#The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

[a-ramblinrose]

JOMP Book Photo Challenge || November 9 || Candlelight:   Lit candles just don’t happen in my house. Between fire danger and scents causing breathing problems it’s a no go. Honestly, I don’t know how I ended up with these decorative tea lights???

[indiekidsupremacist]

Ideal holiday itinerary

[deadpanwalking]

dpw I am finally dedicating some time to reading poetry and have been knocked on my ass by a few lucky finds (Franny Choi, CD Wright, the new translation of Vulturnus!), but I feel like I don't have a great sense of where to find more. not that the world is short of—I mean, I haven't forgotten about google or anything—what I mean is, do you have any especially mindblowing collections you'd personally suggest? something that was influential to you at some point? I'm in a fertile headspace for it, and you're the poetryposter I follow on here and I trust your taste

It's August, so you're spoiled for choice. Elizabeth Bishop (Questions of Travel) for mornings when it rained overnight, Pablo Neruda (Residencia en la tierra) for mornings when it's going to rain; Robert Hayden (The Night-Blooming Cereus) for mornings when it's drizzling and you hear birdsong, but can't see birds. Maya Angelou on the bus to work (Complete Collected Poems), and Walt Whitman (Leaves of Grass) on the bus home; T.S. Eliot (Prufrock and Other Observations) if you're taking lunch at your desk, Billy Collins (Picnic, Lightning) for eating lunch outdoors. Charles Simic (A Wedding in Hell) before dinner, Charles Baudelaire (Les Fleurs du mal ), postprandially, if the peach you'd been saving for dessert got overripe and has to be reclaimed from fruit flies and eaten over the sink. James Baldwin (Jimmy's Blues and Other Poems) to go with chardonnay and the smell of petrichor, Franz Wright (Walking to Martha's Vineyard) on nights when the moon seems too big for its own good. If you can't get to sleep, try a nice epic, say, Derek Walcott's Omeros, but if you wake up suffocating from the heat, crack open Matsuo Bashō's The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches.

[alightinthelantern]

Books read and movies watched in 2024 (January-June): Should you watch/read them?

Poetry:

In the Next Galaxy (Ruth Stone): No

Selected Poems (Mark Strand): No

In the Dark (Ruth Stone): Yes!

Response (Juliana Spahr): Yes

The Unicorn (Anne Morrow Lindbergh): No!

Everything Else in the World (Stephen Dunn): Yes

Words Under the Words (Naomi Shihab Nye): Eh

On Love and Barley (Matsuo Basho, trans. Lucien Stryk): Yes!

The Transformation (Juliana Spahr): No

The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches (Matsuo Basho, trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa): No

The Book of Taliesin (anon., trans. Gwyneth Lewis & Rowan Williams): No

What Love Comes To: New and Selected Poems (Ruth Stone): Eh

Face (Sherman Alexie): NO

No Surrender (Ai): Eh

The Summer of Black Widows (Sherman Alexie): Yes!

The Afflicted Girls (Nicole Cooley): Yes!

Winter Poems Along the Rio Grande (Jimmy Santiago Baca): No

American Smooth (Rita Dove): No

Elegy (Mary Jo Bang): No

Angel (Giles Dorey): NO

Collected Poems (Paul Auster): Eh

June-Tree (Peter Balakian): Yes

We Must Make a Kingdom of It (Gregory Orr): Eh

Only as the Day is Long (Dorianne Laux): No

Grace Notes (Rita Dove): Yes

Bathwater Wine (Wanda Coleman): Yes

My Soviet Union (Michael Dumanis): No

American Milk (Ruth Stone): Yes

The Drowned Girl (Eve Alexandra): No

A Worldly Country (John Ashberry): No

The Complete Poems of Hart Crane: No

One Stick Song (Sherman Alexie): Yes

If You Call This Cry a Song (Hayden Carruth): No

Doctor Jazz (Hayden Carruth): No

The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart (Gabrielle Calvocoressi): No

And Her Soul Out of Nothing (Olena Kalytiak Davis): No

Prisoner of Hope (Yvonne Daley): No

The Other Man Was Me (Rafael Campo): No

My Wicked Wicked Ways (Sandra Cisneros): No

On Earth (Robert Creeley): Eh

Genius Loci (Alison Hawthorne Deming): Eh

Science and Other Poems (Alison Hawthorne Deming): Eh

Voices (Lucille Clifton): Yes

A New Path to the Waterfall (Raymond Carver): Eh

Where Shadows Will (Norma Cole): No

The Way Back (Wyn Cooper): No

A Cartography of Peace (Jean L. Connor): No

Minnow (Judith Chalmer): Yes!

Postcards from the Interior (Wyn Cooper): Yes

Natural History (Dan Chiasson): Eh

The Ship of Birth (Greg Delanty): Eh

Madonna anno domini (Joshua Clover): NO

The Terrible Stories (Lucille Clifton): No

The Flashboat (Jane Cooper): Eh

Book of Longing (Leonard Cohen): No

Streets in Their Own Ink (Stuart Dybek): Eh

Different Hours (Stephen Dunn): Yes

I Love This Dark World (Alice B. Fogel): Eh

Baptism of Desire (Louise Erdrich): Yes!

The Eternal City (Kathleen Graber): Eh

Monolithos (Jack Gilbert): Yes

Crown of Weeds (Amy Gerstler): No

Blue Hour (Carolyn Forché): No

Place (Jorie Graham): No

Meadowlands (Louise Gluck): Yes!

Dearest Creature (Amy Gerstler): No

Loosestrife (Stephen Dunn): No

Little Savage (Emily Fragos): Yes

The Living Fire (Edward Hirsch): No

On Love (Edward Hirsch): No

Human Wishes (Robert Hass): NO

Early Occult Memory Systems of the Lower Midwest (B. H. Fairchild): No

Sinking Creek (John Engels): No

Alabanza (Martín Espada): Yes

Saving Lives (Albert Goldbarth): No

All of It Singing (Linda Gregg): No

Green Squall (Jay Hopler): No

Tender Hooks (Beth Ann Fennelly): No

After (Jane Hirshfield): Eh

Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty (Tony Hoagland): NO

These Are My Rivers (Lawrence Ferlinghetti): No

Fruitful (Stephanie Kirby): No

Jaguar Skies (Michael McClure): No

Song (Brigit Pegeen Kelly): No

Roadworthy Creature, Roadworthy Craft (Kate Magill): No

Life in the Forest (Denise Levertov): No

Viper Rum (Mary Karr): No

Questions for Ecclesiastes (Mark Jarman): No

Brutal Imagination (Cornelius Eady): Yes

Alphabet of Bones (Alexis Lathem): No

Handwriting (Michael Ondaatje): No

Sure Signs (Ted Kooser): No

Sledding on Hospital Hill (Leland Kinsey): No

Between Silences (Ha Jin): Yes

House of Days (Jay Parini): No

Bird Eating Bird (Kristin Naca): Yes

Orpheus & Eurydice (Gregory Orr): Yes

Another America (Barbara Kingsolver): Yes

Candles in Babylon (Denise Levertov): Yes

The Clerk's Tale (Spencer Reece): Eh

Still Listening (Angela Patten): Yes

A Thief of Strings (Donald Revell): No

Wayfare (Pattiann Rogers): No

The Niagara River (Kay Ryan): No

The Bird Catcher (Marie Ponsot): No

Easy (Marie Ponsot): No

Human Dark with Sugar (Brenda Shaughnessy): No

Chronic (D. A. Powell): No

Novels/Fiction:

A Thousand Years of Good Prayers (Yiyun Li): No

The Oxford Book of English Ghost Stories: Yes

Movies:

What Dreams May Come (1998, Vincent Ward): Yes

The Cat's Meow (2001, Peter Bogdanovich): Yes

The Birdcage (1996, Mike Nichols): Yes

The Color of Pomegranates (1969, Sergei Parajanov): No

The Eve of Ivan Kupalo (1969, Yuri Ilyenko): Yes

And here's my 2023 list!

[bookclub4m]

24 Travel Non-Fiction Books by BIPOC Authors

Every month Book Club for Masochists: A Readers’ Advisory Podcasts chooses a genre at random and we read and discuss books from that genre. We also put together book lists for each episode/genre that feature works by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) authors. All of the lists can be found here.

America in an Arab Mirror: Images of America in Arabic Travel Literature by Kamal Abdel-Malek

Meeting Faith: The Forest Journals of a Black Buddhist Nun by Faith Adiele

Due North: A Collection of Travel Observations, Reflections, And Snapshots Across Colors, Cultures and Continents by Lola Akinmade Åkerström

All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes by Maya Angelou

The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Bashō, translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa

The Travels of Ibn Battutah by Ibn Battuta

Around the Bloc: My Life in Moscow, Beijing, and Havana by Stephanie Elizondo Griest

A Stranger in the Village: Two Centuries of African-American Travel Writing edited by Farah Jasmine Griffin & Cheryl J. Fish

I Wonder as I Wander: An Autobiographical Journey by Langston Hughes

Red Dust: A Path Through China by Ma Jian, translated by Flora Drew

A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid

An African in Greenland by Tété-Michel Kpomassie

Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon

Buttermilk Graffiti: A Chef’s Journey to Discover America’s New Melting-Pot Cuisine by Edward Lee

The Adventure Gap: Changing the Face of the Outdoors by James Edward Mills

The Middle Passage by V.S. Naipaul

Travelling While Black: Essays Inspired by a Life on the Move by Nanjala Nyabola

Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam by Andrew X. Pham

An Indian Among los Indígenas: A Native Travel Memoir by Ursula Pike

Looking for Transwonderland: Travels in Nigeria by Noo Saro-Wiwa

From Heaven Lake: Travels Through Sinkiang and Tibet by Vikram Seth

Ten Thousand Miles Without a Cloud by Sun Shuyun

Richard Wright's Travel Writings: New Reflections by Virginia Whatley Smith

Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain by Lori L. Tharps

[godzilla-reads]

Sneak Peek at my List of Nature Books by Non-White Authors.

As I am still putting the list together, I'm giving y'all a sneak peek of the list. It's not complete but here are a few titles:

“Walking is a Way of Knowing: In a Kadar Forest” by Madhuri Ramesh and Manish Chandi

“The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches” by Matsuo Basho (translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa)

“Roots of Our Renewal: Ethnobotany and Cherokee Environmental Governance” by Clint Carroll

“Haunted by Waters: A Journey Through Race and Place in the American West” by Robert Terry Hayashi

“Spirit Run: A 6,000-mile Marathon Through North America’s Stolen Land” by Noé Álvarez

[saving-for-a-rainey-day]

Books by Japanese Authors

Literary Fiction: The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu

Graphic Novel: Shiver by Junji Ito

Mystery: The Decagon House Murders by Yukito Ayatsuji

Fantasy: Lonely Castle in the Mirror by Mizuki Tsujimura

Historical Fiction: An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro

Horror: Another by Yukito Ayatsuji

Romance: At the End of the Matinee by Keiichiro Hirano

Science Fiction: The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa

Short Stories: Death in Midsummer and Other Stories by Yukio Mishima

Thriller: Out by Natsuo Kirino

Auto/Biographies: An I-Novel by Minae Mizumura

History: Japan Rising by Kume Kunitake

Poetry: The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Bashō

[verai-marcel]

The Pure Taste of You (RDR2 Fanfic, Incubus!Arthur x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After the greatest night of your life, you wake up to a promise. As time goes on, do you still believe in that promise? How far will you go to find out?

Author’s Notes: The Sweet Taste of You won the poll for getting a sequel fic; this starts right after you wake up.

Tags: spoilers for chapter 4 onwards, incubus Arthur, high honor Arthur, emotions or some shit, angst, smut, HEA

AO3 link is here, sweetheart.

Word Count: 4466

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

You awoke to someone stroking your head, a soft song wafting through the air. There were no words, but it sounded like a sweet melody, one that felt like love and devotion. Blinking your eyes as you got accustomed to the morning sun, you turned your head towards the voice.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of your bed, fully clothed, as if he were waiting for you to wake up.

“G’mornin’, darlin’.”

“Morning, Arthur,” you said, your voice cracking a little. “Are you leaving?”

He nodded, looking solemn. This got your attention, so you sat up in bed and gave him your full attention.

“I want you to know that I have e’rey intention of making you mine. I’ll be doin’ some jobs that take me farther away, but I will come back to you.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead, cupping your cheek in his big, warm hand. “But if two months pass and I ain’t back, well…”

You grabbed his hand. “I don’t want to think about that. I’ll wait for you.”

He smiled. “Thank you,” he said reverently as he brought your hand to his lips, your promise to wait meaning the world to him.

***

It had been two months. At first, you got a letter every other day, with him telling you how he was doing, and usually the letter was accompanied by a sketch from him of a building or an animal, something to remind you of him. Then a few days would pass before you got another letter. Then a week.

Then nothing. A whole month passed with no contact. You hoped that he was too busy to get to a post office. But deep down, you had a sinking feeling, a dread so heavy it weighed down your heart.

The dreams didn’t help. Jungles and gunfire, running, always running, and a cough that racked you through to your very soul. Then a mountain cave, and a lot of anger and helplessness. But within all those swirling emotions was a strong feeling of purpose, like you were trying to reach for something, and you couldn’t give up that hope because it was the only thing keeping you going.

You weren’t one for believing in the supernatural, but your dreams were so vivid and yet very much not yours that you wondered if you were seeing things from Arthur’s side.

That only made you worry more.

***

His chest had never felt heavier. It hurt to move, to breathe, to even exist.

Yet despite his best efforts, he continued to do so, driven by just one thing.

He spoke a name in barely a whisper, so faint that even he thought he imagined it. The name carried on the wind, and he hoped and prayed like a fool that he would be forgiven.

***

You woke up in a cold sweat. You swear you heard Arthur whisper your name, and bolted upright in your bed, looking around, hoping it was him. Instead, your room was silent, as if to mock you for thinking he’d come back.

Five days ago, your head started to hurt. You thought maybe it was all the crying that had caused the pain. But you started to notice that whenever you walked in a certain direction, the pain ebbed, and whenever you walked in any other direction, the pain returned. The exact direction changed every day, but always, always, when you were going northwards, you felt better, as if you were being drawn somewhere.

Today, the pain was particularly bad. As the sun began to set, you looked out the window, and your head cleared for just a moment, long enough to hear something.

You heard your name.

“I’m going crazy,” you muttered to yourself, turning back to your work. Then the ache in your head spiked. You maneuvered yourself around quickly to face north, and you breathed slowly as the pounding lessened. 

This was insane. 

A thought came into your head and it evolved into an idea, then a fully-fledged plan. You were about to do something out of the ordinary, but you were sick of this headache, sick of worrying about Arthur, and sick of not doing anything about it.

You wanted to know.

After you finished the last of the linens, you ran home, pulled all of your saved cash out from under your mattress, and put together a day bag: some dried meat, a bread roll, a canteen of water, a scarf, and a small pistol that Arthur had left you for your protection. Leaving your place and practically running to the livery stable, you hoped that they would still be open this late.

You arrived just before they closed and breathed a sigh of relief.

***

After renting a horse, using your savings as collateral, you made your way north, following the road until your headache increased. Then you just went whichever way you needed to go, turning this way and that, off the paths, across streams, up and down the rocky hillsides. You were grateful that you grew up on a farm and knew how to handle a horse. Part of you missed that life, but if you hadn’t run away when you had, you’d be dead and you would have never met Arthur.

You shudder at what could have been.

The night passed by as you spent hours traveling in a strange direction that led you to a tall mountain in Ambarino just as the sun was rising. Your headache was almost gone, but your heart was racing. Why were you being led here? You looked around; halfway up the hillside, you could see people leaving on a path below, some carrying out dead men, as if some kind of battle had been waged here. You urged your horse away, not wanting to be stopped. You were so close to where you needed to be. You could feel it deep in your heart.

Making your way up the steep hillside, the soft light of dawn illuminating your path, you saw that the path was becoming too narrow for a horse, and hitched her on a tree nearby before starting the climb. Over rocks and boulders, you clambered and scrambled until you reached a flat area where your headache disappeared.

And your heart stopped.

“Arthur!”

***

His eyes could not open. He wanted to see, even if he knew he’d be disappointed. He knew she wasn’t here; there was no way for her to have found him, way up here in the mountains. He imagined her voice was tinged with worry as she yelled his name. Were her cries getting louder? Maybe he was in hell, to be forever tortured by the voice of his beloved, unable to see her, touch her, taste her.

He would deserve it, for all that he had done.

Arthur’s chest rattled, desperately trying to breathe. He had gone for too long without feeding. The doctor had told him he had tuberculosis, but he knew what this was. Wasting away from the inside without the love he needed to survive, but he had no time to go to her. 

No time. 

There was no time.

He felt a hand on his. Felt a drop of water on his dry lips, salty and sad. Still, he could not open his eyes.

Then a kiss.

As if pure sunlight was being poured into his mouth, he gasped. 

And he drank.

And drank.

***

At first his lips were cold as you kissed him, finding your darling Arthur on this cold mountainside, his face pale, his features sunken. You poured all of your love into this one final kiss, wanting him to know how much you cared, even if you had only known him for a short time. 

So when his lips moved against yours and became warm under your touch, you gave him everything. You hoped for a miracle as you kissed him more and more.

You grew tired. Your arms wrapped around his body, as if to protect him from the world while you kept kissing him.

You became cold, so you snuggled closer to him as his body grew warmer.

You opened your eyes at the same time he opened his.

He rasped your name and smiled.

You smiled back.

And then you saw no more.

***

You awoke in a bed. Looking around, you figured you were in some kind of cabin. The birds chirping outside, the sound of the wind through the trees, and the trickle of water nearby was so idyllic that you almost forgot how you got here.

In fact, you had no recollection of how you got here.

Stumbling out of bed, you noted you were wearing a sheer sleeping gown, soft and comfortable. You felt like a sleeping princess as you carefully made your way towards the front door, the wood floor cold against your bare feet. You felt weak, every breath you took seemed to rattle in your rib cage, and your stomach growled with hunger. Seeing an apple on the table next to the small kitchen, you grabbed it and devoured it as you finally stepped outside.

The view that greeted you was like out of a dream. A peaceful lake, the mountains, the forest, all framed by a sky so blue that it looked like a painting. 

And on the shore of that lake stood Arthur, fishing peacefully, a look of concentration on his face. You watched as he caught a fish, pulling it out of the water and considering it for a few moments before mumbling, “Sorry, little guy. I’ll let you grow a bit more.”

He unhooked the little fish and tossed it back into the lake. Watching it swim away, he put new bait on his fishing hook and cast his line out, wedging the rod between some rocks before turning around.

He stopped short when he saw you.

Arthur called your name, almost in disbelief.

Then he ran to you.

“You shouldn’t be out here, you’ll catch a cold,” he fussed, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders to ward off the chilly mountain air.

“Arthur, what happened?”

He stepped away from you, one hand gripping his other arm, shame radiating from his posture.

You stepped closer. “Arthur. Tell me.”

He sighed and let go of his arm. “I… I was dyin’.”

You gasped but stayed quiet to let him continue.

“You saved me, darlin’. Fer that, you have gratitude. Forever.” He took your hands in his. “But I have to tell you somethin’. It’ll sound insane. But I tell you, it’s true.” 

He took a deep breath.

“I’m a demon.”

You cocked your head at him. “Arthur, you’re not-”

“Let me explain.” He walked over to a large log, one that spanned at least twenty feet. He squatted down and lifted it up with ease. 

Even you had to admit that no regular human could lift a log of that size with that little effort.

Putting the log back down, he walked back to you. “To be clear, I’m only half.”

“Half?”

“My mother. She was a succubus. Fell in love with my father, a human. Though he was more a demon than she was. She was sweet, kind, gentle. He… weren’t.”

You were a little familiar with the term. From what you could recall, a succubus was a sex demon. Which meant he was half a sex demon.

“How did I save you?”

“You kissed me. Filled me with yer love.” He held your hands again, bringing them to his lips and closing his eyes. “But I took too much, drained you. I couldn’t control myself, I was so weak.”

He opened his eyes and looked so sad, so guilty. “I shouldn’t keep you to myself. If I lose control again, I…” Looking away from you, he trailed off, taking a shuddering breath, unable to even consider the consequences. Then he suddenly turned back to you, his eyes hardened with determination. “You can’t stay with me. I’m just a danger to you.”

You were shocked. But you could tell from the guilt he wore on his shoulder that he was blaming himself for extraordinary circumstances. “I wasn’t in danger the first time you were with me, was I?”

“No, no, I was in control then.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I need to feed off yer, uh, attraction to me. That, uh, energy, is what keeps me alive.” He gestured with his hands. “If I’m too hungry, I might feed too much, and that’s what happened to ya.”

You pondered his words for a few moments before asking him one simple question. 

"If I leave you, will you die?" 

He was silent. 

"Arthur."

He would not speak; he only looked away from your piercing glare. That was enough of an answer on its own. 

"I won't leave you," you said firmly. 

"But—"

"No buts," you interrupted, walking towards him. "I can't get you out of my system, and clearly neither can you."

He retreated away, stepping backwards into the lake, his boots crunching in the river gravel with every step. 

Still you followed him, into the ice cold water. 

"Darlin', don't come in here, you'll get cold," he said in a panic, immediately rushing towards you, taking you by your arms and pushing you out of the water.

You dug your feet in and grabbed his arms, pushing back at him. "I'll go where I want." Looking up at him determinedly, you lowered your voice. "I want to be with you, Arthur."

A moment passed, and then another and another as Arthur stared at you, emotions flying through his eyes like lightning across the sky. He finally leaned in, wrapped his arms around you, picked you up, and carried you back to the shoreline. He refused to put you down when you began to wriggle out of his grip. "You absolutely sure, sweetheart?"

"As sure as the sun is in the sky, my dear."

He smiled at you, his eyes shimmering with emotion. 

***

A week passed in rustic bliss as you recuperated. Arthur hunted and sold pelts in town to make money while you rested or cleaned around the house or fished while he was away. He was never too far, but whenever he was gone, he always asked that you stay inside in case of predators. You usually did as he asked, but as you regained your energy and got tired of being cooped up in the cabin, you would sit outside on the dock and fish during the early mornings.

Arthur knew you had not listened to his request when you had grilled fish for dinner, but he didn’t say anything. He only gave you a disapproving look, while you always just smiled innocently at him. 

As the second week in the cabin began, you noticed that Arthur was starting to look a bit pale. After he returned from a day hunting, you walked up to him and put his face between your hands.

"Arthur, do you need… Me?"

He looked at you and then looked away, conflicted. "I'll be fine."

You shook your head at him and hugged him tight. After a few moments, he wrapped his arms around you. Looking up at him, you cupped his cheek.

"Kiss me," you whispered.

He swallowed, leaned down, and gave you the most chaste kiss. 

"More, Arthur!" you whined. 

"Darlin'—" 

"Don't treat me like I'm made of glass, Mr. Morgan. I've been resting for an entire week. I feel great.” You poked his chest with a finger. “You need to trust me.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “I just… I can’t get that image out of my mind, you lying on the ground, pale as death.”

“Then let’s get a different image in your head, shall we?”

You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Hush. Just enjoy.” You removed your clothes slowly, gyrating your hips in a slow circle as he watched you, his eyes darkening with every bit of flesh revealed. He couldn’t stop his body from reacting to your almost nude form, gripping the edge of the bed and breathing heavily.

You got up just long enough to shimmy out of your pants and drawers before you lay on top of him and kissed his nose. “Will you make love to me, Arthur?”

“Of course, my heart,” he said, his voice straining under the weight of his emotions. He wrapped his arms around your waist and held you close, pressing his lips against your skin and simply breathing in your scent.

You winked at him as you pushed yourself up and began to unbutton his shirt. He watched with a lazy smile as you reached the last button and tugged it off his shoulders, revealing his toned biceps. He sat up and removed the rest of his shirt as you started working on the buttons of his jeans. 

Arthur lay back down and lifted his hips as you pulled off his pants and his short drawers, wanting to see him gloriously naked. He was beautiful with his scars marking his skin, telling a story of a rough life, smoothed over with time. The trail of hair from his chest went down his stomach and lower, leading you to his thick shaft. 

You gently brushed your fingers along the length of him, looking up to see his reaction. Watching the heat in his eyes ignite as you stroked him, you gave him a cheeky grin before you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. 

"Oh lord, darlin'," Arthur moaned, his head lolling back as he tried to keep his hips from jerking upwards into the warmth of your mouth. “Where'd you learn that?"

You just winked. You'd tell him later. Right now, you just licked him slowly from base to tip before engulfing him in your mouth. 

Arthur's strangled cry of pleasure made you hum happily as you languidly lapped at his sensitive skin. His hands rested on your head, petting you lovingly as you explored him, wrapping your lips around him and sucking hard. 

A litany of creative curses escaped him as he grabbed your head and thrust up into your mouth, mindlessly giving into his lust. When you pushed down on his thighs and made a surprised squeal, he quickly let you go and breathed heavily. 

"Git up here," he growled, sitting up and pulling you into his lap. "I need to be inside of you."

Straddling his thighs, you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, nearly crying with relief as you felt that carnal connection, rejoicing in that feeling of being filled up by him.

You moaned his name as he grabbed your hips and started to move you up and down, urging you faster and faster. You rode him hard as he wantonly chased down his pleasure. Feeling yourself flying towards the brink of an ecstatic high, you held Arthur’s face and pulled him towards you.

“Dar—”

You didn’t let him finish; you kissed him almost violently, pouring your love into him, forcing him to take all of your pent-up lust. He swallowed and moaned, kissing you back, and you felt a returning energy that pushed you over the edge and made you fly. The kiss broke as the two of you went over the edge of ecstasy together, arms holding each other tight as your hips spasmed, wringing out every last drop of his essence as he pumped upwards into you, gasping your name and pressing his forehead against yours.

After his last thrust, Arthur held you tightly against him, catching his breath while you caught yours.

“That… that was amazin’,” he finally said to you.

“Will it always be like that?” you asked.

“I hope so,” he said, a wry smile on his face.

You pulled back to look at his face. The color had returned to his cheeks and his eyes seemed much less sunken. You stroked his cheek gently. “You look better.”

“How’re you feeling’?” he said, his brows furrowing in concern.

“Never better.” You rolled your hips and smiled when he moaned, his cock hardening inside of you once more. “I could go for a round two.”

“You cheeky girl,” Arthur said while laughing, rolling over to make love to you until the two of you fell asleep in each other’s arms.

***

“So where’d you learn that trick?”

“What trick?” you asked around a mouthful of biscuit. 

“You know. The one where you put yer lips around my…” He gestured towards his lower region.

You laughed. “You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Jus’ tell me.”

You got up from the kitchen table, taking your plate back to the sink so you wouldn’t have to face him. “I, um, read your mother’s journal.”

You heard a fork drop onto a plate. Turning around, you saw Arthur looking at you, aghast.

“I’m sorry!”

“No, that ain’t… you don’t hafta apologize,” he quickly corrected. “I’ve read her journal. I never saw nothin’ like that.”

Your eyebrow raised. As you watched, Arthur went to grab the journal and returned to stand next to you, flipping through the pages.

“There, there it is,” you said, pointing at one of the pages towards the end of the journal.

“Huh? These’re blank, darlin’,” Arthur said.

You blinked. You looked up at him, confused. Then you looked down at the page he had flipped to, and sure as day, you saw a flowing script with detailed descriptions of sexual acts that drove men wild. It even had illustrations. 

“Arthur… where do the blank pages start for you?”

He flipped to a page about ten sheets away from the end. “Right here.”

Taking the journal in your hands, you started to read the text. You admit, you had started at the end and stopped when you saw the lewd artwork and never read before that part.

“It says, ‘To the one who captures the heart of an incubus.’” You looked up at Arthur, who looked bewildered, his jaw hanging slightly open. You continued. “‘Only you can read these last pages, because it holds things that I’m sure a son does not want to hear from his mother. But I want you to know my boy is special; even though he is half a creature of the night, his soul is all human. Please cherish him, care for him, and know that if he gives you his heart, he will give it all to you, and not an ounce less.’”

You looked up to the ceiling, trying not to cry, but glancing at Arthur, whose eyes were glistening with unshed tears, you let a few drops fall.

“That all it says?” he asked quietly.

“Um, well… the rest says, ‘On the following pages, I’ve shared my knowledge of carnal acts that are sure to enrich your life. But please don’t tell my son, as I am sure he will burst from shame if he knew his dear mother has intimate knowledge of such things.’” You glanced back at Arthur. “Whoops. I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Arthur choked back a laugh. “Ma, you never cease to amaze me,” he rasped as he looked up at the ceiling.

You looked at Arthur, who was halfway in tears, halfway laughing. “So… should I not use her techniques?”

He shuddered. “Please don’t call them ‘her’ techniques,” he grumbled

You laughed wholeheartedly. “Of course. They’re my techniques now, after all.”

He smiled at you; you smiled back. As he pulled you into his arms, you quietly thanked his mother for bringing Arthur into the world.

***

The spring months had passed in a blink of an eye as you and Arthur lived together in this small cabin, unbothered by anyone for the most part. The occasional traveler or merchant would go by on the road in the distance, but most days, the only person you saw was Arthur.

You didn’t mind one bit.

You still had the horse you rented; at this point, you figured the horse was a purchase and your savings long gone. Arthur had taken to him quite well, and he would take Ol’Trigger out to go hunting. He wasn’t looking too healthy when you rented him, but somehow, with all this clean mountain air and fresh grass, he was growing strong. 

The sun was beginning to set on this first day of summer when you heard Arthur and Ol'Trigger coming back from a day of selling furs to various traders. 

"There you are, my sweet," Arthur said with a big grin on his face as you approached. He held out his arms. 

"You're probably smelly from being out all day," you groused, but you still stepped into the circle of his arms and held him tightly. 

He leaned down and gave you a chaste peck on the lips. "Would you take a walk with me, darlin'?" 

"Sure," you answered easily. The two of you would often walk up the nearby mountain trail to an overlook where you could see a fantastic view of the whole lake. You knew you would always love this sight; it was so tranquil and beautiful, and every day the sun hit the water just a little bit differently. 

The two of you walked in silence, hand in hand, as the trees rustled and the birds chirped their goodbyes to the daylight. As you reached the overlook, you gasped. The solstice sunset dyed the world a rich red and gold, reflected on the lake like a mirror to the sky. 

"I could never get tired of this view," you said in awe. 

"Me either," Arthur said in a hushed tone. 

You turned to find him gazing at you, a small smile on his face. You smiled shyly back at him. "Oh, you're too nice to me." 

Without saying a word, he let go of your hand for a moment and got down on one knee. 

"Ar-Arthur?" 

Pulling out a ring that sparkled in the light, he looked up at you, his eyes showing a bit of vulnerability. He said your name so seriously that you stood up just a little straighter. 

"I love you. More than anythin’. It would mean the world to me if you did me the greatest honor." He took a deep breath. "Will ya marry me?" 

Tears had already started flowing the moment he pulled out the ring. But his earnest speech just filled your heart with joy. 

"Of course I'll marry you!" you exclaimed.

He grinned and stood up, took your hand, and slipped the gorgeous ring onto your finger. Then he leaned down and kissed you, sweet and unafraid, full of love.

As the sun set over the horizon, you thought that today, of all days, was the most perfect one of all.

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

End Notes: I was deep in my feels, fam. So a bit of lore: Arthur is the only one who can't read the text in the back of the book; it was written with enchanted ink made with a drop of Arthur's blood when he was a child. Also the bonding that Arthur & Reader have is because Arthur claimed her last time they fucked. I know this sequel was more plot than porn, but I still hope you enjoyed it!

[a-ramblinrose]

“In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.”

― Bashō Matsuo, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

[monstersandmaw]

For the asks - elf, twinkle, merpeople! :)

elf; What’s your favorite time of the day? Why?

I love late afternoon in the summer, when it’s just starting to cool off a bit, because the air smells nicer and at the moment, the house martins are out snatching insects on the wing and they always make me smile

twinkle; A quote to live by?

My first thought was “be kind” because that’s probably what I actually try to embody every day, but if you want a more inspirational one, another is by the Japanese poet Matsuo Bashō "... no matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to it." Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

merpeople; Favorite scent?

pine needles baking in the hot sun reminds me of my childhood in Italy; the scent of the sea; or the earth when it’s just started raining.

[thechangelingmedusa]

We seek a vision of eternity in the things that are, by their own very nature, destined to perish.

Nobuyuki Yuasa in the introduction to his translation of 'The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches', a translation of works by the 17th century Japanese poet, Matsuo Bashō

[anne-lister-adventures]

Thursday, 9 April 1840

7 1/2

11 1/2 

Fine morning – No sun – Reaumur 6 1/4º on the window seat close to my bedhead at 8 1/2 – Slept very well but the terrible jolting one has day after day makes one a sort of lassitude even on getting up after a few hours sleep – I slept from about one last night to 7 a.m. – Cold here so high among the mountains – Casbek after Elbrus the highest summit of the Caucasus – Breakfast over at 9 1/2 then sat reading Murray till now 10 3/4 article Persia II. p.[page] 396 et seq. and here is the account of the Province of Shirwan &c. now ceded to Russia – 

A-[Ann] sketched the little church neat new ashlar red stone church and its very pretty picturesque little clock separate standing on 4 little arcades open at the bottom – Out from 11 1/4 to 1 1/2 – I sauntered about 1st by myself then sought George – Went up to the little Gurian (as George called it) rude chapel and cemetery at a little height on the hill (East) above the Town – The chapel oblong very small door towards the West – Fast –

Rather tapering – Roof of rough walling retiring roof wise stood on little knoll above the chapel gazing till I could see nothing my eyes ached towards Casbek –

The monastery full in view for 3 or 4 minutes or more at 12 1/4 then clouded over – Kasbek appears to be behind rather South of the monastery – From the glimpse of his centreforts he must be magnificent and 1/3 way up the horizon seen from this little knoll – The monastery handsome looking high dome-topped church and handsome tower (round topped?) clocher – Largeish handsome looking place – 5 v.[versts] from Kasbek – 

The Gergeti Trinity Church, above Stepantsminda (Kasbek in Anne’s time), which Anne deemed a “monastery”. (Image Source)

A village en route about 1/2 way? up the hill or not so much – But this village flat topped like the village town here – Counted 40 squares at 6 families each these squares like little bomb roof forts or casemattes – Covered with gravel at top – Quite like a fine gravelled square to walk – 4 or 6 little round openings are chimneys for the 2d.[2nd] story the ground story has little loop holes at each side front and back which let out the smoke and give all the light there is – The fire on the ground à la Calmuck – It seems I did not over calculate houses or people the latter = 1000 an old man said his house was very ancient was standing in Peter the Great’s time – 

There are 2 towers (tapering square) in the ville – The one we passed last night is quite in ruin only the 2 sides towards last night, standing, and the fog so soon hid it, could see nothing it – Appears (at the distance I saw it, from the cemetery above named) to have had 6 étages and was perhaps gathered up into a stone roof – Singular Town this – The 1st instance we have seen of the quite flat gravelled walk-like roofs of the East – 

Some of the better places open into a little court the 2d.[2nd] story entered by rude stone (black schist from the neighbouring mountains) stairs and a broad balcony gravelled like the roofs – This reminds me of Mouravieff’s description of Khiva &c. Perhaps the 50 chambers of the Palace of Priam were something in this style - ∴[therefore] might be one or 2 stories high – Here the squares are sometimes the dots signify the fire places and there is no division between 2 families –

The middle part is a sort of passage divided off by a wattling – For calves &c. &c. which also seem to be admitted even into the family apartment – The people never wash – Terribly dirty – Had just written so far now at 2 1/2 – A new road from here, George says; but the old one, by Kobi, tho’ longer still the one travelled – Probably the other not yet quite monté – Inquire – From here the defile fait fourche –

Ours is the one of Terek to the right en sortant Kasbek – Paid the post horses 3 Kopek en argent per v.[verst] per horse 16 1/2 v.[versts] = 4/95 + -/12 greasing en argent – ‘Tis now 2 3/4 – Off at 2 50/’’ from Kasbek a very interesting place – It has made me understand the Ossetine Towns – The fort is 2 pieces of canon in the courtyard the sight of the Town except the 2 tall Towers soon lost – At 3 little wood bridge over little stream - At 3 10/’’ right, little distance, on high promontory of rock –                    

a Inn

b Mr. Bachmetieff’s house

c another corresponding house  

d great court and parade yard

e line of barracks for the soldiers

f stable yard

g blacksmiths shop

h Cossack stable for about 12 horses

i large joiners shop and sort of coach house?

k post horse stable for 18 or 20 horses all one story buildings ascended by a step or two

View from a fort on the Russian side of the border. Forts like this one were common along the sides of the Georgian Military Road, which Anne and Ann are using in this stage.

1st village 1 lofty Tower 5 stories high and 2 lower Towers – All tapering square – About 6 of the squares (as at Kasbek) reckoned them at 6 families per square but they are all 2 stories high, and there are generally 6 on one floor or at least 4 families in these Sacles (Sacle signifies house in the language of the people) say 50 families in this village (but there are more?), and reckon 50 families = 200 souls just after this village that was high above us, Crocuses along our road purple and white 1st time and a thorny low, whitish little shrub covering the bottom of the Defile (Zizyphus? No! What is it?) 

At 3 1/4 at the fourche a fine ravine left (saw no traces of the new road George mentioned) and a few coarse grass thatched stone huts, and enter our prong 2d.[2nd] of the fork, right, at 3 1/4 – At 3 20/’’ another fortification-like village (right) on the steep perpendicular rock, with 2 or 3 square Towers but low ones, and a little white line of mountain streamlet (misseau) tumbling down from the high summits close on this side the village – The 1st of these misseaux so common in the Alps and Pyrenees that we have seen here and on pinnacle of rock above the 2d.[2nd] village another village – Several square dry walled flat roofed stone houses along the flat bottom about a verst 3d.[3rd] wide good road – 

At 3 25/’’ the village on pinnacle of rock above the 2d.[2nd] village – 2 more rock-seated picturesque villages in sight ahead of us the nearest with high tapering chimney like Tower 4th little Towerless village or hamlet left on the plaine rather in the glen defile to the left – At 3 33/’’ descend upon little wood bridge over little rapidy streamlet – 4 Ossete women on the bridge in picturesque costume mouths covered with dirty white handkerchiefs – 

Traditional costumes of the people of the North Caucasus. Ossetian costumes are first from the left.

Another little village or 5th hamlet beyond the last and a peep at still another on the mountain side above the 5th village still farther in the the glen to the left

6th

8th the tall chimney-tower fortification old castle like village (vide line 7 above) on steep rocky projection high above us, left – The tall Tower 10 to 15 yards high – Narrows one half – The base seemed about 4 yards the top about 2 yards wide – One of the Towers at Kasbek seemed to narrow (to diminish) 1 yard in 5 yards of height – I could not see it quite from the bottom – The base might be 5 yards wide? – 

Steep descent and drag now at 3 40/’’ down into glen (ravine) with little stream and wood bridge just below the chimney Towered village or Ossetine Town this tall small Tower seen from far in all directions – Little Tower on high rock on the other side of us opposite village no.[number] 8 – This pass has been well fortified in ancient times – The tall Tower of no.[number] 8 walled with lime – Looks a large old fortified place towards the South, out works a good way along the ridge that stretches (towards the South) up to the high mountain – The rock quite perpendicular towards our road – 2 great caves in the hill side joining part of the ridge strewed without works, more walling –

Ruined Tower &c. – Very picturesque – A little beyond us – 9 and 10 on the other side the deep ravine of river, at 3 55/’’ 2 villages on high ridge at a little distance apart one beyond and above the other – There must be plenty of common juniper near tho’ not seen by us for here we passed a Drovne on wheels loaded with it – 

Astonishing the no.[number] of villages on the high steep rocks, and ridges, and bits of platforms under the high mountains – 11 another little village at 4, on the same ridge, on high point of rock above the 2 last villages there must be a little high valley between this ridge and the high mountains – 

And now at 4 Terek 200 ft.[feet] in steep ravine close below us (right) – No guard – We might easily slip off the side of the narrow road into the river, a blueish, whitish, rapidy, 8 or 10 yards broad stream – Here, red, perpendicular schistose, irony? coloured mountain on the other side (left bank) of Terek, and on our left, always singularly rough, projectiony-pointed mountains –

I think there may be 2 or 3 more villages along the same ridge above named to the end of it but the mist is lowering now at 4 1/4 and all to lower than the top of this ridge will soon be hid on our right – 

The bottom of our Defile becomes more strewed with big stones as well as little – The little at Kasbek and everywhere today gathered into large heaps to clear the champs which they sow with corn a small grain said one of the Ossetes at Kasbek – Blé sarrazin i.e. buck wheat? But he said it was all burnt up last summer – 

12th village at 4 16/’’ with tapering not high square tower on the side of high mountain right – 13 village a little beyond and much lower down them the last on the same mountain side 14 ditto at the foot of the same mountain close upon stream? (rather far from us) an affluent of the Terek from deep glen or little valley from the North westward – 

Little frozen small snow flying about now at 4 20/’’ as we toil up to higher ground a broad plateau above the deep ravine of river Terek – And in a minute or 2 steep pitch thro’ the snow narrow road along the brink of deep ravine going down to the Terek – The Courier wanted us to alight – He alighted and walked up – 

15 at 4 1/2 (right) on mountain side village with square Tapering tower at a little distance above and beyond it but this village unlike all the rest has some sloping roofs tho’ looking fortress-like outside – All the villages of dark coloured stone hardly distinguishable from the rock – 

High plateau of débris on each side Terek thro’ which it has formed the deep ravine – The mist covers 1/2 way down right, and now the ragged pointed summits left – We are perhaps 200 yards from foot of high mountains left and perhaps 300 or 400 yards from foot of ditto right – Some deep water courses down the mountains right but dry now – 

4 40/’’ more snow on the road and mountains left much covered with snow, and very streaky right – At 4 50/’’ Kobi just in sight peeping from behind mountain head, right – At 5 steep descent from our plateau into the bottom down to the river divided into several little streams in the little basin like opening out of defile in which the dot near a is Kobi at 5 5/’’ cross little wood bridge over one of the streams still driving small snow –

d our road tomorrow

b castle          

e Defile of the Terek 12 v.[versts] to its source said Colonel G-[Grauert] they say here one can go 15 v.[versts] along this defile and no farther –

c village

f ditto

16 old castle and at 5 10/’’ on rocky ridge (left) about in a line with Kobi, and at a little distance below this castle little fort-like village in and at the entrance of the little Defile to the East and about opposite another village at foot of high mountain right – 

Enter Kobi at 5 1/4 thro’ little street of low flat-roofed shops about 8 on a side – Right side with little rude covered passage (portico) – At 5 17/’’ alight at our nice little stone? yellow washed Inn – This and 2 more such like buildings and the Ossetine Sâcles form the whole town of Kobi – No Krepost – The few Cossacks in low flat roofed huts near the Sacles – Delivered our 3 letters – The Prince of the place came – To be off very early – The Courier with empty carriages at 4 1/2 a.m. and we at 6 a.m. – 

A-[Ann] and I went out – She sketched – I (with a soldier) went to the Sacles – Less good than those at Kasbek – 20 or 30 families or more – A neat little white washed stone church just before entering the village – 

Tea over at 8 – ‘Tis now 11 5/’’ as I have just written so far – Fine day till the driving small snow in the afternoon (vide above) – Tonight they want us all to set off together – An officer and 25 men instead of 10 as the Prince said – 3 Traineaux – 2 for baggage instead of one! Our people frightened – I told George I should set off after the Courier and empty carriages – took off only pelerine and lay down in my gown and black stuff cloak at eleven and a half

Anne’s and Ann’s route on this day.

[symbols in the margin of the page:]         +          𐐥

[in the margin of the page:]            Kasbeck

[in the margin of the page:]            Leave Kasbek

[in the margin of the page:]            Population of village

[in the margin of the page:]            steep pitch

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0077 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0078 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0079

[1five1two]

In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.

Matsuo Bashō

The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

[flowersandemptyvoids]

“It was early in October when the sky was terribly uncertain that I decided to set out on a journey.”

- Matsuo Basho, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 3

(Banner made by the loveliest @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

In which Melody is reacquainted with an old classmate named Harry, and must keep afloat in the violent, criminal lifestyle of an underground boxer.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: HELLO. WELCOME BACK TO THIS DELAYED FIC OF MINE. I don’t have much to say, I’d just like to thank @rhi3915 for supporting me and fixing all my grammatical errors. I wouldn’t be able to function without her. Feedback is always welcome! Enjoy. Xx

Perhaps it was because of the distracting thoughts running through her mind that Melody found herself on the sidewalk, walking across town. She didn’t remember pulling on her thick jacket, didn’t recall turning off the lights in her flat or locking the door, but she could hear the distant sound of the lock clicking into place, and that was enough self-assurance for her to continue walking.

An entire week had passed—a week full of ineffective studying and coffee-fueled classes—and Melody couldn't help the constantly reeling thoughts of Harry and run-down, abandoned warehouses. She supposed it was the mystery of his goodbye that was bothering her. "You're the reason I got into boxing, love. Cheers."

That could be why the makeshift studio in her apartment was still littered with crumpled up sketches and messy ideas for writing, why she couldn’t focus on anything for more than five minutes. All she could seem to think about were Harry’s narrowed eyes in the bar. She could still see the tape marks on his callused hands, still smell the potent contents of his glass as he tipped it back.

Melody didn’t like the fight that she witnessed the previous week. She didn’t like being jostled in the crowd or the screaming in her ears. She hated the sound of gloves smacking into skin and scarlet blood that would surely stain the floor of the ring. She didn’t enjoy washing dried beer off of her shoes or scrubbing at the blue stamp that branded her skin more like a tattoo. She especially didn’t like the enthusiasm that the crowd showed. But somehow, for some reason, she wasn’t able to stop herself from abandoning her schoolwork and picking her way across town, back toward the site of so much noise and violence.

The night was growing steadily darker. It was just about the same time as the journey she had taken the previous week, but the sky loomed with heavy clouds, blocking the setting sun and leaving Melody with nothing but streetlights to see by. She hugged the jacket tighter around her frame, trailing absentmindedly north. She almost didn’t realize when she had reached the street where the warehouse and Brute’s were located.

With a frightened gasp, Melody lifted her eyes. She had heard the distant echo of what sounded suspiciously like a gunshot. Her head swiveled back and forth, and she realized that she was standing on the corner where Cooper had met her the week before. It looked different, however.

Melody was mildly confused as she surveyed the empty street. There were no crowds packed against the wall of the warehouse, which looked even drearier without the added energy. There was no menacing bouncer, no skimpily-dressed woman collecting money. Just an eerie quiet that was occasionally broken by distant sounds of music or laughter from Brute’s.

As she crossed the street, Melody wondered whether she’d gotten the days mixed up. It was Friday, wasn’t it? She wasn’t so sure as she approached the door that led into the warehouse’s darkened entrance. She tried the doorknob once with no luck and groaned in frustration.

Unfortunately, walking all the way across town on a chilly Friday night for absolutely no reason, when she certainly had better things to do, wasn’t the end to Melody’s bad luck. Just as she tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket, she began to hear the soft pattern of rain on the worn metal of the warehouse. She glance up at the ever-darkening sky, flinching as a fat raindrop splashed over her forehead.

Melody swung her head around sharply as she heard a clatter like a glass bottle on pavement. She saw nothing, however, but the quickening rain as it fell around her. The stupidity of her decision dawned on her. She had crossed over to the north side of town in the dark, all alone without telling anyone where she was going. Sirens sounded in the distance, a police car probably en route to the site of the gunshot she had heard only minutes before.

Melody chewed on her lip as she began to shiver. This street was even more dimly-lit than any of the road she had traveled on her way here. There was only one streetlight within visible proximity and it flickered haphazardly. Most of the light that she could see glowed from the front window of Brute’s, neon reds and blues. As a loud clap of thunder sounded overhead, Melody set off toward the bar.

Inside, Brute’s was much emptier than she remembered it. The energy that had followed last week’s fight was missing. Melody shook out her damp hair as she found a seat at the bar, where the same bartender that had served her the disappointing mojito was wiping down the counter.

“What can I get you?” the woman asked without looking up.

“Um,” Melody began, shrugging out of her jacket and throwing it across her lap, “just a beer, I guess.”

The bartender glanced up at that, letting her lips curl up into an amused smile of recognition. “Any specific kind?” she asked.

Melody shook her head, glancing at the different taps on the other side of the bar. “I’m not much of a beer drinker. Whatever you recommend.”

The bartender poured a full glass of some ale and set it down on the counter before Melody, allowing a portion to slosh over the side and form a puddle on the newly-wiped wood. She was beautiful, Melody noted, with her dark hair pulled back and her large eyes smudged with liner. She was the type of careless beauty that Melody had always wished for herself.

“So,” the bartender began as she toweled out the inside of a tall beer glass and Melody sipped at her drink. It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t as bad as she remembered. “What are you doing around here on an off weekend?”

“Off weekend? What do you mean?” Melody asked. She sipped her beer again and set the glass down with a grimace. She changed her mind. It wasn’t good at all.

“I mean, there aren’t any fights this weekend, so what are you doing here?” She raised her eyebrows at Melody expectantly. “You don’t seem like the type of girl to hang out on the north side. Are you looking for that boxer?”

“Why aren’t there any fights?” Melody asked, pushing her beer glass away from her. She needed to stop wasting her money on alcohol she wouldn’t drink.

“They always give the boxers a week off in between fights,” the bartender explained. She tossed the towel she had been holding and reached for a bottle opener, cracking open the lid of a beer and sliding it down the bar into the awaiting hand of a balding man.

“Thanks, Josie,” the man said with a nod.

“To let their bruises heal, let them recover,” Josie continued, as if her attention hadn’t been diverted. “Plus, I think every weekend might be a little too obvious for illegal fighting, don’t you?”

Melody hummed, glancing out the window. She tried not to let her increasing disappointment show. She stood and began to pull her jacket back on. It was still raining, but seemed to be only sprinkling, and she wasn’t keen on waiting it out in a nearly empty bar when she couldn’t even find a drink she would like.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Josie reminded, placing her hands on the bartop and leaning forward.

“What was that?” Melody asked as she fished in her pocket for some cash.

“You’re looking for that fighter? Styles?”

Melody looked up hesitantly, pulling her money out when she found it and leafing through. She laid a few bills on the counter and shook her head.

“Nope, just came for a drink.”

Josie laughed drily and lifted Melody’s money from the counter, tucking it into the breast of her shirt. “Good,” she said with a nod. She grabbed Melody’s full glass and chugged a few mouthfuls of her beer before dumping the rest down a drain. “Because I don’t think he takes well to people.”

“Why do you say that?” Melody asked.

Josie shrugged. She grabbed for the towel she had been using. “I mean, he’s been fighting in that warehouse every other weekend for as long as I’ve worked here. He always comes for a drink after, whether he’s just bleeding from his face or barely conscious. And maybe twice he’s spoken to me further than ordering a drink. He also doesn’t drink with anyone, and I’ve watched him break men’s noses just for patting his back.”

Melody felt her lips part in surprise. She watched as Josie smiled in amusement.

“Yep. That’s exactly how I reacted. Anyway, I don’t think he’ll be that pleased to see you again, but if you wanna bother him, have at it.”

Melody frowned, backing away from the bar as Josie began wiping down the counter again. She spun on her heel as she reached the door and pushed her way out onto the street.

It was indeed only sprinkling, but Melody found that the rain still worsened her disappointment. She pulled the hood of her jacket up and then stuffed her hands into her pockets as she began to walk back up the street. The raindrops echoed off of the metal of the abandoned warehouse so loudly that she almost didn’t hear the voices that floated from an alleyway as she passed by.

A sharp laugh made Melody turn her head. Through the darkness and the rain, she could just make out the silhouettes of three people tucked deep inside the alley to her left. She could hear the low hum of voices, but couldn’t make out a word as she paused and stared. A strange meeting place, she thought, in a dark alley while it’s raining.

Melody strained her eyes for another minute before deciding to move on. She couldn’t make out anything. But she had only taken a single step when she saw the glint of something metallic and stopped again.

“Look, mate, ‘m not fuckin’ playin’ games with yeh.”

Melody recognized the British accent that rose in frustration. She also noticed the gun in one of the men’s outstretched hands and the way it was trained directly on a second person. The third man was merely leaned up against a wall.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Melody watched as the one wielding the gun shoved the end of it into the other man’s chest. She heard herself gasp, and then threw herself away from the mouth of the alley as heads swung in her direction. She paused there for only moment or so to balance her breathing and then took off down the street, splashing water up in her wake.

Melody ran until she saw people and then she slowed to a walk. Her lungs heaved as she craned her neck around, checking that nobody had followed her. She began to walk home when she was assured that she wasn’t being trailed. For a long while, however, she kept twisting around, convinced that she had heard splashing footsteps, only to find the sidewalk empty.

Her paranoia didn’t fade as Melody passed back into the south side of town. She kept picturing Harry suddenly appearing around a corner, hounding her for all of the details of what she’d seen, deciding she knew too much and sentencing her to death. But this wasn’t what was going to happen. No one had seen her face. That didn’t stop her from bolting when she heard a man shout from behind her, though, and she didn’t stop running until she was safely inside of her flat.

Chapter 4

[daseter]

ZOKA: THE TRANSFORMATIVE POWER OF NATURE (January 11, 2021)

What is zoka?

Zoka is a Japanese word used to describe the complexity of nature, specifically, the transformative power of nature. Clues to the meaning of zoka can be found in the work of the great 17th century Japanese poet Basho, master of the haiku, and inventor of the form known as haibun. Prior to Basho, a culture of the seasons already existed in Japan, in which the symbolism of the cherry blossom, the cuckoo, the moon, and snow, carried weight more complex than their individual physical embodiments.

Basho wrote: “…Nothing one sees is not a flower, nothing one imagines is not the moon. If what is seen is not a flower, one is like a barbarian; if what is imagined is not a flower, one is like a beast. Depart from the barbarian, break away from the beast, follow zoka, return to zoka.”

Basho seems to be arguing for a return to nature, and yet the idea of zoka is more complicated than that. Basho is arguing not for human immersion in nature only to appreciate the aesthetics of nature but also as a way to rediscover our place in nature. At the same time, Basho acknowledges the difficulty in capturing the complexity of nature. He wrote: “The heavenly skill of zoka: who could fully capture it with [painting] brush or [poetic] words?”

What techniques can we use to achieve the skill of zoka and thereby transform our writing? Perhaps we can understand Basho’s idea of zoka more completely by looking at a couple of his poems.

Clear voiced cuckoo,

Even you will need

The silver wings of a crane

To span the islands of Matsushima

 I am awe struck

To hear a cricket singing

Underneath the dark cavity

Of an old helmet

We notice in Basho’s haiku a combination of the high and low elements of nature. The last haiku in particular stands out through the presence of the human artifact of the soldier’s helmet. The soldier is absent from the scene but the helmet remains, placing the idea of war in our heads.

A second way of following zoka and returning to zoka is by using all our senses. Take the way in which we encounter air. We feel air through the wind on our skin and have even built objects to translate the movement of air into sound. The human species prefers, or uses almost exclusively, our sense of sight. But remember to use the other primary senses in your writing: touch; smell; taste; and sound.

A third way of following zoka and returning to zoka is by understanding human presence as part of nature. Especially in an urban or suburban setting one can’t help but notice human presence. Even when empty of people the landscape includes our walls, and such signs as the freshly mown lawn. Contemporary writing can’t help but operate from a new normal where the landscape is dominated by human traces. In today’s era, which some call the Anthropocene Era, awareness of human transformation of nature is as essential as awareness of the transformative power of nature.

We’ll end with some last words of advice from Basho: “Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and do not learn. Your poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one…”

Sources:

Barnhill, David Landis. “Zoka: The Creative in Basho’s View of Nature and Art.” Matsuo Basho’s Poetic Spaces. Kerkham, E., ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. 

Bashō, Matsuo. The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches. Yuasa, Nobuyuki, transl. New York: Penguin, 1966.