger and brush. It had all been added manually, even the blank spaces inside.

"It's beautiful," they said.

[ariel-seagull-wings]

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

@themousefromfantasyland @tamisdava2 @the-blue-fairie @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @thealmightyemprex @minimumheadroom @professorlehnsherr-almashy @amalthea9

(WASHINGTON IRVING)

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,  Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,  Forever flushing round a summer sky.                     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,—an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s “History of New England Witchcraft,” in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,—the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart,—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or the Lord knows where!

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away,—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind,—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash,—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog’s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s “History of Witchcraft,” a “New England Almanac,” and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humourous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor—he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove?

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove—

“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures—provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state.”

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts.

“Faith, sir,” replied the story-teller, “as to that matter, I don’t believe one-half of it myself.” D. K.

THE END.

[wphostzone]

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[fireproofphoenix]

So I've been playing Palworld and it's scratched that itch I had back when Ark was also new and wonky as all hell. I love finding wonky shit that will be patched soon enough that I otherwise would never had seen if it was a polished game already. That's not the point. The point is the day I reached 365 in-game days on my character, I was taken to Hell and God spoke to me.

This is a somewhat long tale because I can't seem to tell a story without lots of details but ehh.

Now I know it wasn't intended as such but I know what I know man. See I'm all about breaking games. I enjoy speed running and clipping objects, and let me tell you about unintended files stored as magic boxes behind a fireplace in Skyrim! Naturally then, I have used some less than authentic things in the year.

Have I maybe held a conversation about the pros and cons between two Chikipi in the inventory of a Black Marketeer while my Quivern roasted him alive in the background so I could loot his corpse of 35k gold? Perhaps.

Have I ever intentionally instigated a riot in one of the only civilized parts of this island of nightmares? Have I led that bloodthirsty mob then against the leaders of the cults and/or organizations that control the island with the intent of forcing their leaders and their partner creature into a sphere thanks to an exploit allowing me to catch them? It's possible.

But no, instead me and Immortal the Shadowbeak decided to visit his home realm. See I was doing the now-known trick of butchering a pal and then riding them to prevent them from dying. Didn't realize how it worked, really, i just knew to try riding him during the second loop of the animation. I'd discovered this from dropping the controller in a panic as my cat made a mad dash and knocked over my coffee.

I figured out the rhythm of it. I was killing and harvesting this beast endlessly! It refused to stay dead under my guiding hand. Sure it was eternally blurred out with that pixil-y cloud, but that's because we should not gaze directly upon the divine, as this death transcendent hippogriff clearly was. I explain this in a sleep deprived mania to my roommate. They suggest a nap. I disagree. Another coffee means I can continue the immortal butchering.

Then we Fell the first time. I'm no stranger to being out of bounds in a game mind you. Hell my favorite mining route meant clipping through a mountain in another game. This is Fine™ so I land in the water under the map. Recall people saying online that the dungeons and whatnot are just hidden pockets under the world. Maybe that's where I was? Didn't care. Immortal Shadowbeak was there with me still. I continued the butchering unimpeded. Must get technology books for unlocking more shelves.

Over time I have repeatedly entered the Undersea. Sometimes its from exploring, but no, I have a Rushoar and he is called Sæhrímnir and he will take me to the Undersea every time. No matter what. Every other Immortal has regenerated every reload of the save and lost their pixel cloud, but remains censored to this day. But a man needs bacon for his eggs so I butcher him like his namesake to feed the people.

Now, like every good casserole recipe, the backstory is finally set, so onto the tale. On the day of my character's 365th day I rolled out of my bed and walked out of my keep. I did a full tour, remembering my tiny three walls and a roof to how far I'd come with my Pals. It'd been a long year, but I decided a feast! We must celebrate! Not just me and my party, but all of us shall enjoy Sæhrímnir! No salads for breaks today!

So me and Sæhrímnir get into position on the Bloodstone. I'd read having one stone foundation away from everything helped with not falling through the ground and while it worked for everyone else, Sæhrímnir is more Divine and thus immune to that so once again I'm riding his not-a-corpse down to the Undersea. I figure I need more meat to fill everyone, what with food level 7s everywhere, so i continue meat making.

Sæhrímnir decided I'd been flaunting his immortality I guess because later at the party he suddenly burst from his palsphere and I was like "Weird, but okay" and decided I'd try "petting him and calming him down" before tossing him back into the sphere. I was still holding the butcher knife I guess and started disembowling him on the table in the center of the picnic area in front of everyone. Only the Immortals knew what they were, having been killed at the Bloodstone far from the eyes of the rest, and now they knew.

But I wasn't gonna let Sæhrímnir die, so I went through the rituals the same as always and down to the Undersea we went. I prepare to go back to base via the keep inventory option in conjunction with the die and respawn button in the menu. It's routine at this point.

"Come" I hear an older man and younger woman say at the same time. I just happened to be looking at Sæhrímnir, about to return him to his sphere. His pixilation ended at that one word and then we started falling through the Undersea. In that short fall, I wondered if we'd fallen somehow into one of those dungeon pockets. As we landed I knew this was truly not somewhere I was supposed to be.

See, the grass was much more gray than green, but there was grass and ground under my feet in every direction I could see. The issue was, I could not see that far, only about five to ten feet through the thick white mist that was static and yet animated. No wait, that part just moved, but the smoke texture wasn't animated. I cautiously begin moving through the mist, careful that the ground may end yet again. Try finding Sæhrímnir, but he's gone. My palspheres aren't working, my character not even trying to throw an empty hand.

On the side of the screen, I see my character has eaten another plate of bacon an eggs. I'm still alive and eating, so that's a bonus. Means this isn't unsalvagable, but curiosity has me. I check and I have all my weapons. The firearms shoot into the White Void and my ammo count went down, so they work. I reload and set off further and faster into the mist.

Even fully sprinting there's nothing but knee high gray grass and flowers and the mist that is everywhere. I opened the map and it says I haven't left my base. I know I've been running in the mist for easily five minutes. I encounter a tree. It's texture is on inside out and is more or less just a mass of spiky vectors in a dead tree shape. I continue. Minutes pass, more trees appearing in the fog. I saw a pal fragment node but it vanished as I approached.

eventually as I get bored, I notice the day is about to end and I consider respawning and going back. The Sun turns into a Moon in the dial and I hear a crashing sound like a felled tree. Everything flashes and the grass is suddenly green, but the mist is turning black like ink. Horror movie vibes as hell. I'm rooted in place watching this glitch and needing to know how it ends.

The double-voice says something again, but they're no longer saying the same thing. Too brief to comprehend what it was. Haywire audio files, no big thing. Happens a lot. Sæhrímnir then appears, or perhaps another boar like him. It squeals and does its death animation as the fog finishes becoming black. Night must've finished falling in the Overworld---

Lights start coming to life around me, brightening and dimming slowly. Lifmunk Statue green and data log/fast travel blue lights started pulsing in the void. I made the mistake of trying to run to one. The camera spins as I start running. Moving is controlling the camera now and the camera is moving the character now. No problem, lemme just unlearn decades of gaming muscle memory real quick.

"COME" the Twin Voices cried suddenly, static accompanying the word. Feel backdoor room vibes and get goosebumps. My nerves are suddenly both taught and shot at the same time. My character has fallen into the distortion world ffs. Time to abort. I select Respawn in the menu. My character doesn't die. Try several more times to no avail. Try double jumping and my Galeclaw still refuses to answer my summons. Palspheres are still not working.

As I get the idea to just hard-close out the game, the sun begins to rise. Like a disney movie, rays of gold and orange shoot through the black and dispel it....why are the rays of light twisting? They start bending around and twisting around invisible objects my character doesn't collide with. Wait, that thing over there kind of looks like part of the assembly machine---

The entire screen suddenly turns white and I hear a sound like a dozen digital demons as the game crashes. I reboot the game and I'm standing in the middle of the party, still in full swing around 4 in the afternoon on the 365th day. Nevermind my night going through the Shadowrealms like I'm mfing Ra crossing the Duat. Nevermind that I saw beyond the veil as many Islanders wish for and I found only horrors.

I prepare to log out when I check my party. Sæhrímnir is gone. He never returned with me.

The Immortal Pal Experiments have been halted at this time.

[busstalks]

Best 10 Business Strategies for year 2024

In 2024 and beyond, businesses will have to change with the times and adjust their approach based on new and existing market realities. The following are the best 10 business approach that will help companies to prosper in coming year

1. Embrace Sustainability

The days when sustainability was discretionary are long gone. Businesses need to incorporate environmental, social and governance (ESG) values into their business practices. In the same vein, brands can improve brand identity and appeal to environmental advocates by using renewable forms of energy or minimizing their carbon footprints.

Example: a fashion brand can rethink the materials to use organic cotton and recycled for their clothing lines. They can also run a take-back scheme, allowing customers to return old clothes for recycling (not only reducing waste but creating and supporting the circular economy).

2. Leverage AI

AI is revolutionizing business operations. Using AI-fuelled solutions means that you can automate processes, bring in positive customer experiences, and get insights. AI chatbots: AI can be utilized in the form of a conversational entity to support and perform backend operations, as well.

With a bit more specificity, say for example that an AI-powered recommendation engine recommends products to customers based on their browsing history and purchase patterns (as the use case of retail). This helps to increase the sales and improve the shopping experience.

3. Prioritize Cybersecurity

Cybersecurity is of utmost important as more and more business transitions towards digital platforms. Businesses need to part with a more substantial amount of money on advanced protective measures so that they can keep sensitive data private and continue earning consumer trust. Regular security audits and training of employees can reduce these risks.

Example: A financial services firm may implement multi-factor authentication (MFA) for all online transactions, regularly control access to Internet-facing administrative interfaces and service ports as well as the encryption protocols to secure client data from cyberattacks.

4. Optimizing Remote and Hybrid Working Models

Remote / hybrid is the new normal Remote teams force companies to implement effective motivation and management strategies. Collaboration tools and a balanced virtual culture can improve productivity and employee satisfaction.

- Illustration: a Tech company using Asana / Trello etc. for pm to keep remote teams from falling out of balance. They can also organise weekly team-building activities to keep a strong team spirit.

5. Focus on Customer Experience

Retention and growth of the sales follow-through can be tied to high quality customer experiences. Harness data analytics to deepen customer insights and personalize product offers making your marketing campaigns personal: a customer support that is responsive enough can drive a great level of returning customers.

Example – For any e-commerce business, you can take user experience feedback tools to know about how your customers are getting along and make necessary changes. Custom email campaigns and loyalty programs can also be positively associated with customer satisfaction and retention.

6. Digitalization Investment

It is only the beginning of digital transformation which we all know, is key to global competitiveness. For streamlining, companies have to adopt the use advanced technologies such as Blockchain Technology and Internet of Things (IoT) in conjunction with cloud computing.

IoT example : real-time tracking and analytics to optimize supply chain management

7. Enhance Employee Skills

Develop Your Employees: Investing in employee development is key to succeeding as a business. The training is provided for the folks of various industries and so employees can increase their skills that are needed to work in a certain company. Employee performance can be enhanced by providing training programs in future technology skills and soft skills and job satisfaction.

Example: A marketing agency can host webinars or create courses to teach people the latest digital marketing trends and tools This can help to keep employees in the know which results in boosting their skills, making your campaigns successful.

8. Diversify Supply Chains

The ongoing pandemic has exposed the weaknesses of global supply chains. …diversify its supply base and promote the manufacturing of drugs in Nigeria to eliminate total dependence on a single source. In return, this approach increases resilience and reduces exposure to the risks of supply chain interruption.

- E.g., a consumer electronics company can source components from many suppliers in various regions. In so doing, this alleviates avoidable supply chain interruptions during times of political tensions or when disasters hit.

9. Make Decisions Based on Data

A business database is an asset for businesses. By implementing data, they allow you to make decisions based on the data that your analytics tools are providing. For example, sales analysis lets you track trends and better tailor your goods to the market.

Example: A retail chain can use data analytics to find out when a customer buys, and it change their purchasing policies. This can also reduce overstock and stockouts while overall, increasing efficiency.

10. Foster Innovation

Business Growth Innovation is Key A culture of creativity and experimentation should be established in companies. Funding R&D and teaming with startups can open many doors to both solve problems creatively but also tap into new markets.

Example: A software development firm could create an innovation lab where team members are freed to work on speculative projects. Moreover, work with start-ups on new technologies and solutions.

By adopting these strategies, businesses can navigate the turbulence for 2024 and roll up market — progressive.AI with an evolving dynamic market, being ahead of trends and updated is most likely will help you thrive in the business landscape.