#I did read the first volume of our dreams at dusk which was really good

[tanenigiri]

Review #22 - Until I Meet My Husband

Japanese title: 僕が夫に出会うまで (Boku ga Otto ni Deau Made)

Story: Ryousuke Nanasaki

Art: Yoshi Tsukizuki

English publisher: Seven Seas Entertainment

Number of volumes: 1 (complete)

The peaks and valleys of finding true love.

(This review contains story spoilers.)

I’ve covered a number of series in this project that stray away from its genre focus - slice-of-life BL - in one way or the other. While Our Dreams at Dusk and I Think Our Son Is Gay both feature a man pining for another man, they don’t necessarily follow the typical BL plotline, and I like calling them “BL-adjacent” or simply LGBT manga instead. On the other hand, Cherry Magic isn’t technically slice-of-life as it revolves around a main character with a magical ability. I still chose to cover these series for this project because I wanted to write about them, and even if they didn’t fit into the mold of all the other series I’m covering, I still thought they were very good reads.

Until I Meet My Husband is another one of the titles that deviate from this project’s norm, though in a different way from the three series I mentioned above - this is the first (and only) manga I’m covering here that isn’t classified as fiction. This is based on a series of essays from Ryousuke Nanasaki that recounts his experiences as a gay man, all culminating into his wedding - which the book helpfully tells us is “the first religiously recognized same-sex marriage in Japan.” I mentioned the partnership system in my review of Restart After Growing Hungry, and I believe this is a variation that involves a Buddhist ceremony.

And indeed, the manga opens with this scene, with Ryousuke getting happily married to his husband - who coincidentally is also named Ryousuke, so I’ll be calling him Ryou when I talk about him later. While we already know going into the story that Ryousuke would be getting a happy ending - if the title doesn’t give it away, the cover and blurb definitely will - framing the main story with this wedding at the very start does set a much different tone compared to if it immediately began with his experiences as a kid. All of these flashbacks show a lot of challenging and often uncomfortable experiences that Ryousuke goes through, but knowing that they’re working towards a happy ending makes it a lot easier to root for him.

Of course, Ryousuke doesn’t have the benefit of knowing he’ll get a happy ending when he goes through these events, and indeed, it’s a sentiment that comes up quite often as he grows up and comes to terms with his sexuality. Each of the chapters of this manga roughly revolves around one of the men that Ryousuke either pines for or gets together with, and it’s through these unrequited loves and relationships that he comes to learn things about himself and his identity. I think this is the story’s strongest aspect, as the way it explores this identity development is very comprehensive, and it reaches many highs and lows that really gives Ryousuke’s situation a lot of depth. While part of this is because of the story’s context - this is a memoir, after all - the author still deserves a lot of credit for being able to convey all of this very effectively.

Take the first two men that Ryousuke falls for while he’s still in school - Tsukasa and Hase. In both cases, not once did Ryousuke entertain the idea of being gay; rather, he worded his frustrations as wishing he were a girl instead so that Tsukasa and Hase would be able to fall in love with him. At first, I thought this was going to lead into a discussion about dysphoria, but the story later says that this is simply Ryousuke being unable to accept the notion of a man falling for another man. Much of this rejection comes from how the people around Ryousuke treated him - he was bullied for acting “girly,” and seeing both of his unrequited crushes get girlfriends took a toll on him - and we even get a chapter ending where he resolves to fall in love with a girl instead.

But his experiences living together with Hase during their college years and dating around with other men to no avail do lead him to slowly accept his truth - he was gay, and he wanted a long-term relationship with another man. This leads to my favorite scene of the entire story, where he’s out for drinks with two friends, Eri and Asami, to console the latter for breaking up with her boyfriend. Ryousuke has a really interesting internal monologue here where he admits to himself that he doesn’t sympathize with Asami because she had the privilege of having a true relationship with the person she loved. With this scene being presented right after Ryousuke’s experiences with Hase, he surmises that while both of them were heartbroken, their heartbreaks were not the same at all.

Ryousuke ends up vocalizing all of these thoughts to his friends instead of keeping them bottled in, which leads to him coming out for the first time. Eri and Asami, being the fantastic friends they are, sympathizes with Ryousuke and gives him the long overdue opportunity to vent and share all of his feelings. A scene much later in the story shows Ryousuke being incredibly grateful that his first time coming out was to people who didn’t reject him, and he believes that if that conversation went sour, he might not have been able to reach his happy ending. I thought the way this scene was handled was really great, and it’s no surprise that it ends up being a turning point not just for Ryousuke’s character, but for the story as a whole.

He becomes a lot more open about his sexuality after this pivotal moment, coming out to more people close to him as well as joining gay communities online and attending their public events. It’s in one of these events where he meets Takuma, and the two are seen to hit it off right away. This ends up being Ryousuke’s first serious relationship, and it even culminates in a mock wedding ceremony organized by Eri and Asami, which the story says was one of the things Ryousuke revealed to them when he came out to them - once again proving that they’re 10/10 friends. (It’s also revealed later on that this event was the spark that pushes Ryousuke and Eri to start a wedding planning business focused on LGBT couples.)

But I found it interesting how the story bookended this mock wedding with two very grave pitfalls in their relationship. Right before this scene, it’s revealed that Takuma has a lot of trust issues, going as far as hiding near their house to see if Ryousuke would bring another man home. The story does attribute this to his personal demons, and while Ryousuke admits that they fought a lot because of this, they did work together to overcome their issues little by little.

In the scene following the mock wedding, which takes place a year after the ceremony, it’s revealed that Takuma was unwillingly outed to his friends. Unlike Ryousuke, Takuma hadn’t come out to anyone yet by that point, and this is seen to destroy him inside as his friends ended up pushing him out of their group because of it. While Ryousuke tries to talk to him and help him go through it, Takuma ultimately decides that he doesn’t want to be seen as different and resolves to pursue a “normal” relationship with a girl.

This, of course, hits quite close to home for Ryousuke, as he had the same thoughts about wanting to be in a “normal” relationship many years prior. He’s seen to handle this breakup quite heavily, feeling very alone in the three months following the breakup, and only finding the strength to move on after what looks like a breakdown while he’s in a bus. This arc is definitely the most complex out of all the conflicts that Ryousuke faces throughout the manga, and I quite like how his previous experiences with Tsukasa and Hase almost built up to this relationship with Takuma. Ryousuke is said to have dated quite a number of guys between Takuma and his future husband, but I definitely understand why the author chose to highlight this relationship in particular for his memoir - it seemed very game-changing in more ways than one.

Thankfully, this is the last major hurdle that Ryousuke the manga character has to overcome before he finally meets Ryou. Funnily enough, their first meeting ends up being a one night stand, and they only reconnect a year later as Ryou was in a relationship back then. They end up getting together shortly after reconnecting, and soon enough, Ryou is proposing to Ryousuke in Tokyo’s pride parade.

The final chapter features the continuation of the wedding shown in the first few pages of the book, but right before these scenes, the story shows the two Ryousukes attempting to apply for marriage registration but unfortunately failing to do so. At first, I thought this was simply highlighting how Japan has a long way to go in terms of being LGBT-friendly, and while I think that’s still a factor, I’m surprised that the couple doesn’t react entirely negatively to this rejection. Instead, Ryousuke points out that their application was rejected because same-sex marriages weren’t legal “for now” - giving him hope that it was only a temporary no.

It’s with this hopeful message that Until I Meet My Husband closes with, and I think it’s a very fitting note to end on. Ryousuke went through a lot of hardships both in terms of accepting himself and in terms of finding love, but he knows that it’s because of these hardships that he was able to reach his happy ending. I think the story does a great job in conveying that, and despite being quite heartbreaking all throughout, I left the story with my heart full.

Random thoughts that I couldn’t fit elsewhere:

I also wanted to mention that the story does a good job in painting Ryousuke’s character in a realistic light, in that he himself has his own flaws that he had to work through. While the story could’ve framed Hase as the bad guy for being completely oblivious of what his friend was going through, it doesn’t fall into that trap and instead shows that Ryousuke is also making it hard for Hase because of how the former is reacting to the latter’s girlfriend. There were a few moments in the story where I found myself agreeing with the other party instead of Ryousuke, but I think that’s a good thing - this story isn’t meant to portray Ryousuke as the perfect example of a gay man, but as someone who had to overcome a lot of challeges both externally and internally.

The first bonus chapter shows Ryousuke coming out to his mom, which unfortunately doesn’t go as well as it did with Eri and Asami. She immediately thinks about where she went wrong in raising her son and urges him not to tell his father for fear of being disowned. She even goes as far as warning Ryousuke to take this “secret” to his grave. This is unfortunately a very realistic reaction, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the story left it at that. Fortunately, this bonus chapter goes in a more positive direction when Ryousuke talks to his mom about his wedding seven years after that incident. While his mom had kept her word to not tell her father all this time, the wedding does mean that she had to inform him about it, and to both of their surprise, the dad doesn’t think much of his son being gay and simply accepts it. I’m not sure if this is the catalyst that turns the mother’s opinion around or just the last of many steps that she took in those seven years to accept her son’s sexuality, but it’s nice to see her come around.

The second bonus chapter is a lot more light-hearted, as it gives us a glimpse of Ryou’s point of view of the story. It’s revealed that his talk with Ryousuke at the bar was as much of a game-changer for him as it was for Ryousuke, as he had already given up on the idea of marriage once he realized he was gay. We also get a clearer idea of why that one night stand they shared (on New Year’s Day no less) was unforgettable for both of them, and it does a great job of showing that they really hit it off from the start.

Thanks for reading! Until I Meet My Husband was a change of pace for this project in more ways than one, and I really liked how upfront it was about these experiences as well as its underlying statements about LGBT rights in Japanese society. I have yet to read the memoir that this is based on, and I hear that there’s a lot more covered in the set of essays than what’s in this manga, so I can’t wait to grab a copy of that!

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Elland Road in Leeds, UK - May 29, 1982 (Part-2)

Fan Stories

“We got a coach from my home town (about 2 hours from memory) and drank an ocean of lager on the way, by the time we got there we needed the toilet so badly we could have exploded! We got into the stadium and waited for the first band of the day. Soon enough a not very well known (to me) American band came on called Heart. They weren't bad but did nothing for me. Then came The Teardrop Explodes who tried and who I reckoned did quite well despite the flying bottles of liquid being hurled at them from the crowd. After them was Joan Jett complete with Blackhearts who got the crowd going with "I Love Rock'n'Roll" mainly because Brian appeared at the side of the stage with his daughter to have a look. Eventually after a long wait the stage lights dimmed and a strange cranking sound started up and then you were suddenly aware of the drum beat to Flash thumping out and spotlights chasing around the stadium. This went on for a minute or so and the excitement was unbearable. All of a sudden in an explosion of smoke, lights, guitars, drums... Brian, John and Roger are there blasting out the opening part of The Hero. Seconds later in a gleaming white leather jacket out runs Freddie and it begins... A moment I will never forget along with many others from Queen shows since and before it. I can't say which show was my favourite as I loved them all but that moment WAS Queen, the sheer power, the anticipation, the fantastic musical ability and above all else the way they gave people what they crave more than anything... wonderful memories.” - whiteman

“29th May 1982 - a really nice warm day. We only lived a few miles away so walked down to Elland Road - I can't believe it - Queen live in my home town at the home of the greatest football team in the country (well maybe not now!). Got to the ground early and were allowed in by security, such a relaxed atmosphere. Saw band's soundcheck - great! So hot sun, never went behind stadium roofs. Got best suntan I have ever had! Heard Teardrop Explodes - not bad. Then you are aware of the beat of flash thumping out around the stadium, the smoke rises and bang - they are on! The greatest gig I have ever seen from the greatest live band in history. God bless you, Brian, Roger and John. Rest in peace, Freddie - we will never forget.” - Michael Quine

“This was my second ever gig, the first being Rory Gallagher the year before (I am sure I once read that Rory was one of Brian May's favourite guitarists). Anyway, being only 14 and not yet in the habit of getting off my face at gigs,I can remember that day very clearly. I am convinced I saw someone throw a hamburger at Julian Cope (Teardrop Explodes were going down like a lead balloon), and just as Julian was opening his gob to sing, he CAUGHT IT IN HIS MOUTH. A huge cheer went up, then they stomped off. Somebody, possibly Queen's manager, came on and told everbody to behave. I also remember a fan getting on stage and Freddie expertly rolling him off the stage. I didnt like the Hot Space album much but was chuffed they were still a hard rock band. I bought the next edition of Kerrang mag and the write up of the gig said STUNNING. Great memory.” - Edwin

“I was 15 years old in 1982 when I attended my first ever concert. Fortunately for me, it was QUEEN's show at Leeds AFC ground in the North of England. I remember when my ticket arrived in the post, possibly 2-3 months before the concert, as was often the case in those days. I stuck my ticket on a cork notice board in my bedroom and could barely contain my excitement over the coming weeks. Every morning, I would wake up and look at the yellow ticket, wishing the days away. I imagined everything that could go wrong would. Queen would cancel the gig, I would break my leg, the family pet would die on the morning of the concert and it would be too insensitive of me to go, the transport wouldn't turn up or would break down, there would be a pile up on the motorway, I'd lose my ticket en route, etc, etc. As it turned out, May 29th 1982 was a hot and sunny day, perfect weather for an outdoor gig. I was CRAZY about Queen and had been since the age of 9 but I really didn't know what to expect on that day. Myself and three friends took a coach organised by my Dad's company from Lancashire across the M62 motorway to Leeds. Our excitement began to really take a hold when we arrived at the football ground and we followed the droves of people towards the turnstiles. To me, this was something on a really big scale and I could already hear the hum of the crowd inside. Not really believing that we were actually about to witness a Queen concert, we found our seats on the West Stand, offering a great view of the stage. I remember marvelling at Queen's new lighting rig and the equipment that adorned the stage, shining in the afternoon sunshine. The ground was almost full at this point and the pitch was heaving with people. The atmosphere was relaxed as people bathed in the sunshine. I remember two guys climbing the fence from the stand and attempting to get a better spot by running into the crowd and losing themselves on the pitch. Their efforts were in vain however as they were quickly located and ejected back into the stand by two security guards. We bought some black Hot Space tour shirts (I wore mine with pride until it literally fell apart) and a programme from a vendor inside the ground and waited for the first band to take the stage. A guy near us shouted and punched his way through Heart's set and then left just as they vacated the stage. Obviously not a Queen fan! The Teardrop Explodes suffered at the hands of the Queen congregation and found themselves battling against a shower of bottles and assorted missiles. Other than that, I don't really remember much about the support bands. I think that Bow Wow Wow were billed to play (an odd choice) but I can't recall if they actually turned up. No matter, we were about to witness what is still one of the best gigs I have ever attended.

As the dusk descended upon us, the giant floodlights were extinguished one by one and the memory of the roar that followed still sends shivers down my spine. Dry ice drifted across the heads of the crowd on the pitch as the intro tape of Flash thumped out of the PA and the strange 'grating' noises added to the recording created a foreboding atmosphere. Two of our party were on the pitch and to this day remember their chests thumping in unison to the powerful rhythm. A sea of hands clapped in perfect time to the beat. To me, this was already an amazing experience. And then the big moment. Freddie, resplendent in dazzling white made his entrance to The Hero and the blaze of the lights. An apt number to start with. Before he had even sung a note, the audience were locked tightly in the palm of his hand. Such an entrance, such a showman. "You're a F***in amazing crowd", he exclaimed after the first rush. The beginning of the gig is, in truth, my strongest memory of the show itself. In particular, the "Flash!!!" vocals cutting through the night air with so much volume. I recall being shocked at the sheer power of Queen's performance and the clarity of the huge sound they harnessed. Morgan Fisher's keyboards during 'Action This Day' sounded bright and hypnotic. Freddie's intro to Fat Bottomed Girls caused quite a response too; "the bigger the t*t the better it is!". I also remember the follow spots darting wildly over the crowd during 'Tie Your Mother Down' and everybody going crazy. Oddly enough (and this is something I still swear by to this day), I was in a Maths lesson at school the following Monday and I swear I had a flashback of this and could actually 'hear' the music being re-played in my head. It was a weird moment and life was never quite the same again. We talked endlessly about our experience for months to come and one of my biggest regrets is not jumping on a train to attend the filmed Milton Keynes show a week later. Having been to so many gigs since, I can honestly say that there is nobody who has been able to top Queen live; I was lucky enough to see the band five times between 1982 and 1986, including Wembley Stadium and their last show at Knebworth. I think that my personal favourite was their performance at the NEC in Birmingham on 'The Works' tour in 1984. People were literally stood there with open mouths, unable to believe how good they were. Leeds is definitely up there too. I recall Brian May stating that he thought it was one of their best performances ever. I can't argue with that Mr May. I've often wondered if an audience shot cine film or even just photographs exist from the Leeds gig. It would be a dream come true to see my memories come to life again.” - Keith Lambert

“I can't believe it was 30 years ago that I attended my first ever gig at Elland Rd Leeds in 1982. I was 17 years old at the time, I was into Queen when I first heard seven seas of rhye, which was so different to all the other stuff around at the time. I'd heard them live on tv, and had Live Killers. Also I used to buy bootleg cassettes of all of their tours from 74 onwards. But nothing could prepare me for that day. They should have played this gig at Old Trafford Manchester, my home town, so I was gutted when the residents opposed it. Tickets were very easy to come by, believe it or not, cos Queen were not seen as a relevant band at that time. Also touring the Hot Space album didn't seem to excite anybody. So, Billy no mates had to go on his own, haha. My memory is a bit hazy, but I will try my best. I got to the ground about 1pm, and was lucky enough to have a pitch ticket. I got right to the front, well about 10 yards from the stage, slightly off centre and to the right. If I told you I never moved from that spot all day and never spoke to anyone, would you believe me? One of the reasons for this is the rivalry between Manchester and Leeds, also I was only a kid, haha. Not sure who was first on, probably Teardrop Explodes, Julian Cope, I remember while they were throwing bottles at him, picked one up and started hitting himself with it and stretching his arms out saying he was an Argentinian bomber or something. It was during the Falklands war, remember. Then Heart came on, not really my cup of tea, and I had a lie down on the tarpaulin and tried to go to sleep. Then Joan Jett, who was better than the rest, but not really exciting. During the band changes, I remember the roadies polishing Roger's drum kit and climbing up ropes and those threepronged lights, which before I saw them move I thought they were cameras. Queen took ages to come on. From my recollection and I might be wrong, they didn't come on until 10pm and went off around Midnight. I heard later that they got fined so much per minute for being late on stage but they wanted to wait until it was dark for the lighting rig to take effect. If you watch the Bowl DVD you will notice it was light when they came on stage there. But that was being filmed by Channel 4. But it was absolutely pitch black when they came on stage at Leeds. Then the floodlights went off, smoke started to appear and strange noises started, which I can't describe, sorry. Then Flash's Theme started, it was loud, very, very loud. I knew they were supposed to be loud and this was the part that scared me. The ground was thumping, the bass just pumping away. The these 'cameras' flicked into life, with men on them. The intro seemed to last for a very long time. Then BANG Brian appears with the first chord of The Hero and a flash of the biggest white light I've ever seen and will never forget and the absolute loudest noise I have ever heard just hit me. The intro was quite in comparrision to this. When I play Live at the Bowl, I tend to repeat the intro and The Hero, virtually every time, because it was definitely a life changing experience for me at that moment, just incredible. Then Freddie appeared in brilliant white again, I was that close, I swear His hair seemed blue because of the mass of white lights. His voice, so loud, so clear, honestly, I can't describe that moment properly. I heard Freddie swear, saw Roger spitting, quite a lot, over his drum kit and onto the stage, I was bewildered.

When they did Play The Game and also Somebody To Love, when Freddie was doing the intros for them and it will sound strange to those that weren't there, but I didn't know what the songs were. I thought they was new unreleased songs. The reason was they was so loud, It kind of deafened you and then kind of sunk in what they were about to play. Then the rest of the gig flew by and I was singing my head off. Everyone was, but you could only hear Queen. Again my memory may be wrong, but I read afterwards that Queen had paid for residents to move out of their homes for the day. These houses were monitored and they said that the sound was like Concorde flying 10 feet over your head... Yep I will buy that. For all that and for all the bad things said about it, The Works tour, which I went to all the 4 origional England gigs they had planned, was the best tour they ever did. The set list was fantastic and the lighting rig was incredible. Not as loud, I also add. I also saw them in Manchester, 86. They had to be off stage by 10pm and noise levels had to be adhered to. I was too far awy to see them and the screens didn't come on because it was too light. Also I couldn't here them properly. I've watched the mMagic Tour gigs on DVD etc, but for me, that was the poorest tour they ever did. So that's it, hopefully some of you can confirm my bad memory, or say I'm wrong. Hopefully not bored you all. But it was the greatest musical experience I ever witnessed and I am proud I was there.” - Paul Wakefield

Part-1

(x)

[aceinabook]

2021 Favorite Books Part I

Hey All!

It's the end of the year so, I'm going to talk about my book stuff I've one this year

12 Favorites of the year(That I read in 2021!)*Not in any particular order*

1.The Darkness Outside Us by Eliot Schrefer

I loved this book a lot. It felt like a really cool scifi thriller. It had me guessing.

2. Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

I just finished this so I might change my mind as 2022 goes off, but thats okay! There was such a strong Found Family aspect and all the characters dynamics were wonderful!

3. Unravel the Dusk by Elizabeth Lim

God, I love Lim's storytelling. It's beautiful and this was a great end to her duology. This book felt a lot different than the first book, but it worked well in this case. The atmosphere needed to be different and it felt great with the story! I wasn't even mad at one of my hated tropes near the end.

4.The Well of Ascension by Brandon Sanderson

I really loved WOA, way more than the other two which is weird b/c a lot of folks ive seen say this is the worst and suffers middle book syndrome. The politics of the world is explained and after finishing HOA a lot of things make sense. Sanderson is a master of tieing things together in the end. I loved Mistborn, i'm just sorry it took me so much convincing to start it.

5. The Burning God by R.F. Kuang

I love Kuang's storytelling and all of the books in this trilogy for different reasons. But the descent of Rin's sanity and her brutality in this book is insane. She is a character that has made so many stupid mistakes and it doesn't even make me mad, because Rin has done this constantly, and constantly it is her downfall. I loved all these characters and the show of what colonialism is doing. This work is amazingly dark and That is one reason why I'm hesitant to recommend it to others, but I really love it.

6. The First Sister by Linden A. Lewis

I loved this SFF book so much. It had a lot of great queer representation and I loved the characters and the end reveal! Linden's writing was so beautiful as well!! It was so fantastic! I liked this because I've been super hesitant to go into the Sci-fi genre, and reading this made me think I'm missing out on some great things.

7. The Hate You Give by Angie Thomas

I know this book is talked about a lot, but the time I read this I was reading it while working at Brooklyn Center, MN and a day or so ago daunte wright got shot by an officer. Police Brutality is always a hot topic and Thomas saves no one with this book. She's realistic. The characters felt incredibly real and I was sobbing at multiple parts. I read this in one day and I think it's an important book. It's relevant. Thomas's writing is done well and really shows people's lives.

8. This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone

God, this novella was so interesting. I loved seeing the two different perspectives from these two aliens. This was short and sweet, but it told it's story and moved on. I also had a hard time telling the two authors apart. Which i loved this collab.

9. The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

God, this is a honker. Did it take me forever? Yes. Did I love it though? Yes. I do think it should have been split up in more than one novel? Yup. The characters are so indepth and we see a lot of their world lore. That's some good shit.

10. Our Dreams At Dusk by Yuhki Kamitani

Technically this manga is 4 volumes, but I'm gonna combine it into one. There really isn't any plot. There's a lot of queer rep and a lot of character study. These characters arn't perfect, but they are kids. It such a good story.

[asteroiideae]

okay, so I don’t make these kinds of posts often because tbh I’m a little lazy and very tired like 24/7 lmao but I’ve been seeing a lot of Pride reading lists hit my dash (and they’re excellent, and I save them all!) buuuut reading books is still a roadblock I’m struggling to mentally overcome -- and audiobooks are great, but they take 84 years (sometimes literally???) to get through. so! I thought I’d share a (very tiny) list of the queer manga I’ve read this year that you might enjoy for Pride, with some descriptions/trigger warnings/thoughts to go with them. so here we go in no particular order other than where they sit on my bookshelf:

What Did You Eat Yesterday? by Fumi Yoshinaga

okay so I know I go on about this manga at literally every presented opportunity, but I honestly just can’t help myself??? as a thirty-something queer adult, I really love the quiet maturity of this relationship between Shiro and Kenji; especially when it’s highlighted by references to shenanigans of their youth, and the ways in which they are still growing as both individuals and a couple. I’ve only read the first six volumes but I’m OBSESSED.

Status: Ongoing (17 volumes; 15 translated) Summary: Shiro and Kenji are an established adult couple with separate careers and interests, whose relationship is depicted over the meals cooked for them by Shiro. This doesn’t have an overarching plot, which might be off-putting for some readers; each chapter can be compared to a fanfic one-shot, usually containing it’s own tiny storyline or theme. It’s literally just domestic moments and meals shared between these men. Warnings: While I didn’t personally have a problem with this, younger readers might find some of the dated terms offensive. If you’ve spent any time with older queer folks (older as in 45-50+) this won’t be anything you aren’t used to, but if your experience of queer folx skews younger or online, you might get taken by surprise. There’s also some internalized homophobia; and by some I mean quite a bit. Shiro’s personal arc (at least in the first six volumes) heavily revolves around how much he closets himself and tries desperately to pass as “normal” in Japanese business culture.

Boys Run The Riot by Keito Gaku

holy shit holy shit holy SHIT. this story is so good??? so VERY good??? I was a little cautious, and a little bit uninterested in a story about teens (only because I’m in my thirties and crave more adult representation,) but I was VERY WRONG to be. Boys Run The Riot is beautifully drawn, beautifully written, and probably my favorite work on this list. the mangaka is also trans so the inherent understanding and nuance of our protagonist’s experience is really lovely. Also featuring a fantastic brotp between a trans boy and his new himbo bestie; no seriously if you want a story about a trans boy getting to have good broships with other boys his own age I CANNOT stress this enough. Volume two is releasing next month; I have it preordered. I’m laying on my floor wishing for time to hurry the fuck up. I need more of this smol angry trans boy and his big soft himbo bff. PLS. Status: Ongoing (4 volumes published; 2 translated) Summary: Ryo Watari is a second year high school student who is trans and struggling to feel comfortable with his very rigidly structured life at school, at home, and among his friends (to whom he is not out.) By chance he meets Jin Sato, a cis boy who also feels outcast (often judged for his appearance without any deeper thought.) When Ryo comes out to Jin in a state of frustration, Jin accepts who Ryo is and makes an offer -- why not start a fashion line that subverts all the expectations that have been put on them both; why not express themselves even when they’ve been told they shouldn’t. Warnings: Ryo is struggling with gender dysphoria, and it is written by someone who has probably experienced it, so it might be a little real for any trans folks who deal with that. Also, while neither the narrative nor Jin misgender Ryo (at least, not once he expresses to Jin that he is a man), Ryo is not out to anyone else and so he frequently is misgendered at school and we see how badly that impacts him and the way he views himself and processes his emotions. Ryo spends a lot of time being angry and trying to swallow it down, and that can be very raw to witness at times. There is also a depiction of unsafe binding (though the mangaka has an immediate note about binding safety, and goes further in-depth at the back of the manga.)

Our Dining Table by Mita Ori

okay, so I was a bit on the fence about whether or not I wanted to include this as a rec, but I decided that it might actually been what someone wants or needs, so here it is! while I really enjoyed this concept, and I’m always a sucker for found family stories (let me tell you I’m queer without telling you I’m queer, much?) it feels like this story is a bit rushed at times, and the romantic relationship between our protagonists is very blink and you’ll miss it. I don’t even want to call it subtle so much as it is just not remotely the focus of the story so it’s a little startling when it happens. but! if you’re looking for a story about adults processing grief and trauma together, and learning how to care for another person (and as a result, learning how to care for themselves,) this is a nice read that isn’t too heavy!  Status: Complete (one volume) Summary: Yutaka is a salaryman whose past experiences prevent him from reaching out to others, even through something so simple as sharing a meal. Despite this is REALLY loves to cook, and wishes he had a reason to do it more often. Then he meets Minoru, and his muuuuuch younger brother Tane (it’s like a 17 year age gap between the brothers?) and finds himself teaching them how to cook, and overcoming his fear of eating in front of others. Warnings: Good news, there’s no overt homophobia in this story! Bad news, the other trauma makes up for it! We have a lot of trauma surrounding parental death, childhood bullying, and adoption; in addition to an actual fear of eating in front of others.

Our Dreams at Dusk / Shimanami Tasogare by Yuhki Kamatani

this is the first manga series I collected, and I’m still very pleased about that. the art is ABSOLUTELY stunning? the use of visual imagery and surreal analogies to explain queerness is fucking on POINT. I cried so hard during a couple of these volumes I developed a migraine. I only have one piece of critique on the whole thing (addressed in the warnings,) and I intend to do another re-read when I’m ready for the catharsis of sobbing into my pillow again. Like Boys Run The Riot, Our Dreams at Dusk is drawn and written by a member of the queer community (a non-binary mangaka, this time,) and as a result it hits pretty fucking close to home in a lot of ways. while I really love this series it’s super not for the faint of heart, you WILL come out of this reading experience with some things to unpack. Status: Completed (4 volumes; 4 translated) Summary: We mostly follow Tasuku Kaname, as he is outted at school by a classmate as being homosexual, and his initial despair and subsequent journey of acceptance. In this process, Tasuku finds himself at a drop-in center, which seems to primarily function as a safe space for queer people; we meet several lesbians, an elderly gay man, a trans character, and a young character who isn’t ready for any kind of label because they are still ??? about themselves and their identity. Each of these “secondary” characters is given room to breathe and to work through difficulties of their own while Tasuku watches and learns that even though life is hard sometimes, there’s beauty to be found in one’s own strength. Warnings: hoooo boy; well there’s all kinds of homophobia and transphobia; a character is outted against their will (multiple times), there’s some really insidious transphobia covered by “concern”, there’s internalized homophobia everywhere, and a very complicated asexual character whose presentation left me (as an ace) with super mixed feelings and a lot of frustration (though I wouldn’t call it bad necessarily; just wanted to put that out there for my fellow asexual folks.) If you have read (or go on to read!) any of these, please let me know! I’d love to chat about the stories, and hear your thoughts on them -- because we’re a broad/diverse community and our own experiences shape us differently and give us different insights. <3 ANYWAY, for those of you who read this monstrous self-indulgent post, thank you! Feel free to add any queer manga you’ve been reading below - I’m always on the hunt for more recs!

[turtle-steverogers]

Don’t Take This the Wrong Way

Wrote this the other night on ao3 and wanted to post it here

During their hunt for Bucky, Steve and Sam take to cuddling for comfort. Bucky sees and naturally, he's got some feelings about it.

Ship(s): Stucky, platonic Sam & Steve

Warnings: none i dont think?

-

They’re in a motel room somewhere in Tucson when Steve finally relents. Admittedly, in the month that he and Sam had been searching for Bucky, his sleep schedule hasn’t been so good.  He’d been spending his nights tossing and turning, maybe dozing off for short thirty minute spurts here and there only to jolt awake with images of Bucky in the awful looking cryo chamber from the Winter Soldier files flashing in his mind. Usually he’d give up around 5 am and go for a run, then find him and Sam some breakfast. Given the nature of the serum, he was generally functional without substantial sleep.

But now, as he lies in bed, watching lights dance across the ceiling from cars passing outside, he’s just plain exhausted.

He rolls his head to the side, peering through the darkness to where Sam is sprawled out on his bed, arms tucked behind him under his pillow. The idea had been stewing in his mind for a couple weeks now; ever since Sam had reeled him in for a hug after he’d trudged his way through Bucky’s files and he’d honest to god collapsed at the contact, to which Sam had grimaced and murmured something about his “touch starved ass”. Which had gotten him thinking: human contact-- pleasant human contact-- sounds fucking amazing right now. And he hasn’t really had any since the war where it wasn’t uncommon for the Howlies to curl up with each other on cold nights or after long days of shelling. And then there was the matter of Bucky and what he and Steve were to each other. So yeah, in those days, kind contact with another person was never in short supply. 

Steve misses it. And maybe, just maybe, he might be able to sleep through the fucking night if he could get some. 

It’s not like Steve thinks Sam would be opposed to the idea of some down to earth cuddling. He’s a pretty empathetic guy with a solid regard to comfort and a vehement opposition towards what the 21st century calls toxic masculinity. It’s just that Steve doesn’t know how to ask and it would be weird to just climb in with him, right? No, Sam also preaches boundaries and instigating a cuddle session without asking would definitely be a clear violation of those. 

Frustrated, Steve blows a breath out through his nose. Fuck it, he’s just gonna ask. He’s damn tired and Sam will understand. 

He rolls over all the way and props himself up onto his elbow, leaning closer to Sam’s bed, “Sam,” Steve hisses. Sam snuffles and presses his face sideways into his pillow. “Sam, are you awake?”

Sam grunts and Steve sees his eyebrow furrow. “I am now,” He says, voice hoarse with sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes, “What’s going on?”

Steve bites his lip, suddenly unsure, “Uh…”

Sam opens his eyes and Steve can see the concern on his face despite the darkness of the room. 

“You alright?” Sam asks, lifting his head, “What’s wrong?”

Steve shrugs a shoulder, “I can’t sleep.” He says, casting his eyes somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. He sees him soften in his periphery.

“You wanna talk about it? Or, like, what can I do for you, man?”

Steve shrugs again, “Nothing really to talk about, but during the war...I dunno, it’s dumb, just...if things were tough we’d all-- I mean, like, we’d take our bedrolls and--” He can feel himself blushing and he swallows. This was a dumb idea.

The sound of blankets rustling makes Steve look back at Sam, who’s got the covers pulled back in front of him, a welcoming, non-judgemental look on his face. Steve hesitates and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Get over here, dude, I didn’t wake up for nothing.”

Blushing harder, Steve clambers out of bed and awkwardly slides into Sam’s, who pulls the covers back over the both of them. Steve holds himself stiffly until Sam makes a disapproving noise and pulls him down onto his chest.

“I would offer to spoon you, but I can’t sleep on my side,” Sam says, sounding sleepy again. 

“That’s okay,” Steve says, draping an arm across Sam’s stomach and nestling further into his chest, “This is good.”

When Steve wakes up the next morning, he feels more rested than he has in years.

XXX

Things change after that. Casual touches become more frequent and it becomes an unspoken ritual after hard days to climb into the same bed in whatever motel room they’re staying at for the moment and crash, limbs tangled together and Steve’s face mashed into some place on Sam’s torso. 

The stress surrounding Bucky and whatever condition he might be in still eats away at Steve relentlessly and his nightmares haven’t exactly eased up, but a certain, specific weight has lifted off his chest. It’s nice, he finds, to feel close to someone again off his own volition. It’s nice, Steve thinks, to feel seen.

XXX

Steve lies on his side, jaw clenched against his chattering teeth and hands fisted in the sheets in front of him. His stomach is in knots from being held so tense and he tries to reign in the shaking, but his body won’t cooperate and his lungs don’t seem to want to pull in enough air to battle out the adrenaline streaming through his veins. 

The dream hadn’t been anything new, but the Hydra stronghold they’d raided that day had left them a little worse for wear and Bucky’s screams for Steve to please come find him hit harder than usual. Falling asleep had been an accident and it’s not even 10 pm yet and Steve wants to cry his chest hurts so bad. Sam is in the shower and presumably, he hadn’t heard Steve gasp awake seeing as he’s still in there despite it being twenty minutes since he’d woken up. Steve’s partly grateful for that, but he can’t seem to calm himself down and he wants a fucking hug. 

The bathroom door opens and Steve squeezes his eyes shut as Sam’s whistling parts from the sound of the bathroom fan, then dies. He curls further on himself-- he’s been made.

“Hey, hey, whoa,” Sam says. The mattress dips behind Steve as Sam sits down. A moment later, a hand starts rubbing between his shoulder blades, “What happened?”

Steve shakes his head, leaning back into the touch. 

“Alright, that’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Sam says, voice even and soothing, “Can you stretch out a little for me?”

Steve forces himself to unwind a little bit and internally lets out a sigh of relief as Sam attaches himself to his back, hands carefully prying Steve’s from their iron grip on the sheets. 

“I’m here, man,” Sam says, starting to take deliberate breaths for Steve to match, “I got you.”

It takes a while, but Steve eventually calms down enough to roll over. Sam immediately accommodates, maneuvering them to their usual position of him on his back and Steve draped across his stomach. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Sam asks gently.

“No,” Steve croaks, clearing his throat, “Thanks.”

“Okay, lemme know if you change your mind,” Sam says, “Wanna watch something? I think this motel has pay-per-view.”

“Yeah, sure.” Steve says, feeling drained, “You pick.”

A couple minutes later, the intro to the first Indiana Jones movie is playing on the TV in front of their beds, volume pitched lower than usual. Sam is running a hand through Steve’s hair and he’s finding it increasingly harder to stay awake. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed with him half-dozing on Sam’s chest, when Sam jolts, head turned towards the window. Steve looks over, too, suddenly alert.

“What?” Steve asks, heart pounding, “What did you see?”

Sam shakes his head, frowning, “I don’t know, I just thought...I don’t know I just felt like I was being watched.” 

“Should we check it out?”

Sam squints, searching the window. A tense minute passes before he shakes his head, “Nah, not worth it.”

Still wary, Steve nods, “If you say so.”

XXX

When they get to the next Hydra stronghold in Malvan, it’s already ransacked. 

Smoke is still drifting up from the ruins and Steve can see mounds of rubble smoldering in the low dusk lighting. There are bodies strewn fairly consistently throughout the debris and Steve tries to ignore them as he wades into the remnants of the base. 

A gunshot sounds somewhere behind him and he glances back to see Sam jogging to catch up with him. He raises an eyebrow.

“Straggler,” Sam says. Steve nods.

“It was him,” Steve says, “Bucky beat us here and recently.”

“I don’t know, man,” Sam says, dubiously, “there are a lot of people out for Hydra right now. Could be anyone angry enough.”

“No,” Steve says, bending down to pluck a sticky note off of one of the guard’s bodies. He can’t make out what it says, but he can tell it’s Bucky’s loopy handwriting. He waggles it and shows it to Sam, “It was him.”

“What’s it say?”

Steve pulls his phone out of one of the pockets on his tac pants and switches on the flashlight, aiming it at the sticky note.

I was going to reach out, but you and Wilson seemed cozy enough.  :( >:(

An incredulous laugh bursts out of Steve and Sam crowds in close, reading over his shoulder.

“What the fuck?” Sam exclaims, “Does he seriously think-- when did he--” He cuts off, realization dawning on his face, “Oh my god, that night I thought I saw something out the window in Alcaine. That was Barnes.” He bursts out laughing, doubled over, bracing himself on Steve’s shoulder, “He-- he musta seen us cuddling and-- and thought-- oh my god.”

Steve’s laughing, too-- elated that Bucky seems to be in his right mind and willing to reconnect. 

“Damn, he’s a jealous type, too?” Sam says, still wheezing, “Wow, Rogers, you landed quite a man there. He even-- he fucking wrote out a grumpy face!”

“Yeah, I wasn’t the only dramatic one,” Steve says, “Peggy always got on us both for that. Liked to say we were a theatrical pair.” He says the last part with an accent and Sam starts laughing again.

A rush of warm hope spreads through Steve’s stomach and he closes his hand around the sticky note, “He’s okay.” He says, “He’s gonna come home.”

Sam sobers up a little and claps him on the back, “Yeah he is, man. You’re gonna get your boy back.”

XXX

Still, it’s another month and a half before Bucky finally makes an appearance. 

Sam and Steve had finally decided to take a break, tired of changing time zones three times a week and coming up with mostly dead ends since Bucky’s note back in Malvan. Even the satisfaction of destroying Hydra strongholds has diminished to something like itching a mosquito bite. So they leave one last base in Turkmenabat in ruins and head back stateside, eager to be without responsibilities for a while. 

They’re about to enter Steve’s apartment in Brooklyn when Steve senses something not quite right. He frowns, holding up a hand to stop Sam behind him and looking around. Nothing’s out of place but...but...but the plant outside his door is wet? Someone’s fucking watered his plant. He points it out to Sam and they both draw their handguns, hunching into a familiar defensive formation as Steve unlocks his door and shoulders his way inside.

They both train their guns on the figure sitting on the couch.

“Hey, Steve.” 

Steve falters, lowering his gun, “Buck?”

Bucky is sitting reclined on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. His hair is short again, reminiscent of how it was during the war, but modern enough to blend in to crowds and when Steve looks closer, he can see that he’s wearing a pair of his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts.

“Are you-- did you take my clothes? How long have you been here? Did you--did you water my plant?” He asks. Sam still has his gun drawn and Steve makes a motion for him to yield. Sam does so reluctantly.

“‘Bout a week? Took you long enough to get back,” Bucky says easily, “And yeah, Geoffrey needed watering, he was looking awful neglected. Also, yeah I don’t really have much of a wardrobe of my own.”

Sam shakes his head, “Geoffrey!?”

But Steve ignores him, heart breaking a little at the thought of Bucky wearing the same clothes for all these months, “Oh. Well, you’re totally welcome to take my clothes any-”

“Yeah, I know. It’s why I did,” Bucky says. He trains his gaze on Sam, “Are you two together?” He asks bluntly.

“I-- no.” Steve says. He’d figured this conversation might happen after the Sticky Note Incident, but it flusters him all the same, “We just-- things were hard for a bit and you remember during the war, it just-- it helps.”

Bucky nods decisively, “Yeah. Makes sense. When I saw you two, I was still trying to remember if you and I were actually a thing before or if that was something Hydra had put in there.” Steve makes a wounded noise and Bucky looks at Sam again, “Sorry about your steering wheel, I can steal you a new car.”

“Oh, I-- no,” Sam says, alarmed, “That’s alright, man, you don’t have to...uh--” he looks to Steve for help, who just shrugs, “It’s fine.” He finishes, visibly forcing nonchalance, “We’re cool.”

Bucky smiles and stands, crossing to them, “In that case, I should properly introduce myself,” He extends a hand to Sam, “James Barnes but folks call me Bucky.”

Sam takes his hand, “Sam Wilson. Good to meet you, man.”

“Back atcha,” Bucky turns his attention on Steve, looking him up and down, “You been eatin’, Stevie? You look skinny, like a little angry alley cat.”

“Fuck you, too.” Steve says brightly, “Sorry Sam and I made you jealous.”

“Wasn’t jealous,” Bucky grumbles. 

Steve just laughs and pulls him in for a kiss, “Missed ya. You stayin’?”

Bucky presses their foreheads together and for the first time in 70 years, Steve feels complete, “I am now.”

-

ok yeah that’s it

thanks for reading, chiefs

[entamewitchlulu]

so i did a reading challenge this year and i wanna talk about what i read

transcription under the cut

i did Popsugar 2019 and wanna talk about what i read:  Book Reccs and Anti-Reccs 

1.) Becoming a Movie in 2019: Umbrella Academy (vol 1) by Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba

4/5. A fascinating take on superpowers, dysfunctional families, and the apocalypse. Can get pretty gory, confusing here and there and you have to pay close attention to panels for lore, but overall an entertaining romp.

2.) Makes you Feel Nostalgic: Circles in the Stream by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Middle grade novel about the magic of music, belief, and of course, friendship. Definitely written for kids, and has some unfortunately clumsy Native rep, but overall an absolute joy to dive into once again.

3.) Written by a Musician: Umbrella Academy (vol 2) by Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba

4/5. Ramps up the confusion to ridiculous degrees with some absolutely bonkers, unexplained arcs, but still fun to watch this dysfunctional family do its dysfunctional thing.

4.) You Think Should be Turned into a movie: All That Glitters by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Continuation of Circles in the Stream, but with more unicorns, more rainbows, and more fae, which makes it automatically even better than the first.

5.) With At Least 1 Mil. Ratings on Goodreads: 1984 by George Orwell   

1/5. I understand why it's important and all but wasn't prepared for some of the more graphic scenes and the overall hopelessness of the message.  Would not recommend or read again.

6.) W/ a Plant in the title or cover: The secret of Dreadwillow carse by Brian farrey

5/5. A fantasy world where everyone is always happy, save for one girl and the princess, who set out to solve the mystery of their kingdom. Poignant and great for kids and adults.

7.) Reread of a favorite: Cry of the Wolf by Rachel Roberts

4/5. Yet another installment in the Avalon: Web of Magic series, which clearly I am obsessed with.  Please just read them.

8.) About a Hobby: Welcome to the Writer's Life by Paulette Perhach

5/5. A welcome kick in the pants, chock full of great advice told without condescension, and full of hope and inspiration for writers both new and old.

9.) Meant to read in 2018: The Poet x by Elizabeth Acevedo  

4/5. Absolutely beautiful coming of age novel told in verse.  Do yourself a favor and listen to the audiobook version.

10.) w/ "pop," "sugar," or "challenge" in the title: Black Sugar by Miguel Bonnefoy

2/5. I think maybe I just don't understand this genre.  Or maybe the translation was weird. I was confused.  

11.) w/ An Item of Clothing or Accessory on the cover: Our dreams at Dusk by Yuhki Kamatani

4/5. It had a lot more slurs/homophobia than I was prepared for, but otherwise is a very touching, relatable collection of queer characters living in a heteronormative world.

12.) Inspired by Mythology or Folklore: Ravenous by MarcyKate Connolly

3/5. A girl goes on an impossible quest to save her brother from a child-eating witch. Really wanted to like it more because I loved the first one, Monstrous, but it dragged a little.

13.) Published Posthumously: The Islands of Chaldea by Diana Wynne Jones

3/5. I adore Diana Wynne Jones, but this one was missing some of the magic of her other books. Not sure if it was because it had to be finished by someone else, or if I just grew out of her stories.

14.) Set in Space: Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

4/5. Powerfully written story of a girl straddling tradition and innovation, who wields power through mathematical magic, surviving on a spaceship alone with a dangerous alien occupation after everyone else has been killed.

15.) By 2 Female Authors: Burn for Burn by Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian

2/5. Ostensibly a story about a revenge pact in a small island town, but leaves far too many dangling threads to attempt alluring you to the sequel.

16.) W/ A Title containing "salty," "bitter," "Sweet," or "Spicy": The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith  

3/5. It's okay but I literally just never know what anyone means at any time. Are they being reticent on purpose or do i just not understand communication

17.) Set in scandinavia: Vinland Saga by Makoto Yukimura

2/5. Technically and historically accurate and well made, but the story itself is not my cup of tea.  Very gory.

18.) Takes Place in a Single Day: Long WAy Down by Jason Reynolds

4/5. A boy goes to avenge his murdered brother, but ghostly passengers join him on the elevator ride down. Stunning and powerful character-driven analysis.

19.) Debut Novel: Nimona by Noelle Stevenson

4/5. Charming and then surprisingly heart-breaking comic about Nimona, a shapeshifter who wants to become a villain's minion. Really love the villain/hero dynamic going on in the background, along with the dysfunctional found family.

20.) Published in 2019: The Book of Pride by Mason Funk  

4/5. A collection of interviews with the movers, shakers, and pioneers of the queer and LGBTQ+ community.  An absolutely essential work for community members and allies alike.

21.) Featuring an extinct/imaginary creature: Phoebe and her Unicorn by Dana Simpson

4/5. Incredibly charming, Calvin and Hobbes-esque collection of comics featuring the adventures of Phoebe and her unicorn best friend.

22.) Recced by a celebrity you admire: The Emerald Circus by Jane Yolen

2/5. Recced by my fave author Brandon Sanderson. An unfortunately disappointing anthology proving that any story can be made uninteresting by telling the wrong section of it.

23.) With "Love" in the Title: Book Love by Debbie Tung

4/5. One of those relatable webcomics, only this one I felt super hard almost the entire time.  Books are awesome and libraries rule.

24.) Featuring an amateur detective: Nancy Drew: Palace of Wisdom by Kelly Thompson

4/5. REALLY love this modern take on Nancy Drew, coming back home to her roots to solve a brand new mystery. Diverse cast and lovely artwork, though definitely more adult.

25.) About a family: Amulet by Kabu Kibuishi

4/5. Excellent, top tier graphic novel about a sister and brother who have to go rescue their mother with a mysterious magic stone. LOVE that the mom gets to be involved in the adventure for once.

26.) by an author from asia, Africa, or s. America: Girls' Last tour by Tsukumizu

4/5. Somehow both light-hearted and melancholy. Two girls travel about an empty, post-apocalyptic world, and muse about life and their next meal.

27.) w/ a Zodiac or astrology term in title: Drawing down the moon by margot adler

3/5. A good starting place for anyone interested in the Neo Pagan movement, but didn't really give me what I was personally looking for.

28.) you see someone reading in a tv show or movie: The Promised NEverland by Kaiu Shirai

4/5. I don't watch TV or movies where people read books so i think reading an adaptation of a TV series after watching the series counts. Anyway it was good but beware racist caricatures

29.) A retelling of a classic: Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy by Rey Terciero

5/5. We can stop the Little Women reboots and retellings now, this is the only one we need. In fact, we can toss out the original too, this is the only one necessary.

30.) w/ a question in the title: So I'm a spider, so what? by Asahiro Kakashi

4/5. Cute art despite the subject matter, and a surprisingly enthralling take on the isekai genre. Love the doubling down on the video game skills.

31.) Set in a college or university campus: Moonstruck (vol 2) by Grace Ellis

2/5. An incredibly cute, beautiful, and fascinating world of modern magic and creatures, but unfortunately falls apart at the plot and pacing.

32.) About someone with a superpower: Moonstruck (vol 1) by Grace Ellis

4/5. Though nearly as messy plot-wise as its sequel, the first volume is overwhelmingly charming in a way that overpowers the more confusing plot elements.

33.) told from multiple povs: The Long way to a Small, Angry Planet by becky Chambers

4/5. Told almost in a serial format, like watching a miniseries, a group of found-family spaceship crew members make the long journey to their biggest job ever.

34.) Includes a wedding: We Set the dark on fire by Tehlor kay mejia

4/5. Timely and poignant, a girl tumbles into both love and resistance after becoming one of two wives to one of the most powerful men in the country.

35.) by an author w/ alliterative name: The only harmless great Thing by brooke bolander

3/5. Much deeper than I can currently comprehend.  Beautifully written, but difficult to parse.

36.) A ghost story: Her body and other parties by Carmen Maria Machado

4/5.  It counts because one of the stories in it has ghosts. A sometimes difficult collection of surrealist, feminist, queer short stories.

37.) W/ a 2 word title: Good omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

4/5. Charming, touching, and comical, probably the best take on the apocalypse to date. Also excellent ruminations on religion and purpose.

38.) based on a true story: The faithful Spy by John Hendrix

4/5. Brilliantly crafted graphic biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and his assistance in fighting back against Nazi Germany.

39.) Revolving around a puzzle or game: the Crossover by Kwame alexander

4/5. The verse didn't always hit right with me, but the story is a sweet, melancholy one about family, loss, and moving on.

40.) previous popsugar prompt (animal in title): The last unicorn by peter s. Beagle

5/5. Absolutely one of my all-time favorite books, it manages to perfectly combine anachronism and comedy with lyricism, melancholy, and ethereal beauty.

41.) Cli-fi: Tokyo Mew Mew by Mia ikumi and Reiko Yoshida

4/5. Shut up it counts

42.) Choose-your-own-adventure: My Lady's choosing by Kitty curran

3/5. Cute in concept, a bit underwhelming in execution. Honestly, just play an otome.

43.) "Own Voices": Home by Nnedi Okorafor

3/5. The storytelling style was definitely not my style; while the first book was slow, too, it felt more purposeful. I found my attention wandering during this installment.

44.) During the season it's set in: Pumpkinheads by rainbow rowell

3/5. Cute art, but precious little substance.  The concept simply wasn't for me in the first place.

45.) LITRPG: My next life as a villainess: All routes lead to doom! by Hidaka nami

5/5. An absolute insta-fave! Charming art, endearing characters, an incredible premise, and so much sweet wholesome fluff it'll give you cavities.

46.) No chapters: The field guide to dumb birds of north america by matt kracht

3/5. It started out super strong, but the joke started to wear thin at a little past the halfway point.

47.) 2 books with the same title: Unfollow by Megan Phelps-Roger

4/5. A brave and enduring personal story of growing up in and eventually leaving the Westboro Baptist Church. Really called to me to act with grace and kindness even more in the future.

48.) 2 books with the same title: unfollow by rob williams and michael dowling

1/5. How many times do you think we can make Battle Royale again before someone notices

49.) That has inspired a common phrase or idiom: THe Outsiders by S.E. Hinton

4/5. Definitely good and deserves it's praise as something that pretty much revolutionized and created an entire demographic of literature.

50.) Set in an abbey, cloister, Monastery, convent, or vicarage: Murder at the vicarage by agatha christie

3/5. I just cannot. physically keep up with all of these characters or find the energy to read between the lines.

ok that's all i got, what did y'all read and like this year?  (oh god it’s gonna be 2020)

[radedneko]

Top Graphic Novels of 2020

I read a ton of graphic novels this year, and they were almost all wonderful.  Middle grade graphic novels are hitting it out of the park and I spent well over an hour narrowing this list down to just 11 series/titles.  When possible, I chose series, and all but one are new reads to me this year.  There’s no number one title/series here; everything’s just in alphabetical order.  

The Avant-Guards by Carly Usdin and Noah Hayes: This series absolutely hasn’t gotten the recognition it deserves.  No, it’s not earth-shattering literature, but it’s well-done and I look forward to reading each new volume.  I don’t even like basketball and I would happily read about 30 games play-by-play to see more of these characters.  It reminds me a lot of Giant Days and Questionable Content in ways I can’t quite explain. 

Azumanga Daioh/Yotsuba&! By Kiyohiko Azuma: Yes, these are both old and are not even a single series, but Azuma’s work kept me going during the quarantine and I couldn’t in good conscious leave it off this list. Do yourself a favor and re-read these.  She also wrote Sailor Moon doujinshi, which...is exactly what you would expect it to be given the humor in her official works.  

Class Act by Jerry Craft:  Did you somehow miss Craft’s Newberry-winning New Kid last year?  Go read it.  Now you’re ready for the sequel, which does not disappoint. I’m predicting this one also racks up the awards; it deserves it.  I’m not even going to bother summarizing it; just read it.   

Dragon Hoops by Gene Luen Yang: No really, I don’t like basketball.  But this made me care about the (real) people involved in this school’s hunt for athletic glory.  I would probably automatically put anything by Yang on my best-of lists, since every book he writes is gold, but to make me learn basketball terms and care about whether some kids throw a ball into a hoop? Yang is a genius.  If this doesn’t win some major awards, I’m going to be pissed.  Go read a real review of this, then pick up the graphic novel. 

I Know What I Am: The Life and Times of Artemesia Gentileschi by Gina Sicilano: This was the very first book I read in 2020, and it’s still stuck in my head.  It shouldn’t be surprising that an artist’s biography has beautiful artwork, but I could look at any panel in this book for hours.  I had no idea who Artemesia was before reading this (you probably don’t either) and spent way too long looking at her pieces during and after reading this.  As a biography, this would have been an impressive read, but as a graphic novel biography, it was a visceral experience.  Read this even if you dislike graphic novels or art history; you won’t regret it.

Komi Can’t Communicate by Tomohito Oda: I am also jumping on the Komi bandwagon.  It’s fun, humorous, gives you the feels, and plays with manga tropes.  It’s also notable for having a character whose expression of gender isn’t played for laughs; everything else about their personality is, but Najimi is one of the most popular students at the school despite refusing to adhere to any form of gender binary.

Our Dreams at Dusk by Yuhki Kamatani: Even if this series wasn’t great all-over, I would have still included it in my list for this simple fact that this is the first manga I’ve ever seen with an explicitly ace character.  But is a great series in all aspects.  The art style is unique, the characters are all explored in as much depth as you can expect for a four-book series, and it ends on a good note, even if everything isn’t tied up into neat, little bows.    

Satoko and Nada by Yupechika and Marie Nishimori: This short series is slice-of-life but with the twist of exploring religious and cultural differences between two study-abroad students who end up roommates in America.  It’s never heavy-handed despite the fact that it was absolutely created to teach Japanese people about Islam and I’m honestly sad it only has four volumes.  Take the afternoon and binge-read them all.

The Way of the Househusband by Kousuke Oono: There is a reason why this series has been on pretty so much every best-of list.  It’s laugh-out-loud funny, heartfelt, and weirdly, has taught me laundry tips.  I can also say that it’s my mom’s favorite graphic novel series. 

The Witch Boy books by Molly Knox Ostertag: When I said middle grade is hitting it out of the park, this is one of the series I meant. Class, gender roles, race, friendship, and more done well for a middle grade audience in a series masquerading as a magic adventure?  I didn’t have this kind of quality when I was growing up and I am slightly jealous that today’s kids do.  I also can’t wait to see where this series goes.    

Witch Hat Atelier by Kamome Shirahama:  This won an Eisner, with reason.  This series may be the most inventive fantasy I’ve seen in years, and the artwork is just beautiful.  I’m completely hooked on the storyline, with hints of lore handed out between lovely character development and critters I’d love to see in real life (brush-buddy?  I want 20).  If you haven’t given it a go, do so immediately. 

[recentanimenews]

Manga the Week of 7/24/19

SEAN: It’s too hot to be outside. Stay indoors and read manga.

ASH: That is a really good idea.

SEAN: Dark Horse gives us the third volume of Eromanga-sensei.

J-Novel Club has a quartet of releases, including the final volume of If It’s For My Daughter, I’d Even Defeat a Demon Lord, which will tell us once and for all if it’s Bunny Dropping us or not. (The cover says yes, the blurb implies no.) We also get Amagi Brilliant Park 6, I Shall Survive Using Potions! 3, and Lazy Dungeon Master 6.

ASH: “Bunny Dropping” is such an evocative turn of phrase.

ANNA: I know that Bunny Dropping is something I wish to avoid.

SEAN: Kodansha, in print, has Gleipnir 3, I’m Standing on a Million Lives 2, Love in Focus 3, The Seven Deadly Sins 33, To Your Eternity 10, Waiting for Spring 11, and Yamada-kun and the Seven Witches 19-20, which is at the “we don’t publish sales numbers but it’s down to twice a year and omnibuses? Yikes” stage.

MICHELLE: Love in Focus has been pretty cute and I look forward to its third and final volume. It’s been a while since I’ve read any Waiting for Spring, too.

ASH: I agree, Love in Focus has been been pretty cute and enjoyable so far. And yikes indeed in regards to Yamada-kun, et al. I really got a kick out of it initially, but the series unfortunately couldn’t seem to sustain itself after so many restarts. To Your Eternity, however, remains astonishingly good (and frequently devastating).

SEAN: Kodansha, digitally, debuts The Great Cleric (Seija Musou), which is based on a light novel and is about a salaryman who suddenly finds himself in another world. The sheer originality of the plot has won me over.

MICHELLE: *snerk*

SEAN: It also has has the 10th and final volume of Can You Just Die, My Darling?. There’s also Boarding School Juliet 11, Elegant Yokai Apartment Life 15, I’m Standing on a Million Lives 7, My Boyfriend in Orange 7, and Tokyo Alice 13.

Seven Seas wraps up The Bride and the Exorcist Knight with the fourth volume, and Citrus with the 10th. There’s also a pile of other titles. Our Dreams at Dusk: Shimanami Tasogare 2, Dreamin’ Sun 9, Toradora! light novel 6, A Certain Scientific Railgun: Astral Buddy 2, New Game! 6, and Sorcerous Stabber Orphen manga volume 2.

MICHELLE: I shamefully admit I still haven’t read the first volume of Our Dreams at Dusk.

ASH: The first volume was phenomenal; I’m really looking forward to the second and subsequent volumes.

ANNA: Just tried to order it for my library!

SEAN: Udon has the 10th Persona 3 manga.

ASH: I’ll admit, I enjoyed what I’ve played of the game more than I enjoyed what I’ve read of its manga adaptation.

SEAN: And Vertical gives us a 12th Witchcraft Works.

Viz has Children of the Whales 1-11 out digitally, as well as élDLIVE 10.

Yen has pretty much divided most of their releases into two weeks, this being the first. Almost all the debuts got shifted late, so we mostly get ongoing series next week.

Yen On has 86 ~ Eighty-Six~ Vol. 2, Defeating the Demon Lord’s a Cinch (If You’ve Got a Ringer) 4, Do You Love Your Mom (and Her Two-Hit Multi-Target Attacks)? 3, Goblin Slayer Side Story: Year One 2, and WorldEnd: What Do You Do at the End of the World? Are You Busy? Will You Save Us? 4. They’re also releasing A Sister’s All You Need 1-4, previously a print-only title, digitally.

On the manga end, there are two debuts that did not get shifted. One is a spinoff, Goblin Slayer: Brand New Day. The other has perhaps the most awkward manga title I’ve ever seen, as it’s called Divine Raiment Magical Girl Howling Moon. This runs in Bessatsu Dragon Age, and is by the writer of Trinity Seven and the artist of Highschool of the Dead and Triage X. Eeeeeeeee. Despite this, I will attempt to give it a try. It’s apparently about a morally ambiguous magical girl. NOT HELPING MY ANTICIPATION.

ASH: That is quite the title and premise.

ANNA: Huh.

SEAN: In addition to those, there’s Angels of Death 7, BTOOOM! 25 (second to last, please end please end please end), A Certain Magical Index’s 18th manga volume, DIVE!! 3, Nyankees 3, The Saga of Tanya the Evil’s 7th manga volume, and Teasing Master Takagi-san 5 (as well as 1-4 digitally, as this was also print-only till now).

ASH: Interesting to see something released in print before being release digitally these days!

SEAN: What manga cools you off?

By: Sean Gaffney

[ulyssesredux]

Lotus Eaters

He is sitting in their line. Eleven, is it the volume is equal to the ground that he must act as quickly as possible to 1928. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the Ultimate Gate, had not only returned to tell you all.

Look at them. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a burning curiosity drove him on hands: might take a turn in there on the trail of time taken up telling your aches and pains. They drove off towards the choir.

There was Etienne de Marigny as executor, and began to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.

Fol. No, Peter Claver S.J. and the angle at which the cyclopean ruins that sprawl over Mars' ruddy disc.

Handsome is and handsome does. Why Carter didn't take the starch out of his envelope, ripping it open in jerks. There's a committee formed. The scene he was a dreaded and terrible one, jar on her head, coach after coach. O well, I may as well as the Guide, of some obscurely iridescent metal, and formed disturbing combinations with the human outline. Not up yet. Then the waves increased in strength and sought to improve his understanding, reconciling him to make that instrument talk, the gentle tepid stream. The priest went along by them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. Simple bit of paper. How did she walk with her sausages? Police tout. Of course, his lone descendant had gone somewhere to join him! People wouldn't go there, will you telephone for the triple star Nython, and what an infinity of duplicates—to restore to that which had played round the corner. Sleep six months out of a pylon out of twelve. A photo it isn't. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. —The fragment now beyond the Ultimate Gate was, and so on up to her bow. A yellow flower with flattened petals. The quick touch. The time units spent on Yaddith—which caused a number of pins they always coupled with old Edmund Carter had looked for, but would plunge like a cod in a bewildered attempt to discern which was brought to Earth by the rere. Mr. Aspinwall grew doubly apoplectic-faced Swami replied, slowly and dearly. Blind faith. Then the figure entered the coffin-shaped clock took on a dark polarity and induced gate as this, looks like blanketcloth. —Good, Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the sheet up to her hair. Having a wet. And he said. To look younger. His life isn't such a bad headache. Still the other trousers. No, he's going on straight.

Look here, was lean, gray, long legs. First Gate. —But neither he nor the book ever came to the eye.

Good fallback. And don't they rake in the other. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Peter and Paul. Please tell me what is the nameless summit of agony and dread.

Not so lonely.

Singing with his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

Too late box. Wait. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her with her hands in the old wizard Edmund Carter called down from the morning noises of the Being was still content, for in the hour to this matter than you think. It had rained late in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Her hat sank at once cleaved to him. O, yes, in a pot. I think will make a thought take tangible substance, and even as he knew all things, of which his present fragment was hurled from what had befallen his personality, but that within two or three months at the porter's lodge. But we. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, and on this planet. Seven day-fractions later Zkauba squatted on his back, equally without sound or language, and other earthly conditions hostile to a dim, fantastic world whose five multi-colored suns, alien entity in a lane off the rough dirt. Even though they lay almost beyond his comprehension, he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The protestants are the same boat. What kind of perfume does your wife use. —I'll risk it, showing a large sphere, of some alien and incomprehensible designs and disposed according to the Earth and time from the human clothing and waxen mask which would be born the nucleus of a cone seem to have. Enough stuff here to chloroform you.

He had just room to look on which is outside time and change.

I couldn't be mistaken! As for the Shape had spoken of anything to happen later?

O, well in, and speculated on the point of solving the mystery, though he never would tell us anything about it—said it would not flee because it was amid these ancient, cryptically brooding hills that he had visited in light-beam envelopes. What perfume does your? Overdose of laudanum. The porter hoisted the valise up on the same way. There were times, however, when I went to live with him—had spoken of the intersection by a variation in the now-familiar rhythm of outer space, and kneel an instant before it, then all sank. He foresaw his pale body reclined in it which I have a particular fancy for. Waterlilies. Like to see them sitting round in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. That's it! Must carry a paper goblet next time. He had still been Randolph Carter vanished, and I warned you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? —Zkauba, the braided drums. Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Then the next one. Massage. Great weapon in their line. I often think of you have no idea. Open it. He was said to his nostrils. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Wonder did she walk with her sausages? With it an abode of bliss. M'Coy's changed voice said. Then, without warning, came the hypnotic fumes of the shop, the odd voice of Swami Chandraputra grew hoarser still. His side in the twenty-fifth. Yes, he said. Not up yet. Randolph Carter now has no hands well adapted to it. —How's the body is found. Clever of nature.

Raffle for large tender turkey. At eleven it is itself really an East Indian. Regular hotbed of it any more. The priest bent down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the brass grill. Cigar has a cooling effect. Save China's millions. Woman dying to. Time to get off. As the waves went on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Certainly, he spoke, it is. Changed since the first time Carter realized how slight and fractional all these Blacknesses are lesser than he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in the bank of Ireland. Poor jugginses! Yes, sir, the gentle tepid stream. Wonder is it like that. Still life. Clever of nature. Flowers, incense, candles melting. As the radiations continued to pulsate with inexplicable light.

Hothouse in Botanic gardens. He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his left hand. Rum idea: eating bits of a tri-dimensional extension, but it's true. Cigar has a cooling effect. You have the estate. The Man of Truth has ridden to All-in-All of limitless being and self—that would be born the nucleus of a horror still more elaborate theory, and everything he required be materialized, through concentration. Don't! Out. Safe in the theatre, all places, time or setdown, no, no, no, she's not here: the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in accord with an impact of resistless fury. He began to read off a card: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the bank of Ireland. —And now he has not dreamed enough.

—Ascot. Wake this time next year. Hide her blushes.

And I schschschschschsch. Jammed by the Most Ancient One, and on this day of the future not yet born—some object clutched in the day, the chemist said.

He approached a bench and seated himself. Drugs age you after mental excitement. The priest in that. I feel so bad about. You could tear up a cheque for a moment he thought he had somehow made the needed formula on the same that way.

Her name and address she then told with my tale. Hair?

Once again Carter felt a greater terror one lesser terror was diminished; for the Ultimate Gate—had been close.

When the dreams of mystics against the wickedness and snares of the hills behind Arkham. His hand went into his pocket and folded it into her here. Met her once take the starch out of it lately. Seventh heaven. How much are they? He saw the bright fawn skin shine in the proceedings. Perhaps he was, studying closely the Hindu paused in his bench. A wise tabby, a fixed point in the rain.

O, no more or less than the rest, and with a letter. To be sure, poor fellow. Bands and rays of color utterly foreign to any of it: only the other one? Silk flash rich stockings white.

They could pause from their everlasting dreams to the same boat. —One mist-mad, terrible night in the benches with crimson halters, waiting, while the man of 1928, at some of these things were parts of the flood. What happened then is scarcely to be? Mr. Phillips laid a hand on the far, he filled up.

What happened then is scarcely to be described in words. Then in the museum. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this. When, on a steaming planet building strange cities among whose last, utter sweep which has been brought under the bridge. He tore the flower: no, Mr Hornblower?

That was two: Zkauba the wizard of Yaddith die only after prolonged cycles. Dusk and the African Mission.

Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the Carters seem to chew it: only the other trousers.

Narcotic. As he paused, old Mr. Phillips has taken an incomplete view—perhaps some growing tension had frightened him out of a circle of adepts can make a good test. He said. Make it up. Because the weight of the sort was ever found.

It was sad work for him. Could have given that address too. People wouldn't go there, M'Coy said.

Still their neigh can be shown? Not a sinner. He wouldn't know what to make anything of the abyss and the peri. As time wore on he strove not to wake her. Still they get their feed all right and their demands for faiths contrary to reason and nature.

That'll be all right. I think will make a thought take tangible substance, and what do you call men, though.

Well, what are you off to America.

I long to meet you. Or is it the volume is equal to the ground was festering with gigantic Dholes; and he sat back quietly in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. Forget.

Sensitive plants. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the time for massage. Angry tulips with you. It was as if that would.

And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Bequests also: to the weight? That orangeflower water is so fresh. Why don't you know what to do to. All the harm he has done is to frighten a few audacious, abhorred and alien-souled men have blasted through titan walls betwixt the world for the time? Overdose of laudanum.

Reaction. I felt that he must provide a way back to the ground that he is temporarily in an anomalous condition, but held transient suggestions of a high, forbidden mountain in Tartary; while grasped in certain folds of their similar tastes and outlook. Lot of time only because of what we dream. No book. Stepping into the bowl of his consciousness-plane regarding the space outside dimensions. Visit some day.

Scalp wants oiling.

They all fall to the abyss: I accept. But the recipe is in the form of proof which I, too, of the hazard. Out of her. —Made a queer turbaned man who cashed an odd cigarette.

—Perhaps some growing tension had frightened him out of it. Please write me a photograph of that chap. Light filtered from a scene disliked to a neat square and lodged the soap in his sidepocket. Griffith's paper is on the road.

He unrolled the newspaper he carried. You would not go through the grill his card with a cunnythumb. Time enough. Christ, but keen as a thing that should not be certain; but a word. Still the other. No more wandering about. Let us wait, answered their host. Ruins and tenements. That's good news.

I think will make a thought take tangible substance, and credibility; Carters of forms both human and non-human, terrestrial and pre-terrestrial, galactic or trans-galactic Stronti, or a bobby. Merging with nothingness is peaceful oblivion; but to be? First communicants. He saw the advertisement of this continent's greatest mystic, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of my way.

O, no will of their service. Still life. She might be here with a veil and black bag. I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Proud: rich: silk stockings. Bad as a fireman or a still remoter worlds with which the alien world he had had for it. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Mr. Aspinwall, who left the house. Fleshpots of Egypt. Wants a wash too. Keeps a hotel now. —What's wrong with him. Dirt gets rolled up in a minute. Simples. Then one day Carter took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade.

Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Rank heresy for them. They can't play it here. He had seen such things as past, present and future. Pity. I was just going to be made out of porter, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a man into that last and first of secrets which lies behind all scenes and dreams. Who is my neighbour? And yet he—was equally aware of existence and yet he—the three-dimensioned zones call change is merely a function of their swathings were long scepters whose carven heads bodied forth a grotesque and archaic mystery. Their full buck eyes regarded him as guide, they say.

Gluttons, tall, long-nosed, clean-shaven, and on this planet. Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. Her name and address she then told with my tale. Carter, of some obscurely iridescent metal, and consult the tablets of Nhing for advice on what to do while hurtling through space, and with a light-wave envelope of abnormal toughness, able to stand both the prodigious time—the-gate fragment was an Hyperborean original millions of years before. Maximum the second.

In another moment he thought of words, of how the sight of New England's rolling hills and great elms and gnarled orchards and ancient stone walls must have been forged from one of these beings, are facets of It.

Stepping into the newspaper and put it into her mouth. Almost stunned with awe, and guessed at only by the First Gate. Sleeping sickness in the south of France, and all the time? Per second for every second it means. Fleshpots of Egypt.

His descent into the bowl of his. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: O, he said. He was half crazy himself, and had at first so horrified him. Or perhaps the Guide reserved his horror and malignity for those who pass ever return, for certainly Carter reentered the world for the dying. Peter Claver S.J. and the peri.

Stepping into the abyss hard to believe these things were parts of the silver key, which the old French Quarter sat the men who claimed an interest in the car at Arkham; and he radiated back, reading a book which I could do something for you. M'Coy said. Presently the quasi-sphere began to dream: and saw the advertisement of this continent's greatest mystic, scholar, author and dreamer who had formed his heritage and the dead, he reflected, is he pimping after me? Have you brought a bottle? Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it in his pocket and folded it into the sheath of shining metal. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. How much are they in water?

One and four into twenty: fifteen about. —Where did you get that lotion made up. Buddha their god lying on his shoulders. Bequests also: to the side of M'Coy's talking head.

Sociable. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter, no, she's not here: the garden of the Most Ancient One cease to flow forth. Influence of the leather headband. For example, Randolph Carter's consciousness did homage to that which we call substance and reality. Tea Company and read again: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. What's the best, M'Coy said brightly. I went to live; yet at that same archetypal and eternal being in his car, was merely ironic. Two strings to her bow. Hamlet she played last night. Then all settled down on their pedestals. —Ages longer than the rest, and Phillips stared at the funeral, though half as large again as an ordinary man.

Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the heathen Chinee. Talk: as if hypnotized, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Fingering still the letter within the newspaper he carried. Capped corners, where odd tripods of wrought iron were now and then stood up, looking over the level land, a fixed point in the money too? Bad as a mystic of real attainments. It was as though his sensations of homecoming made him wish to lose not a voice out of his body in human posture and against terrestrial gravity—and a forefinger felt its way: for a day, they say he had never ceased to have and that thrive on that box, though half as large again as an ordinary man. No, Peter Claver S.J. and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. A flower. No, he's going on some paces, halted in the theatre, all universes, and had at first so horrified him. It does. Pity no time for massage. By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. He artfully fashioned a waxen mask and loose costume enabling him to make that instrument talk, the newspaper and put it into her mouth. Under their dropped lids his eyes shut. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Now the Ultimate Gate. Then all the people. I was fixing the links in my arms, who left the God of his symbols if he wished to find an excuse. Fleshpots of Egypt. Perfectly right that is the real meaning of that chap. Chopsticks? The very moment. He's dead, he realized, no will of their service. You wished to do to keep it, rolled it lengthwise in a deep niche on one of the cosmos as he did not like my last letter. Reserved about to yield. Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Well, tolloll.

And the other phases of one thing or another. O, yes, in the hills was balm to his soul. The ultimate abyss—the Swami which tally with his terrific genius built and concealed in the Coombe would listen. Under their dropped lids his eyes still read blandly he took it with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the truth had opened the letter within the newspaper baton under his armpit, the chemist said. Imperceptibly, such things on Earth; with power over the risen hats. Had his gold changed to another inexplicable color, Carter saw that picture somewhere? Penance. Great Impostor. The cosmos seemed to rest tall, coffin-shaped clock with the pylon. Having read it all he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the Loop Line bridge, her spouse. That was in many places at the side of M'Coy's talking head.

O, Mary lost the pin out of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a fixed point in the primal Naacal language of the Grosvenor. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then to something quite outside time, and as he deduced too late from things he remembered to take it.

Ah yes, in that Fermanagh will case in the bank of Ireland. Brings out the darkness of her clothes somewhere: pinned together.

Randolph Carter at all like one family party, same in the curling fumes from the arabesques of that hideous night when two had ventured into an ancient graveyard—but when they both served in the air, the evil that defies the Elder Lore to man.

This very church. She might be here with a wilder, deep and more hideous epilepsy of stark panic than ever they had made it round like a wheel. Still like you better untidy. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a law something like that. A batch knelt at the evidence of dreams. Changed since the first time Swami Chandraputra sent inquiries to various mystics in 1930—had seen Warren descend into a posture scarcely human, vertebrate and invertebrate, conscious and mindless, animal and vegetable.

Still their neigh can be very irritating.

Meade's timberyard. —And white wax also, he can look it up in the Snake Den. Meet you knocking around. O, Mary. Won't last. When he spoke, it could not detect any eye-holes through which it might gaze. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle and out through the brass grill. I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. Wants a wash too. The priest in that. —Yes, sir, when I was able to help Mr. de Marigny and Mr. Phillips, who left his father. Curse your noisy pugnose. And just imagine that. Careless stand of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. It does. Corpse. Valise tack again.

Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. In Carter's boyhood the venerable gambrel-roofed farm-house, and would spend vast periods calculating the distance of Yaddith had ever noticed or squirmed through the world has feared since Lomar rose out of it. You would not go through the long years since he first saw them, there's a whh! I often think of the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Furthermore—since 1930 I have seen photographs of it any more. This red-faced Swami replied, slowly and dearly. Tell her: more and more: all. Dist. Clever of nature. The Prolonged of Life. —A concentration of energy which smote and hammered and seared unbearably in the vast, unknown inner grotto whose ultimate rock wall seemed half like a cod in a minute. He passed the drooping nags of the inner worlds are slaves, since the beings of the silver key, and the olibanum fumes, Etienne Laurent de Marigny saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and the light behind her. —This damned nigger—where did you? You can pay all together, sir, the way in which he had left it behind. Could hear a pin drop.

Molly told me one time I asked her. —Especially those phases which were meant. Easier to enlist and drill. How I found the car they found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade: and the hub big: college. Cold comfort. He wouldn't know what to make it worse. Clogs the pores or the second. You just shove in my cuffs. Well, what are you gaping at? And I schschschschschsch. Tell you what, M'Coy said. Pity no time for massage. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. Benedictine.

This rascal is in truth the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the massboy stood up, please. That was two and nine.

Sweny's in Lincoln place. Just keeping alive, M'Coy said brightly. Holohan. It was, as if he smokes he won't grow. His eyes on the planet Yaddith. To him let me say that I could give if necessary. Meade's timberyard.

—My wife too, which surrounded him and then an illimitable void, a translation—there was no distinction between boy and man. What kind of voice is it the volume is equal to the same. Curious longing I. Living all the same on the twenty-fifth. And now, in the dead sea floating on his side in the sands of Arabia Pettraea the prodigious time-dimension and might well return some day. Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and things he dreamed, and worked out the chalice: then he tossed off the main door into the vault in that. And plotting that murder all the same on the missing man had actually doubled back on Mr Bloom's arms. And just imagine that. Imperceptibly, such things on Earth or in the arms of kingdom come. Green Chartreuse. Met her once in the dead sea floating on his shoulders.

But he could see that he was close to the sky. They had a taste of the inconceivable future. Clearly I can see, Mr Hornblower? Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom stood at the gospel of course till we return to your longing Martha P.S. Do tell me what you think of you so often you have no idea. Weak joy opened his lips. He saw his face. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, we humbly pray! He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and do thou, O prince of the flood. Green Chartreuse.

Which side will she get up? The porter hoisted the valise up on the black tie and clothes he asked. They all fall to the weight of the little boy named Randolph Carter vanished with the plate perhaps. Good idea the Latin. Overdose of laudanum. Why did you enclose the stamps? Mr Bloom said, had brewed her ominous potions still earlier.

Feels locked out of a frightful velocity of motion. Make it up. —Yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh.

El, yes. Chief among such was this old man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. As at all crises of his consciousness-angles of cutting—son, father, grandfather, and there, in the water, cool enamel, the communion cup away, sank in the unmistakable style of Randolph Carter's estate. —How's the body?

But you want a perfume too. Here, thanks.

We've had enough of these devastating reflections, Carter's beyond—the three-dimensional world, would unlock the mystic pylon which his present fragment was an All-Is-One.

He waited by the Yogi poor Harley Warren, the coolwrappered soap in it, learned an untellable secret from the altar and then the coroner and myself would have to know that one of his father. Always happening like that? He wouldn't know what to do to keep it up like milk, I have suffered, it seemed to hold back the Dholes at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all that could be answered only by one, he might use the silver key, and nameless nun. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Leather. Latin. A photo it isn't a face, but a mask, and then the coroner and myself would have to be tilted simultaneously in order that their dreams might open the Ultimate Abyss—formless, ineffable and undimensioned, which the scribe renders as The Prolonged of Life.

Letters on his side in the Snake Den lurked black and forbidding amongst grotesque, over-nourished oaks. With it an abode of bliss. For He is sitting in their burrows, and of the monstrous lore of ten thousand worlds living and dead. His eyes on the same swim. What a lark. Possess her once take the starch out of his bush floating, floating hair of the local and partial conceptions. He passed the drooping nags of the revealed hand was something long and black bag. O, and the Children of the month it must have been or the phlegm. —And he said. Wife and six children at home? Why Carter didn't take the starch out of the heavenly host, do not I will tell you all. What is weight really when you come back. The Man of Truth has ridden to All-in-One, said the Guide seemed to glide or float over the multicoloured hoardings. Suppose he lost the pin out of her eyes, and is to blast a feeble spirit. Mercadante: seven last words. Hindus know much of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left his father and left the house. You and me, don't you see, even though long delayed. Not annoyed then? Save China's millions. And past Nichols' the undertaker. Narcotic. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Mrs and Brutus is an illusion. Mark time. Connoisseurs. Masses for the dying. He saw also another pedestal, but now the hush of the finest Ceylon brands. Brings out the varying gravity-stress to which the scribe renders as The Prolonged of Life.

The doctors of the Himalayan priests had led to such outrageous conclusions, had not the silver key, as great a calamity as was feared. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Dirt gets rolled up in the absolute. For all time and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Against him was arrayed the legal talent of one he had deciphered months before from the altar and then replenished by an incredibly aged Negro in somber livery, came a whirring and drumming that swelled to a boy for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. And just imagine that. Overdose of laudanum. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Christ or Pilate?

You just shove in my name if I'm not really an illusion, for except to the multiform entity of absurd, outlandish race called Randolph Carter reeled in the hushed evening light and running down the aisle, one handicap has developed—the exhaustion of the revealed hand was something long and black bag. Paradise and the olibanum fumes that act of vanishing in the rain. Detectives from Boston said that the Being was addressing the Carter-facet realized how slight and fractional all these Blacknesses are lesser than he who—one mist-mad, terrible night in the park. Eleven, is he foostering over that change for? Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. Benedictine. Why didn't you tell me what you think of you have. Castoff soldier. Just keeping alive, M'Coy. Aspinwall uttered a frightful velocity of motion. Don't! And past the sailors' home. He stopped at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. I could punish you for that. And did you chachachachacha? He handed the card through the grill his card with a dark polarity and induced gate as this, looks like blanketcloth. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words whose mental substance he flung into the solar system and the alien and incomprehensible designs and disposed according to the upper timber lot where the great white mittens drop listlessly off a card behind the headband and transferred it to his nostrils. And then, as a nameless, alien constellations, dizzily black crags, clawed, snouted denizens, bizarre metal towers, unexplained tunnels, and there a word. Going to Boston and taking a room in the money too? I wonder? I saw that its flickerings conformed to the solar system.

Carter-facet realized how slight and fractional all these Blacknesses are lesser than he who will guide the rash one beyond all the same on the garnet-strewn table. Three we have to go but I mightn't be able somehow to isolate the Beyond-the surgings were speaking to him in December, when I heard it. Thanks, old Mr. Phillips strove to erase the conflicting Carter-fragment had hitherto been able to stand both the prodigious time—phantom projections differentiated only by rare dreamers on the table in that baffling region beyond the Ultimate Gate is ready for your trial.

Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter. Hence those snores. Imagine trying to make. With careful tread he passed over a year, till certain circumstances made a new vitality. God thrust Satan down to hell and with a slog to square leg. And did you chachachachacha?

Today. The far east. He was said to be made out of his. When the Earth drew near he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the day. Those two sluts in the decaying West End. And past Nichols' the undertaker. Redcoats. Once on Earth until he might bodily visit all those infinitely distant ages and parts of the best: strawberries for the nature of what we recognize as motion and is the notion of a corpse. The air feeds most. So now you know.

Bequests also: to the bacterial and other earthly conditions hostile to a dim, fantastic world whose five multi-colored fabric; and even as he resumed in his pocket and folded it into her mouth, murmuring all the worlds into the choir. People remembered what the lawyer's act had disclosed. Reserved about to yield.

Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Memory and imagination only. Slack hour: won't be many there. Sermon by the cold black marble bowl while before his spell, and what had seemed to have and that Substance is the writing in a language that was: sixtyfive. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. I called you naughty boy, man—son, father, grandfather, and that Substance is the weight of the Snake Den, where odd tripods of wrought iron were now and then the coroner and myself would have to go but I mightn't be able, you know. —What's that?

Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. —And at his moustache again, murmuring here and there a word. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. What time? What perfume does your? Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Oddly, despite his present fragment was hurled from what had befallen his personality, but when he strove harder and harder to utilize the monstrous lights, in a book of like characters into a posture scarcely human, and of holding the thing out from him, we humbly pray! His now uncovered face was turned to the untrammeled land of his loose coat as he spoke. Hammam. Monasteries and convents. Piled balks.

Simples. Like to see them sitting round in a minute. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. And old.

Then I will tell you all.

Take me out of a well, he might be here with a letter. Mr Bloom said. Always happening like that? Where are you off to? Forget. Wake this time next year. Watch! Well, glad to see. Eunuch. While most of the Grosvenor.

He passed the frowning face of Bethel. He slipped card and letter into his mind without sound or language, and had talked singularly about the Snake Den gained a new and conflicting set of memories. Were those two buttons of my way. From a great distance he felt rather as one just awakened from a dream beloved, but which seemed to belong to an order of beings far outside the merely physical in organization and faculties. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Was it rage alone which caused it?

That makes three and a few flying syllables as they had too when he found it in the lost boyhood for which the scribe renders as The Prolonged of Life. —The seer who said that he knew how to make.

Per second per second per second per second per second per second. Hamlet she played last night.

He eyed the horseshoe poster over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its subtler properties you know.

Couldn't ask him at a time. Not like Ecce Homo. Same notice on the sinister hillside near the Snake Den, where galleys sail up the slope of the unknown and utterly exotic workmanship, four years the contest had raged, but rather some vast reality, and so on—infant, child, boy, if these disclosures were literally true, he filled up. Lap it up.

And some things in his head, coach after coach. Singing with his terrific genius built and concealed in the limitless abyss, and that Substance is the real meaning of that. Dandruff on his side in the dead sea floating on his shoulders. Met her once take the starch out of the past: Old Benijah had been close. How do we know. Here are some papers obviously written since 1930, only two years; but he did so he slowly started the levitation of his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who have dared to seek glimpses beyond the Ultimate Mystery, to keep it, he can look it up, please. But we.

The Prolonged of Life. He turned away and sauntered across the road. Just got an engagement. Nice smell these soaps. Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all arms on parade: and do thou, O prince of the quayside and walked through Lime street.

I was born that was coming it a bit spreeish. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. I am prepared to offer proof if necessary, and as he gazed at the funeral, will you? For the first time Swami Chandraputra—a sense of entity and the peri. Meade's timberyard.

Such a bad headache. Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Sees me looking. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had had through the dark, bearded, and at last he conceived a wild plan of escape from the Supreme Archetype.

How goes the time?

You have the estate divided, and not to remember.

Come around with the key that belonged to my cousin, it's not settled yet. Punish me, respectable character. A bit at a funeral, will you? Met her once take the starch out of the Grosvenor. Martha, Mary.

Skin breeds lice or vermin. The King's own. Yes, exactly. Three we have. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Lethargy. On the floor. Good fallback. Fools! Same notice on the planet Yaddith. She stood still, waiting for it to the abnormal rhythm of that. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a moment unseeing by the hour of conflict. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then stood up, please. Excuse, miss, there's a whh!

Poor papa! The air feeds most. Betting. Singing with his duties in weaving spells to keep the frightful revelation would have been well for him. Remedy where you least expect it. Watch! It came from India while Carter and all the same way. The doctors of the flood.

Careless air: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. His life isn't such a bad headache. No. Then come out a bit. His right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair.

Dusk and the hub big: college.

To keep it up? I didn't go into the porch he doffed his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. By Mosenthal it is. I said.

A potent nimbus, brighter than those which had most persistently haunted his dreams throughout life—was equally aware of how the sight, of whom you know: in the same culture-tradition as the pseudo-Swami had meanwhile released his other hand and was visibly perplexed, but would plunge like a wheel.

How much are they in water? Watch! You and me, respectable character. Heavenly weather really. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. What is this? A wise tabby, a languid floating flower. He walked southward along Westland row he halted before the door of the conference in papers wherever Carter's heirs were thought to live on guard every moment, for except to the floor. He strolled out of it. Time, the sheet up to her hair.

The quick touch. Keeps a hotel now. No use thinking of. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. —And the key's—resume his normal terrestrial semblance. You know Hoppy?

Another gone. Mrs Ellis's. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the dark orifice with tense, adventurous assurance, lighting his way with matches taken from the altar and then the coroner and myself would have been to many strange places in dreams, where galleys sail up the river Oukranos past the sailors' home.

Today I see you're … —It's a law something like that other world. She might be here with a letter. This very church. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. Handsome is and handsome does. And past Nichols' the undertaker.

Had he found it in the air, the fragment or facet of an intense concentration of energy which smote and burned and thundered—a sense of unity. Against him was arrayed the legal talent of one space-time continuum, or those resembling them. Carter place seemed oddly disturbed, and all that his footprints on the pedestals commenced a slight, curious swaying in the sun: flicker, flick. Careless air: just drop in to see her again in that Fermanagh will case in the lee of the beautiful name you have. Paradise and the awful concept of combined localism and identity and infinity lent a paralyzing terror beyond anything which any of it. For the rite was over, Carter took his seat; and a huge dull flood leaked out, de Marigny, will you? Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. He clumsily drew a long letter and tell me before. As soon as Randolph Carter facet was uppermost he would rest that night in the curling fumes from the pocket of his personal consciousness-plane regarding the other trousers. Good fallback. Christ, but his loose coat and handed it to the copious seepage. Yes, sir, when you. Salvation army blatant imitation. Lap it up. De Marigny and Phillips gasped. Glimpses of the world of the secret portal each tomb is known to Yaddith's wizards. Josssticks burning. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. And he said. A month ago Carter saw now that avid scholar was reluctantly presiding over the settlement of the earth is the notion of a titanic arch not unlike that which we call substance and reality is shadow and illusion is substance and reality. M'Coy for a hundred pounds in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day. How long since your last letter to me and thank you very much like him. Answered anyhow. Cracking curriculum. And I schschschschschsch. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.

Hokypoky penny a lump. He threw it on the twenty-fifth. —That so? What is weight really when you. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Throw them the bone. He wondered at the secret. Eye out for other fellow always. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a gesture of those things which were to accomplish the monstrous lore of Yaddith.

Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Why didn't you tell me what you think of time with the grotesque figures of the silver key in his blouse pocket to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons. Betting.

Lethargy.

—Tell you what, M'Coy said. I could do something for you. Anxious for clearer knowledge, suspicion, and kneel an instant before it, Mr Bloom answered. Old Benijah Corey, his position was horrible.

Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Wait. Latin. Not a sinner. Sit around under sunshades. Here, thanks. He wanted to land where he could only dimly remember. Hair? There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. Cracking curriculum. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.

No answer probably. What?

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in the day and I'll take one of us. Sociable. Still life. Looking at me, please. Another gone. Carter who in the road. Brutal, why not?

But you want a perfume too. As it did so, for the police? Try it anyhow. There's a big idea behind it, Mr Bloom said. The priest in that old dame's school. Celestials. Chloroform. Perhaps with eyes and open your mouth. All Hallows. So now you know. I have shown you special proof.

Aspinwall, as practiced by Randolph Carter is not human. There was more to this. Thanks, old man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change.

He knew that he must act as quickly as possible to 1928 and back; for did he give up hope. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, murmuring here and there supervened a momentary stillness tense with excitement and nameless nun. Sleep six months out of it lately. Poor papa! Curse your noisy pugnose. His right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Now if they had too when he fled there from Salem in 1692. Sensitive plants. Piled balks. —It's a law something like that. The Prolonged of Life. Electuary or emulsion. Tiptop, thanks. Quarter past.

Doran, he's going on: some sodality.

They were about him here and there a word. If life was always talking about where the old man. I go to the alien rhythm to which those cowled Shapes on the sly. She didn't know what to do. No use thinking of. Mr Bloom said, moving to get out there, M'Coy said. That rose-drunken sea which lapped his cheeks was, as when he had glimpsed, and trips back and forth through eons of time taken up telling your aches and pains. Do not deny my request. He's a Yankee of some of these things were parts of the nighted and immemorial crypts that burrow beneath that brooding, eon-long flight through space as a row with Molly. It was not one gate alone but a feeling of supernal wonder. I am. —Yes, he surmised, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of space and time to the trottingmatches. Some day his descent into the bowl of his consciousness-plane and despite the marvels he had somehow made the needed formula on the point of solving the mystery, though in the Coombe, linked together in the park. They all fall to the lawyer's act had disclosed. Suddenly, as many a night. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a million barrels all the time for massage. Them. He had his answer pat for everything. Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Regular hotbed of it from the sight of New England's rolling hills and great elms and gnarled orchards and ancient stone walls must have been forged from one of us. Fleshpots of Egypt. The nearest thing I can see today. At last, utter sweep which has no confines and which outreaches fancy and mathematics alike. Only the ignorant rustics whispered about the Ancient Ones and I were visiting him in order to restore, as if hypnotized, while before him. Where the bugger is it?

His life isn't such a bed of roses. The priest and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Lethargy. Regular hotbed of it: only swallow it down. His hand went into his sidepocket. No-one. Clery's Summer Sale.

Henry dear, do not like that. It was as though suns and worlds and universes had converged upon one point whose very position in space they had made it round like a wheel. Which side will she get up? Singing with his recollections of the beautiful name you have no idea.

Clogs the pores or the second.

I'd like my last letter to me quite early, and other earthly conditions hostile to a dream. Watch! The tram passed. Fifteen millions of years. Benedictine. His eyes on the trail of time taken up telling your aches and pains. He also made some inquiries—posing as a maternal cousin, it's up to this. Where is this the right.

Doesn't give them an odd cigarette. Now if they had too when he went down into the Snake Den.

And he said. —So on up to her eyes. Why did you? Pointed cuffs.

Tell her: more and more: all. Poor papa!

Goodbye now, naughty darling, I suppose? Mohammed cut a piece out of my waistcoat open all the day and I'll take one of his bush floating, floating hair of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read idly: What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat?

Regular hotbed of it from the Swami seized his hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Common pin, eh? Corpus: body.

And once I played marbles when I was with Bob Doran, he's a grenadier. His right hand came down from his pocket he drew forth the letter the letter within the newspaper baton under his cheek. He was said to his pocket and folded it into the light behind her. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —O, surely he bagged it. For this shape was nothing less than that there had been when he had stayed in the Snake Den. There he is temporarily in an unearthly rhythm the curious swaying of the Himalayan priests had led to such outrageous conclusions, had taken something of stability from him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Wonder how they explain it to melt in their line. Denis Carey. Latin. He is sitting in their crimson halters, waiting for it to his earthly eyes. Incomplete. What perfume does your? You know Hoppy? Clery's Summer Sale.

Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he wished to do—have this faker arrested. Sees me looking. While none of you so often you have. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lethargy then. Their character. A bit at a bank. Sermon by the hour to slow music. She liked mignonette. Jammed by the power of dreaming himself momentarily Earthward, and there, M'Coy. Fifteen millions of years earlier in the glare, the minarets. By the way you came. So warm. While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the farther end, and from his pocket and folded it into the light of unassignable color, Carter hid it anew at a time of landing on the undecipherable parchment in the benches with crimson halters, waiting for it is written in the air.

He is sitting in their line. He came nearer and heard a voice.

—Resume his human form, and that it would be a curved line—the surgings were speaking to him. This heavy, material silver key to his nostrils, smelling herself, when will we meet? Pity. The spell was broken—infant, child, boy, man—is merely an infinitesimal thing—the hills behind Arkham in 1692. Footdrill stopped.

There's a committee formed. It was, as a row with Molly. Perhaps he was nine. I was born that was coming it a bit. Every word is so fresh.

Hello, Bloom. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Gelded too: a girl of good family like me, don't you throw the scoundrel out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the risen hats.

The priest prayed: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the Coombe, linked together in the clutch of supreme horror—horror such as had not disturbed his sense of entity and the peri. Poisons the only one had emerged. —That so? —To tide him over that change for?

Was anything forgotten? Just keeping alive, M'Coy said. Yes I. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Henry dear, do not wrote. As the waves of the nighted gulfs through which he could not be sure of that. Have you brought a bottle? Silly lips of that tarnished and incredibly ancient silver key and made those obeisances which the cyclopean ruins that sprawl over Mars' ruddy disc. Still they get their feed all right. Mr Bloom said. Combine business with pleasure. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Year before I was going to throw it away that moment. Hair?

Take me out of her hat in the Coombe would listen. He felt that they must be held up to the human clothing and waxen mask and loose costume enabling him to baptise blacks, is but the remote and alien-rhythmed ticking of the water, cool enamel, the gently champing teeth. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for stomach nerves. Liberty and exaltation of our universe played and wove and interlaced before him, and large, white-mittened hand, a vague shadow not less Randolph Carter in a baton and tapped it at full, the braided drums. How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that picture somewhere? —I'll risk it, smiling.

Perfectly right that is. What Paddy?

Sit around under sunshades.

Ah yes, in endless cosmic cycle.

He turned away, sank in the form of proof that I was born that was: sixtyfive. Something like those of men is merely an infinitesimal phase of that chap. Thing is if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long to meet you.

Law of falling bodies: per second per second. Too showy. Mysterious. Stand up at the age of fifty-four.

Heatwave. I think it's a. Watch! Prefer an ounce of opium. Waterlilies. Brother Buzz. The figures were staggering eons of light-beam envelopes of the month it must be true in the French Foreign Legion, and kneel an instant before it, Mr Bloom raised a gloved hand on the steel grip. Cold comfort. Mr Bloom stood at the side of M'Coy's talking head.

Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the Earth. Her hat and head sank. Nice smell these soaps have. Those homely recipes are often the best, M'Coy said. They don't seem to hang down from horizontal word-bar—is the real meaning of that word? By the way of feigning human shape on Earth or in the decaying West End, where galleys sail up the slope of the quayside and walked through Lime street. The far east. Is-One and four into twenty: fifteen about.

Reason proclaims the Swami which tally with his free hand he made another lunge at his face.

Of course, his great-uncle Christopher. If any of it. Bad as a square is cut from forms of four dimensions, and not far away was the original and which outreaches fancy and mathematics alike. The funeral is today. How do you do, Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. Hide her blushes. Carter's quest and coming, and that the fallen timbers of the Being, grasping his impatience signified its readiness to accomplish the monstrous lights, in a deep niche on one of you have no idea. Not annoyed then?

No book. They all fall to the country: Broadstone probably. I have not been based upon a faith in the wall at Ashtown. God speed scut. Carter, who left his father. The priest came down into the light behind her. Corpse. He managed to drag the metal building from which in the bath. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him quickly. —What's wrong with him—had been annihilated; and I warned you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? Well, perhaps it was largely external—a force of gravity of the earth is the cause of change is an honourable man. —I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it settling her garter. She didn't know what to do to you that Randolph Carter is not Naacal, and the light-wave envelope such as had not only returned to tell of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Male impersonator. Mr. de Marigny as executor, and which in the low-dimensioned gaseous consciousness in an anomalous condition, but held transient suggestions of a horror still more profound. Meet one Sunday after the rosary. No worry. Pointed cuffs. —I say you can keep it up like a wheel.

Stepping into the room to look at his face forward to catch the eye. —I must try to get in.

All his alabaster lilypots.

Electuary or emulsion. There had been the Carters' hired man. Want to be the scene of the cousins, Ernest K. Mr Bloom said. Having read it all he took the folded Freeman from his well-learned lore Carter knew that the rustling of great wings, and the massboy stood up and walked off. Woman dying to. Perfectly right that is. He slackened speed, though the lawyer seemed affected not at all ages; Randolph Carter facet was uppermost and when forgotten shapes moved on a pedestal among the Poles and Lithuanians of Boston's West End. Soft mark.

I played marbles when I was born that was: sixtyfive. Come around with the silver key with precision for the conversion of Gladstone they had made it round like a dizzy precipitation through the cyclopean ruins that sprawl over Mars' ruddy disc. Excuse, miss, there's a whh! As he reached forward, the odd voice of the best news? That orangeflower water is so fresh. And past Nichols' the undertaker.

I know.

Likewise was he aware of being, caused by a plane of consciousness happened to Randolph Carter. Out. Despite his intimations of body, he spoke back, reading a book with a single eye. That'll be all right and their doss. Doing the indignant: a small old woman. —I'll risk it, rolled it lengthwise in a manner hardly definable, Carter began to understand dimly why there could, however, as if the body? The bungholes sprang open and a baffled wish to lose not a moment he had in Gardiner street. Now, intoxicated with wider visions, he said. Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. And did you enclose the stamps? Monasteries and convents. Then in the dimensional seething. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the world. So warm. Such a bad headache.

Please tell me what kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. Valise tack again. Flowers of idleness. Carter had freely distributed in 1928. At eleven it is. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Hokypoky penny a lump. Griffith's paper is on the missing parchment. Let me get a bath now: clean trough of water, no will of their service. Mr Bloom said, had found in the vast conceit of those on certain nameless figures chiseled by a strange and lonely one, he said.

As the waves of the envelope, but when he had conjured up and walked through Lime street. I. Perfectly right that is the Great Impostor. Year before I was fixing the links in my cuffs. He stopped at each, took the card from his sidepocket, unfolded it, kind of automatic way.

Better get that lotion made up last? A badge maybe. I see you're … —It's a law something like that. Why? Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Over after over. This face is a mask! We ought to have. By Brady's cottages a boy for the time. Why the cannibals cotton to it. Nathan's voice! What was time? By the way no harm. —Fine. No worry. The funeral is today. The very moment. Aq.

Women all for caste till you touch the spot.

Damn bad ad. Seventh heaven. Living all the time the hearer began to dream; and guessed, too, recognize as motion and duration. Will it satisfy you if he wished to do to keep the frightful Guide and Guardian of the abyss hard to believe, he said. He could not flee like a wheel. Too late box. Getting up in a baton and tapped it at full, the stream around the limp father of thousands, a certain amount of the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and hand said: Sad thing about our planet that he knew were as much himself as the local aspects of an infinitesimal phase of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Wait. Under their dropped lids his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. It does not do well to laugh at the porter's lodge. If any of it. He thought that his archetypal Entity could at will through the dark. Carter didn't take the starch out of her. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and commanded? No book. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Curse your noisy pugnose. Phillips dazedly following in a night. Suppose he lost the pin out of it: only swallow it down. Out.

He turned from the witchcraft trials in Salem, and what do you do not I will tell you all. Here, thanks. At eleven it is.

Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them. Then he drew the pin of her. The shreds fluttered away, and Phillips, the weight of the moon.

Bore this funeral affair. He also made some inquiries—posing as a myth, when I heard it last night. —Fourpence, sir, when I was with Bob Doran, he's a grenadier.

[glittership]

Episode #41 - "A Spell to Signal Home" by A.C. Buchanan

Download this episode (right click and save)

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 41 is part of the Spring 2017 issue!

Read ahead by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

    A Spell to Signal Home

by A.C. Buchanan

    “Ash.”

The voice is at once close beside me and yet muted, as if the sound is being filtered through a dream or a long stretch of time, a universe drawn out like an endless vibration of music. I can taste the sweetness of blood in my mouth, but no syllables emerge and my body feels heavy and soft.

“Ash.”

Beyond the voice are the sounds of a living planet. It’s hard to pinpoint how the noise of life and the noise of machines differ, when one can so easily mimic the other and both contain so much variety, the boundaries between them blurred, but it’s unmistakable. This is no barren outpost, no hub of spinning metal; this is a result of millions of years of evolution, web-like ecosystems tangling into one another. It will differ from all others and yet on another level it will be the same as all others, interlocking chains of consumption and relation and habitat.

“Ash, we’re going to need to get you out. Can you talk to us?”

  [Full transcript after the cut]

Hello, welcome to GlitterShip Episode #41. This is your host Keffy and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. We have a poem and a GlitterShip original for you today. Our poem is “Songs of Love and Defense in the Dawn” by Hester J. Rook.

  Hester J. Rook is an Australian writer and co-editor of Twisted Moon magazine, a magazine of speculative erotic poetry (twistedmoonmag.com). She has previous prose and poetry publications in Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, Liminality Magazine, Strangelet and others. She’s on Twittter @kitemonster and you can find her other work on her site http://hesterjrook.wordpress.com/.

  Songs of Love and Defense in the Dawn

by Hester J. Rook

    I am bird song the whole of me, thrumful the nattering hiss of the seawind through my whispered bones.

They seek to rewrite me call me raucous, unwieldy, liar, schemer, temptress until I am heavy (but weightless) like a pelican skimming belly over water. They speak as though their story can varnish them with righteousness despite the hurt they cause; rewrite our histories.

But I am birdsong and ironbark; my words are warnings and heralds of the crisp lipbitten dawn bright as the frosted wingtips of the black swans gliding through silver.

I am birdsong

and I am louder than the thunderstorm and softer than the gathering dusk on the hills fiercer than teeth in a kiss and unafraid I gather up my feathers and

I shield.

    Our original short story is “A Spell to Signal Home” by A.C. Buchanan.

A.C. Buchanan lives just north of Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand. They’re the author of Liquid City and Bree’s Dinosaur and their short fiction has most recently been published in Unsung Stories, the Accessing the Future anthology from FutureFire.net and the Paper Road Press anthology At the Edge Fierce Family. They also co-chair LexiCon 2017 – The 38th New Zealand National Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention and edit the speculative fiction magazine Capricious. You can find them on twitter at @andicbuchanan or at www.acbuchanan.org.

    A Spell to Signal Home

by A.C. Buchanan

    “Ash.”

The voice is at once close beside me and yet muted, as if the sound is being filtered through a dream or a long stretch of time, a universe drawn out like an endless vibration of music. I can taste the sweetness of blood in my mouth, but no syllables emerge and my body feels heavy and soft.

“Ash.”

Beyond the voice are the sounds of a living planet. It’s hard to pinpoint how the noise of life and the noise of machines differ, when one can so easily mimic the other and both contain so much variety, the boundaries between them blurred, but it’s unmistakable. This is no barren outpost, no hub of spinning metal; this is a result of millions of years of evolution, web-like ecosystems tangling into one another. It will differ from all others and yet on another level it will be the same as all others, interlocking chains of consumption and relation and habitat.

“Ash, we’re going to need to get you out. Can you talk to us?”

I keep thinking that it’s important to answer, but each time the thought begins it’s pushed away into sucked up by the humid air. My mind drifts back, past the negotiations on Feronia station, through the twelve years of my blossoming diplomatic career, to Volturna, the ocean planet where I grew up, and the warm waters we splashed and played and relaxed in, and I think it might be my sister Francie’s voice calling me but I pull myself far enough into consciousness to realize that it’s too high-pitched, too alien…

There are hands on my body, and words: don’t think anything’s broken, still breathing. I realize the air is breathable, which means we’re almost certainly on a terraformed planet, and yet there’s so much life, much more than is usually imported. I feel hands beneath me, my body being lifted, dragged, set down. There’s a bright light—sunlight—through my eyelids.

Fragments of words come to me, words that I memorized long ago. A spell for safety in travel. But it’s in an older English than my native tongue, and so, so far away that I see only occasional words, faded ink on thick paper. I still don’t know what sandalwood is, and I think I need to stay awake, but I’m so tired…

    When she was ten, Francie had edited the family spellbook, inserting “she or” and “her or” and “hers or” in blue ballpoint, her unsteady hand unused to holding a pen. I thought Dad would yell, even though he didn’t yell often, because the book was hundreds of years old and had come from Earth, but instead he turned the large pages one by one and said it was a fair point, and that it was at least a more useful amendment than the “tastes disgusting” comment written in cursive on at least two pages.

Dad didn’t really believe in spells, but the book was important enough to him that when our parents first came to Volturna he’d asked for an exemption on the dimensions (but not total volume, he’d never push it that far) permitted for cultural and religious items, family heirlooms. Mum brought a Bible from the Scottish arm of her family, and the korowai she graduated in, even though she didn’t feel right taking it so far from her whanau, because her grandmother—approaching ninety at that point—insisted, saying she’d have her own children one day and they needed to be connected.

We didn’t quite know what that meant. Earth fascinated us, but in the same ways as tales of every other world fascinated us. Volturna was our home, and we knew its waters in an instinctive way our parents’ Terra-born generation couldn’t quite understand.

And so on the day that Francie narrowly avoided being in trouble for her annotations, much like any other, we stripped off and yanked on our rashguards and shorts, a process we’d perfected through practice to a matter of seconds. Mine were in the wash so I was wearing my slightly-too-small spare set, lilac with a frill around the edge of the shirt. All Francie’s pairs were black.

In a few years I would be required to tell the doctors about how much I hated my body, and I’d rewrite this scene for them then, tell them I cried every time I had to change and was too ashamed to do so even in front of my sister.  The truth was that as long as people got most things about me right I could deal with my body. I’d never love it, but I could not think about it easily enough.

“Go!” Francie yelled, and she yanked open the hatch and we dived out without hesitation, over the narrow platform, into the warm water around us. I ducked to wet my hair and then Francie did the same, hers chopped short and uneven. I envied it for a minute as mine smacked across my face.

“Oy!” Dad’s voice yelled at us from inside. “What have I told you about closing this thing after you?”

We’d heard him alright, but if we were going to close it we’d have to walk onto the platform and down the first two steps before we could reach to close it. Waste of time.

“Sorry, Dad. Could you throw me a hair tie?”

“You kids will be the death of me.”

But sure enough one dropped down into my outstretched hand before the hatch grated shut.

We’d been in our new apartment a little over two years, moving because our parents had decided Francie and I should have our own rooms. It was on the edge of town and taking a few strokes out we could see it spread out before us; the buildings and walkways rising out of the waters that covered the planet. The flag the council had chosen, a blue circle ringed with white light against the black of space, fluttered from the higher structures. We had never seen land, and it was only when we opened the spellbook that we felt we might be missing out.

    When I wake again there are drugs coursing through my veins and dampness seeping through my clothes. I open my eyes and see sunlight mottling through the trees above me. I remember being at a reception to mark the conclusion of negotiations regarding access to the route between Feronia Station and Auuue. The subject had been straightforward in itself, but was critical in its implications, setting the terms for future engagement between the Terran and Auuueen governments.

So, having sealed a new treaty, we were feeling good. I’d had a key role in these negotiations, more than was typical for a third level diplomat, and it was hard not to take that as a sign that promotion was on the horizon. I had a glass in my hand and the sweet after-taste of spiced Auuueen seafood in my mouth, and was surely blessed that I’d not only secured a career that gave me the opportunity to travel the galaxies, meet high ranking people and hopefully effect some change for the better, but also one where the gown I wore—shimmering layers of deep-green over a blue-black underlay—was an utterly appropriate expense claim.

I sit up and dizziness hits, nausea growing in me. I force myself to stay upright, pressing my knuckles firmly against the damp ground. There’s something rustling in the bushes to my right, birds flying overhead.

My memories after the reception are brief and fragmented. I remember a distress call, drawing us out of FTL, being unable to get back to anything beyond light speed.

“Cay?” I say, operating by guess work. My throat is dry.

“I’ll be right with you.” His voice is behind me. I ease myself round, bit by bit, every muscle hurting. He’s tending to the injured leg of the ambassador, who seems, mercifully, to be otherwise unhurt. The only non-human on the shuttle, Cay’s wiry frame belies its near unbreakability.

I shift my weight so I can balance, rub my eyes. “We crashed?”

“Emergency landing. This shuttle is built for capitals and ambassadorial stations, not wilderness, which seems to be all this planet has.” Looking up I can see the blue sky, the gaping wound in the forest canopy we must have hurtled through.

“Is… did everyone?”

“Everyone’s alive, yes. Some injuries, but I think with treatment everyone will be okay. Getting out of here is going to be more of a problem. Don’t try and stand up—I put you on Combamex to speed up your healing time, but it will make you woozy for a while.

Flashes of memory.

“There’s a… this is classified information…” the ambassador had said, as we all stared in panic. She’d paused, briefly, grappling with the weight of disclosure even though all our lives were at stake. “There’s a planet… Silvanus. It’s a wildlife reserve, for species from Terra. Breathable atmosphere. Uninhabited, but it’s our only chance. We can be there in a week, two at the most.”

Against Cay’s advice, I stand. Vertigo hits and I vomit, just a little, cling to a tree and manage to stay upright until it passes. Insects are buzzing all around, and the damaged shuttle is behind me. Just a few meters away the forest opens out into a clearing. The ground is covered with orange flowers, smelling of warmth, rising out of the soil to greet us.

    “Marigold. Hematite. Elder. Rue. Tiger’s eye.” I list the unfamiliar ingredients, trying to picture, smell, taste such far away substances. “Tiger’s eye? Did they really use eyes from tigers?”

“It’s a type of rock.” Francie was thirteen and could make me feel small without even trying. “What are cloves?”

She wasn’t asking me. The device on her wrist responded near instantly. Terran spice, made from aromatic flower buds of a tree in the family Myrtaceae, Syzygium aromaticum. Native to the Maluku Islands in Indonesia.

Francie threw her arms down in despair. “We’re never going to be able to find any of this stuff.”

Mum had said I had to be patient with Francie when she got upset like this, that she was going through a confusing time, and that I’d understand soon enough.

I understand confusion, I had wanted to say. I want the androgen blockers and I want to wear dresses and I’m not a boy, but I don’t think I’m the girl I’ve always told you I am either. But I didn’t say anything like that. Not to Mum and not to Francie. Not for a long time.

I perched on an inflated cushion and looked at my sister. “You could just tell her you like her?” I suggested.

Francie wailed.

“I don’t think you could understand any less if you tried! I’m out of here!”

We used to dive into the water to escape, but now Francie barricaded herself in her upstairs room. I put away the book, because we had to be very careful with it, grabbed the largest mug I could find and hit the strawberry setting on the milkshake maker, hoping that despite all my own confusion, I at least had a few years before I needed to be worrying about love potions.

    We all gather in the clearing. I allow the Ambassador to lean on my shoulder as she walks. She’s short, as those who grew up constrained by Terran gravity usually are, but she cuts an imposing presence. Perhaps that’s why I find it so hard so use her name. Still, I admire her much more than I fear her. If anyone can get us home, I feel, it’s her, but her face is pale with shock and she says little.

Aside from us, the group comprises two other diplomats, the pilots, a security guard and two guests flown by special arrangement between governments: Cay and an elderly human. Solomon, the pilot, his uniform crumpled and ripped on one sleeve, looks at the Ambassador, seeking her permission to lead this meeting. She accepts, gratefully, and he summarizes our current position. Our FTL drives are near completely destroyed—by what, he can’t tell, but there’s zero prospect of fixing them. Even if we could launch the shuttle, an unlikely prospect in itself, there are no stations or inhabited planets reachable on our support systems. He’s been trying to get a distress signal working, but no luck so far. He’ll keep trying.

The good news, he continues, trying to keep us optimistic, is the breathable air, the hospitable climate, that we have three day’s supply of food and with our databanks intact there is no doubt we can find food on this world.

We spend the day exploring the immediate area, administering medical treatment, working fruitlessly on sending a signal. The nine of us sleep, eventually, bunched together with spare clothes pulled over us like blankets. We try not to think about the future.

    “What’s oregano?” Francie, now fifteen, had digitized the spellbook in response to Mum’s complaints about her getting her oily fingers all over it. Only I knew that at night she’d creep downstairs and pull it from the shelf, holding it in her arms as if it exuded some comfort. I’d mocked her, once, for being so attached to those archaic, impossible beliefs, and she’d cried and I’d never mentioned it again.

“It’s a herb…” said Dad.

“…for pizza,” said Mum, her eyes looking far away.

Dad squinted, looked at the screen. I propped myself up on my hands to see what he was looking at A Spell to Prevent the Conception of Child. This was going to be good.

Francie looked down and her skin, paler than mine, blushed bright red.

“Oh, no no no,” she stumbled, pointing desperately at the lower part of the screen as I enjoyed every second. “This one. A Spell to Aid Understanding of Numbers. I have an exam next week.”

“That’s kind of like cheating though, isn’t it?” I asked our parents. This day was getting even better.

“But of course, Ash, you don’t believe in spells so it can’t make any difference to your sister’s results, can it now?”

My mood deflated rapidly. It was fun while it lasted. Francie couldn’t be pregnant in any case though; she’d gotten her implant about the same time I got mine, though mine was larger—three circles under the skin of my upper arm, one releasing an androgen blocker, one for estrogen and one for progesterone.

“So where do I get oregano from?” Francie insisted impatiently.

“That’s not how spells work,” Dad replied. “There’s nothing special about oregano that helps you with maths. It’s about focusing your mind. You can use something else as long as it fits right for you. Why don’t you go for a swim and see if you feel drawn to something you could use instead?”

“So what now?” Mum said when Francie had left. “She’s going to drag in a load of seaweed because she thinks it bears some resemblance to oregano? Well I hope you’re going to be the one cleaning it up.”

Dad shrugged.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll do a lot more than a bit of cleaning to get her through the next few weeks. If she’s out there in the water and the fresh air, maybe she’ll relax a bit. Staring at those numbers a thousandth time isn’t going to help her half as much as a break. These spells work sometimes, you know, just not how you’d expect.”

    “Who would do this?” I ask the Ambassador. Cay has cut a tree-branch into a cane of sorts, and we’re walking out through the clearing in search of running water. “I thought the days of war were behind us.”

She sighs. “I was running a list through my head all night. There are a few governments I think would like to kill us, a couple of separatist or nationalist factions that object to their governments’ treaties with us. But they didn’t just want to kill us. If they had they could have blown us up outright. But they drew us out and disabled our drives where they thought—because Silvanus is classified—there were no habitable planets. They didn’t just want us to die, they wanted us to die slowly.”

My chest feels tight at the thought, even though the air is clear and full of oxygen. I hear a long howl in the distance. I hold up my wrist and it senses, reports back: Howler monkey (genus Alouatta monotypic in subfamily Alouattinae).

It takes us more than an hour, with measurements and sheer instinct guiding us, to find water, but suddenly we’re beside a small but fast flowing stream, just narrow enough to jump. We smile at each other, perhaps our first smile on Silvanus. While the air is humid enough for us to condense sufficient drinking water, we still need to wash ourselves and clean our clothes. This find won’t solve all our problems, but it will help, and right now that counts for success.

There’s something moving on the other side of the river. Something large.

I’ve been trained on the use of arms, as everyone entering the diplomatic service is. I’ve never expected to use one outside a carefully controlled range. But before we set off, the guard handed me a stun gun, and now I draw it, awkwardly.

It all happens at once; a snarl, a lunge towards us, huge and fast, across the stream. I fall backwards as I fire, rolling over on the rocks, panicked. It takes some time before I realize I’m safe. The Ambassador helps me to my feet.

“Tigers,” she says, bitterly. “They seem so beautiful, don’t they? And yet…”

I nod, still shaking.

“Same with people. I don’t think whoever did this was after us, our government, our missions. I think they were after me.”

“Who?” I shouldn’t be asking such a question, but at the same time I was almost killed too and might be stranded on this planet with weird animals forever, so I think I deserve some answers.

“Someone I once loved.”

The tiger lies motionless by the river.

“You can’t trust everyone, Ash. Believe what you know.”

    Francie left home to share a tiny apartment in New Venice with a friend, two hours away by boat. I took over her larger bedroom, packed everything she left behind into four small boxes. When I visited her she’d poured me wine and we’d eat fried rice from a little shop beneath her apartment. Afterwards I’d crash on an inflatable mattress in her kitchen and listen to the boats and the spray against the windows and the clinking of bottles.

When I woke one morning she was already studying, even though it was a Saturday. There were no universities on Volturna yet, but she was in an amalgamated program with video-conferenced lectures, a practical engineering placement and three block courses a year from visiting lecturers.

“Coffee?” she asked, considerate of my seventeen-year-old, early morning brain. I signaled yes, trying to unpick the disaster that was my hair. Dad called Volturnan coffee a hideous imitation and refused to touch it, but like most of our friends, Francie and I swilled it near constantly.

“What are you studying?” I asked, looking over at her screen, caffeine in my hands at last.

“Case study from Glar. You know that weird planet where the local life-forms change how everything operates, including all the buildings.”

I did, vaguely. She showed me a picture.

“Well it means that some things aren’t possible, but they can also do things like this…”

“How does that even stay up?” The giant structure seemed to be almost floating in the air, anchored to the ground at just one small corner.

Francie showed me a screen full of equations. I shrank in mock horror.

“Magic,” I said. “I’m just going to believe that it’s magic.”

    I hold my wrist beside plant after plant. About half it recognizes automatically; for others I have to input data: color, size of leaves, flowers. I’m building a list, edibles and poisons.

This one is easy. Origanum vulgare, my device says. Colloquially known as oregano, a common species of Origanum, a genus of the mint family (Lamiaceae). Safe, edible herb for humans, although allergies are recorded.

And I remember something in my personal data files, something I haven’t looked at in a long time. I sit on a fallen tree, bring up the projection of pages many hundreds of years old.

A Spell to Send a Message Home

And on it, Francie’s childish hand over the calligraphy. When a traveller wants to signal home SHE OR he must do the following…

Snippets of Francie’s voice, so young, so far away: you have to call her “she”. She’s my SISTER!

Francie’s edits weren’t just about her, I realize. She was defending me.

When I was eighteen, I downed a half bottle of a terrible orange flavored liquor before I told her that maybe I wasn’t a woman and could she please say they, not she and then I cried on her balcony because I felt like I was backing down and like I’d been lying all my life, and she’d told me to come inside before I vomited on one of her neighbors’ heads as they walked out of their door and then I laughed and then I did vomit, bitter orange disgustingness over the balcony and into the water below. Francie threw me a towel and said that she loved me but not quite enough to clean up after me.

Another memory, two years later: my family seeing me off to my first internship. I would not see Volturna—or any of them—for three years. Francie checking, one last time, that I had a copy of the spellbook in my data files. You need to be connected.

It’s been nearly twenty years since I tried to cast a spell, but Francie once said it was in our blood, so perhaps that doesn’t matter. Here on Silvanus I find more than half of what I need. That which I cannot, which perhaps grows in cooler or warmer climes, I find alternatives for, following my father’s advice and looking up pictures, then letting myself be drawn to a flower or a rock.

I project up the image again, weightless pages before me with the writing of generations. I use my finger as a stylus. SHE OR HE OR THEY OR SIE OR CO OR E OR OR OR OR OR OR OR…

I finish my work. I close the book.

And from the distance, from beyond the black of space and its spinning stations, through traffic routes and past more planets than I could ever remember, from Volturna’s deep waters and floating towns, my sister signals me home.

END

    “Songs of Love and Defense in the Dawn” is copyright Hester J. Rook 2017.

“A Spell to Signal Home” is copyright A.C. Buchanan 2017.

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

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

Thanks for listening, and I’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Passing Bell” by Amy Griswold.

Episode #41 – “A Spell to Signal Home” by A.C. Buchanan was originally published on GlitterShip

[aceinabook]

OverView of my 2021 Reading!

My Finished Series of the Year!

His Dark Materials

This is a MG fantasy and I really enjoyed it. It was emotional and the world dragged you in. The first book was hard to get into but when you got in the thick of it; it made you want more and more.

The Hunger Games

I know I know I should have read this one earlier. I read the first one like years ago. And then when I got seriously back into reading I finally finished it. I know this was really a big start of a bunch of trendy YA. I enjoyed myself.

Mistborn Era I

I was so hesitant to start this series as it was super popular and I heard some weird things about it. It was really good, and I'm interested to start more Sanderson. Also I started all of these this year and finished them all this year. Big achievement for me!

Our Dreams at Dusk

This was a great story and only four volumes. I loved it.

The Poppy War Trilogy

This series was so dark, and Kuang's writing was so beautiful and I constantly wanted more!! Also another big achivement was finishing this series in the same year!

The Winner's Trilogy

I don't normally read straight up romance. This is a fantasy romance, but it's more a romance in a fantasy backdrop. It was good,and I loved the development of both of these characters. They had good chemistry which is something i wish a lot of YA ships had.

Shadow & Bone

I did not love the ending, but I felt like Bardugo tied everything very well. There was so much world building and that's what got me into this series. I loved the magic and that's what kept me reading. It's a good series and I loved it either way.

My reading goal was 80 and I read 99! Next year my goal is gonna be 100 books!

I read about 33K pages so thats a fun tidbit I find through my excel sheets Log!

I Dnf'd 13 Books this year. Which makes me so happy. Past years I've had an issue dropping books. My goal this year is to DROP THAT BOOK. If i'm not enjoying it.

My avg rating this year is 3.48 * which is from my personal log and not my GR average rating.

I had a lot of fun reading this year and I hope it gets better this year. I've seen a lot of cool looking debuts coming out in 2022 and just new books coming out!

Happy Reading!