#WHAT A SPLENDID PI

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

first fall of snow

how spencer guesses you're pregnant before you actually tell him

fluff word count: 1390 warnings & tags & stuff: pregnant reader, slight issues with mother mentioned?, non-graphic vomiting, mentions/allusions to winter holidays being celebrated, kinda spencer's pov but still 2nd pov, reader is scared spencer will leave her lol, anxious!reader in general, mentions of death?, probably medical inaccuracies ive never been pregnant author's note: hiiii i'm forcing myself to post this because if i don't then i'll never post and i'm being BRAVE. i hope it can be a little comforting maybe. i've realllyyyy been struggling with my take on spencer's characterization lately soo this was kinda like a bootcamp/exercise situation into his mind and less an expression of my writing skills, iykwim. let me know your thoughts if u have any! i love you & have a splendid day!!

Spencer is walking—speed walking—toward his car, away from the case he just finished, away from serial killers and guns and geographical profiling and death.

He places his feet carefully on the snow-covered sidewalk with each step, the cold air biting at his face. He barely notices it, absorbed in the path ahead, as the snow provides a satisfying crunch underfoot—a nice background to his perpetually racing mind.

He doesn’t like the winter. It’s always too harsh outdoors, and too stuffy indoors, and he’s trapped in a suffocating haze no matter where he goes. 

His phone starts to vibrate gently in his pocket, interrupting his racing thoughts for a split second. His pace falters as he pulls it free, a quick smile tugging at the corner of his lips when he sees it’s your name on the screen.

“Hi. How are you?” he asks after picking up, watching his breath come out in puffs of vapor in the cold air.

Winters, however, have gotten progressively better each year he spends with you.

“...I’m okay,” you say, though the crack in your voice reveals the all-consuming ache in your bones and mind.

“No. You’re overwhelmed,” he guesses in his matter-of-fact way, voice gentle. You huff out a soft laugh at his ability to read you, never getting old.

“Yeah, I guess. A little. The holiday season, you know. Are you on your way home?” you ask, voice softer now. You’re sitting on the couch of yours and Spencer’s cozy apartment, wrestling with a blanket to cover your lap, and bouncing your leg relentlessly.

“I’m walking to the car now. Hey, have you done the crossword today?” Spencer asks, words a familiar, tender remedy for your nerves. You told him a long time ago that hearing his voice makes you feel better, and there are times, like these, where he just knows it’s what you need. You rest our head on the arm of the couch, curling up.

“No, I didn’t have the time. Why?”

“There was an interesting question about causes of death in Shakespeare plays, but they completely messed up the part of speech. It read, ‘Popular ways to die by the hands of England’s national poet’. I thought it was ‘poisons’ at first, but it was actually ‘stabbed’, even though the correct answer grammatically should’ve been ‘stabs’ or ‘stabbings’,” he says, his car now in sight through the steady sprinkle of snow coming down. “Do you think I should send an email to let them know? I guess stabbing does make more sense, though, versus poison, because throughout his works, thirty characters out of his 74 that died were stabbed compared to only four that were poisoned. Three were stabbed and poisoned. Did you know that two were actually baked into pies, which is a-”

“Oh my god, the pie,” you groan, cutting him off mid-sentence, sitting up hastily, the blanket falling to the floor.

“Pie?”

“Yeah. My mom coerced me into making it to bring tomorrow.” You pad over to the kitchen and crouch down to peek through the hazy glass of the oven, inspecting it. “Oh,” you murmur. “It’s…not pretty.”

He sandwiches the phone in between his ear and shoulder, gently opening the door to his car to sit down as he listens to you. He turns the heat on, exhaling in an exhausted relief, hovering his hand over where the air comes out. 

“Can you tell me what it looks like? Maybe I can help,” he suggests, leaning back against the headrest and letting his eyes close for a second. You put the phone on speaker, setting it on the counter as you bend down to take it out. “Don’t burn yourself,” he adds, hearing what you’re doing.

“I’m not going to burn my-” you cut yourself off with a huff. “Whatever. It’s just really messy. There’s like… liquid overflowing where the lattice should be.”

He hums. “How long has it been cooking for?”

“45 minutes. My mom sent me this one ancient recipe that I had to use written on parchment paper from like 70 years ago, and it does not have a bake time listed, so I’m just eyeballing it.”

“Okay. You could either put it back in the oven in hopes that more of the liquid will evaporate, or you can leave it out to cool down and hopefully thicken,” he says.

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you sound exhausted and need your sleep.” 

You sigh, staring at your mess of a pie, hopes that you’ll appease your mother this year slipping further and further away, soon to be completely buried by the snow.

“Hey. I’m sure it’ll taste really good. Besides, people still liked Shakespeare, and he wrote about much worse pies than you could ever make.” 

A smile pulls at your lips.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll just leave it out to cool and head to bed. Will you stay on the phone a little longer?” you ask, padding over to your shared bedroom.

“Of course.”

He doesn’t start driving as you talk, not when nearly 2000 people die per year due to driving on icy roads, and two thirds of them were people who were reported to not be paying close enough attention.

And especially not when 54 hours ago on your last phone call, he noticed a drastic shift in your behavior, and was quickly able to tell that you were pregnant. 

He had too much waiting for him at home to be spinning out on black ice because he was talking to you and not watching the road.

He chooses instead to look outside at the falling snow, blanketing the city, his city, the very first for D.C. to have this winter out of the septillion snowflakes planet earth receives each year.

…

Spencer gets home a little later that night, holding another pint of cherries in his hands. Not for the pie—which he turns to see resting on the stove and winces slightly at—but for you. 

Cherries, with their 342 mg of potassium per cup, help replenish lost electrolytes and can soothe nausea.

He’s expecting it to start any day now.

He quietly steps into the bedroom, setting his bag by the door to be dealt with tomorrow. The soft glow of the lamp that was left on, presumably for him by your endlessly considerate heart, provides just enough light so he can get changed. He then finally clambers into bed next to you, one hand reaching out to lace in your hair, moving his fingers to gently scratch by the nape of your neck. He lifts the other to rest, like you're made of a delicate china, on your lower stomach, sighing in pure relief the second it makes contact.

You turn sleepily, humming when you’re met with the sight of him. “Spence,” you murmur, contented.

“Hi. I really didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly.

“I'm glad you did. I like it when you wake me.” You tuck yourself closer to him. “I love you.” His hand comes to trace gentle patterns all over your back and arm, and he gives you a little kiss, adoringly.

“Go back to sleep. I love you.”

You let your eyes shut once again, this time much easier now that he’s with you. You inhale his scent, which you swear could repair anything broken or lost in this world. You exhale, wondering if he’d still hold you the same way after learning that you’re carrying his child. 

It’s a scary thought, but you’re comforted by his warm touch, pushing you farther out into the deep sea of sleep.

Once your breaths get steady and your mouth parts slightly, he adds, in a whisper, “Both.”

…

The next morning, when you’re hunched over the toilet bowl, Spencer is there with you, rubbing your back and wiping your teary eyes. You look up to him after brushing your teeth, and no words are exchanged. He tugs you into his arms, silently quelling any of the countless anxieties swarming your mind, at least in this moment.

His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He lets it rest there, cupping your jaw.

“Let’s go shopping after breakfast today, okay? You need prenatal vitamins.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“And a new pie.”

[alpaca-clouds]

Why did Raphael take little Enver?

Okay. I wanted to talk about this, given that I do write a lot about the grimy gremlin - Gortash that is. Because I have thought a lot about it and the game does not give a clear answer. According to the game Raphael at some point showed up at the Flymm household, in his human appearance, claimed he was a warlock and he saw potential in the boy, offering to buy him for money.

And then he dragged little Enver to hell, where he kept him for an unspecified time, which eventually basically caused most of the plot to happen. Because chances are, that without Enver being in the hell, he would not have learned about the Crown of Karsus, and hence nobody would come up with the rather convoluted plan of putting the Crown onto a fucking elderbrain.

And I think I am pretty sure what Raphael wanted. I think that Raphael for the most part wanted his own personal pet warlock, and he thought he could have it this way.

Notably the game treats Enver as a warlock in regards to his class. Sure, had the game had the arteficer class, maybe he would have been that, but so far I consider Gorts being treated as a warlock as a good indicator. Plus, the Flymm parents were off the opinion that Enver would learn warlockery or something.

See, pretty much all warlock patrons have this one nasty problem: Sure, they can make rules for their little warlock, but they tend to still have their own ideas about stuff. They can usually find ways to lie or trick themselves out of their contracts and what not. I mean, we see it with Mizora and Wyll, and how usually Wyll will try to get out of the contract.

Sure, some people get along splendid with their patrons, but especially when you are a devil, this is not a given. Especially given the fact that part of the entire contract will always be the warlock ending up in hell to fight in the Blood War. So, yeah, there tends to be a lot of trickery going on.

So, come in Raphael: "If I fetch myself a child with a bit of magic potential and raise that child and beat it into submission, before making the child my warlock, I would have my personal pet warlock, who I can then use as a political pawn on the physical plane." I assume he thought it would be pretty easy to raise a human child. Which he undoubtedly found out it was not.

But we know Raphael loves to have his fingers in many pies at once, and I assume his plan was, that he would use Enver as a pawn to throw around as his eyes and ears on the physical plane, so that he could have a spy. Which is also why I assume, he would have beaten a lot of upper class behavior into him.

Now of course, the question is: How far did he get with this plan before he got bored and just left little Enver to his own devices? That is really not clear. Just as we do not know for how long Enver was in the House of Hope as a prisoner. It might have been three or four years or more than ten. We have no clear idea from all I can see.

But yeah, that is what I think was the reason for Raphael to drag that kid to hell.

[sorinethemastermind]

Reunion

In which Harrow sees his sons again. [because @lunanightriderofthecove wanted a sequel to this one where Harrow sees his sons again and I thought that was a splendid idea. Happy Birdthday to the King of Katolis!]

Harrow cocked his head, glancing up at Opeli above him, adjusting his perch on her arm. He ruffled his feathers and let out a small coo, drawing her attention. She looked at him with an expression someplace between confusion and pi-

Oh, was that a bug?

Harrow lifted off from her arm, surroundings temporarily forgotten, and soared through the great double doors Soren had just opened to land on the red carpeted floor. He hurried forward, jabbing at the ground with his beak until he'd managed to skewer the cricket.

A loud thump came from behind him and he jumped, images of Viren and cage doors slamming flashing through his mind. He took to the skies again, except the sky had been replaced by a marble ceiling, cloudless and white. He squawked, panicking filling for a moment before-

"Dad?"

The voice snapped him back into his own mind again and he settled on a nearby table, turning to search for it's source. There was a throne at the end off the great hall, familiar though the wood was now scorched and blackened. And seated in it was...

He flew forward, wings flapping frantically. He looked so different, so much older. But Harrow would have known that face anywhere. It didn't matter how long he hadn't been himself, it was his son. He lighted on the arm of the throne, staring up into Ezran's big blue eyes as they filled with tears.

He was certainly older, and not just physically. Harrow could see the crown - silver in place of gold, but still just as heavy - sitting on his brow. The lines under his eyes that no child should have. Except he was no longer a child, was he? A teenager?

Harrow experienced the strange sensation of knowing that he was crying without the capacity to cry. The same feeling but none of the affects. He took a tentative step forward, talons hooking into the wood as he leaned as close as he could. He reached out, brushing his hand against Ezran's outstretched hand. He cooed, knowing his words didn't matter but wanting to say them anyway.

Except Ezran smiled through the tears, a small laugh forming in the back of his throat, "Yeah, I'm okay. I missed you, too."

Harrow stared up at him, then leapt forward into his lap, gazing up into his eyes as he began twittering again.

Ezran wrapping both hands gently around him, thumb gently stroking his feathers. But Harrow knew the touch for what it was. A hold, tight, but not constricting. As though he was afraid he'd slip through his fingers at any moment.

"Yes, he's okay, too." Ezran glanced across the room for a moment, "Soren, will you go and get Callum? And Rayla, too."

"You got it!"

Harrow turned to watch the Crownguard spin on his heel and hurry from the room, Opeli right on his heels. He had grown so much, too. But not just that, he had also changed. So much had changed. And he had missed all of it.

Harrow turned back to his son, cooing another question.

Ezran smiled, tears still spilling silently down his cheeks, "You'll like Rayla. She's Callum's girlfriend."

Harrow twittered and watched Ezran's face fall. He hopped closer, cocking his head to the side worriedly.

"Yeah I... I guess he did finally get over her. There's a lot to tell you, Dad. I don't really know where to start."

The beginning, Harrow prompted. He would have been happy to listen to Ezran talk about anything for hours, anything at all.

His son took a deep breath, but instead of answering his questions, he asked one of his own, "Did Lord Viren do this to you?"

Harrow's eyes narrowed and he dipped his head, squawking a frustrated confirmation. When he got his han- talons on that traitorous mage he would-

"He's dead," Ezran told him, gently.

Harrow stopped his squawking, staring up at him. A wave of emotion crashed over him, confusing and unexpected. Surely not... sadness. Not after everything Viren had done?

"I'll explain everything once Callum is here," Ezran assured him. Then he added; "I'm so glad you're back, Dad."

Harrow cooed in agreement, rubbing his head against Ezran's hand once again. Just then the doors flew open behind them and he turned to find Callum standing in the doorway, taller and wearing-

Wearing the robes of the High Mage's office, a white streak through his hair.

An image of Viren, not much older than his son must now be, standing in a similar outfit and a similar castle flashed before his eyes.

But then Callum took a hesitant step forward, gait breaking into a run, and the image was forgotten.

"Dad!" he cried, dropping to his knees before the throne to throw his arms around Harrow, who stepped forward into his son's embrace. He cooed softly, nuzzling Callum's cheek with his head.

"He says he's glad you're okay, and that he loves you very much," Ezran supplied.

Callum pulled away after a moment, staring down at him with wide eyes. "We're going to get you out of there," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I know a spell that will fix all of this."

Harrow stared up at him, once again the image of Viren flashing over his son's face. He looked away, gaze wandering over the room to land on-

The assassins. They had found him. Somehow they were here.

Harrow launched himself into the air, squawking furiously as he tried to draw Callum and Ezran's attention. The elf, who had previously been skulking in the doorway, flinched back. He saw Soren reach out towards her and for a moment felt reassured, but the Crownguard merely patted her on the shoulder before pushing her gently into the room. Of course. Why had he trusted Viren's son?

Except then Callum turned, eyes lighting up at the sight of her, and beckoned her forward as well. She walked hesitantly to his side and his son straightened up, tucking an arm around her waist. Harrow stopped cawing and lighted back on the arm of the throne, wings spread protectively before Ezran.

"Dad, this is Rayla. My girlfriend," Callum said. The elf gave a small wave.

"We're at peace now, with the elves," Ezran said from behind him and Harrow turned to look at him. "Didn't Soren tell you?"

An image of a green haired elf surfaced from his memory, hand outstretched and full of berries. Harrow lowered his wings, cooing softly with embarrassment. He remembered, now, Soren introducing him. And- and there had been another person there, too. Not one of Viren's children. Corvin? Corvus! He had been there as well, working alongside the elf with comfortable familiarity.

Harrow dipped his head beneath his wing. It was becoming harder and harder to connect the dots. To hold onto the pieces of himself that weren't as close to his heart. He could feel things slipping away from him, things he knew he should know and remember. But the image of his sons had always remained clear in his mind, an anchor holding him together at his center, keeping all the drifting pieces together. Or as together as they could be.

"It's okay," Ezran reached out and stroked his head, seeming to sense his worry. "Callum is going to get you back."

Harrow looked up at his sons, glancing between them. Ezran gave him a watery eyed smile and Callum knelt back down to reach out and hold him again. The three of them reunited at last.

Whatever had happened over the years he'd been gone, however much they had grown and changed, these were his sons. And so long as he held onto that knowledge, he knew nothing else mattered.

[fleurilyy]

The Reservoir | 1.

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Series Summary : You spent your entire life searching for Wan-Chi Tong’s lost library with your adoptive father. It was a simple life; plan, find, learn. Meeting Avatar Aang, Katara, Sokka and Toph, was never apart of that plan. Meeting them changed everything.

Chapter Summary : You and your Dad meet a group of kids in the desert.

Chapter Warnings : Parental death, cactus juice

Word Count : 6,286

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You love your dad, adore him even, but his quest to find this mystical library has cost you more than you ever expected it to. And searching through the desert with no one other than him to speak to for days? Definitely not your definition of fun. But at least Misty Palms Oasis is nice enough, you suppose.

The bar you are in is dusty and the people in it make you uncomfortable. They eye you and your father as if you were food. Of course, your father didn’t even blink at them.

“Two mangoes please!” He cheerily asks the man behind the counter. The stranger pulls out two swords, making you gasp and back up, before chopping the fruit faster than you had ever seen. Half a beat passes before he hands you your smoothies. Your Father leaves two coins and then takes a drink. “These are great! What do you think?”

You cautiously take a sip. “Not bad!”

“Ahh, see! I told you we’d love it here!”

You giggle. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now.” As you turn around, your father walks right into a young bald boy dressed in yellow and orange, spilling his drink all over him.

“No worries! I clean up easy!” He puts his fists together and.. airbends? You furrow your brows. All the airbenders were dead– well– except for the Avatar, of course. Your eyebrows shoot to the top of your forehead as you come to the conclusion that this is the Avatar.

“You’re a living relic..” Your father gapes.

“Thanks, I try.”

“An air nomad right in front of me.” He brings his hand to his chin.

“Dad.. don’t make it weird.” You whisper, grabbing his elbow.

“Professor Zei, professor of Anthropology at Ba Sing Se University.” He bows. “Tell me,” He grabs onto the young boy’s arm. “Which air temple do you hail from?”

“The southern temple.”

“Oh splendid!” Your father pulls out some sort of device and checks out the boy’s head. “Now tell me, what was the primary agricultural product of your people?”

“Uh.. Are fruit pies an agricultural product?”

“Oh.. Truly fascinating… That’s one for the journal.”

You facepalm. “You’ve made it weird.”

“So, uh, professor,” Asks another boy standing with the airbender. He wears water tribe garb and his hair is pulled up into a ponytail. You definitely don’t notice how cute he is. “You’re obviously a well traveled guy. Do you have a more current map? Ours seems to be a little outdated.”

“Certainly!” Your Father walks you all over to a big table. You slide into the chair beside him as he pulls out a map and hands it to the water tribe boy.

“What? No fire nation? Doesn’t anyone have a good map of that place?” The water tribe boy cries.

“You’ve made a lot of trips into the desert.” A young girl says. She also wears water tribe garb with her hair tied into braids.

“Unfortunately.” You mutter.

“All of them in vain, sadly. We’ve found lost civilizations all over the Earth Kingdom. But we haven’t managed to find the crown jewel,” Your father shakes his fist. “Wan-Chi Tong’s library.”

“You’ve spent years walking through the desert to find some guy’s library?” The last member of their group, a short girl dressed in Earth kingdom clothes who wore no shoes, asks.

“As I tell my child, Y/N, here, this library is more valuable than gold, little lady. It is said to contain a vast collection of knowledge, and knowledge is priceless.”

“Mm. Sounds like good times.” She replies incredulously.

“Oh it is! According to legend it was built by the great knowledge spirit Wan-Chi Tong with the help of his foxy knowledge seekers.”

“Oh… so this spirit has attractive assistants, huh?” The water tribe boy asks.

The water tribe girl pats his cheek. “I think he means they look like actual foxes, Sokka.”

“You’re both right! Handsome little creatures.” Your Father chuckles. “Wan-Chi Tong and his knowledge seekers collected books from all over the world, and put them on display for mankind to read, so that we might better ourselves.” He pulls out an image of the library. You will admit, it does look beautiful.

“If this place has books from all over the world, do you think they’ve got info on the fire nation? A map maybe?”

“I wouldn’t know. But if such a thing exists, it’s in Wan-Chi Tong’s library.”

The water tribe boy, Sokka, grins. “Then it’s settled. Aang, I do believe it’s my turn. I’d like to spend my vacation at the library!”

“Uhh, Hey! What about me? When do I get to pick?” The earth kingdom girl wonders.

“You gotta work here a little longer before you start to earn vacation time.” Sokka crosses his arms. The girl slams her cup on the table and huffs.

“Of course, there’s the matter of finding it. Y/N and I have made several trips into the Zi Huang desert and almost died each time. I’m afraid that desert is impossible to cross.” Your Father sighs.

Sokka looks at the Avatar and smirks. “Professor, Y/N, would you like to see our sky bison?”

He gasps. “A sky bison? You actually have one?” The group nod and usher you to follow them.

—

“Wow.” You murmur, looking at the bison.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” You glance to your side to find Sokka standing there.

“He is. How’d you come across him?”

“My sister, Katara and I, found Aang and him frozen in ice.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Really? How long were they down there? Poor things.”

“Oh, just a hundred years.”

Your eyes widen so much you worry they’ll pop. “What?” He nods. “A hundred years? Are you serious?”

“Totally serious! But we got him out.. turns out he’s the avatar so we’ve been keeping him safe until he can defeat the fire lord.”

You giggle. “You’re keeping the avatar safe?” You snort.

“Hey!” He narrows his eyes at you. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m strong. I’m very strong.”

You cock your head to the side. “Never said you weren’t.”

“You— You implied it!”

You giggle, covering your mouth with your hand. “I didn’t imply anything!” You walk up to your Dad, who was already on the sky bison. He offers you a hand, which you take, and then pulls you up.

Once everyone is settled, Aang takes the reins. “Yip-yip!” Before you know it, you’re in the air. You grin as you look over the side of the saddle.

“Pretty cool, right?” The water tribe girl, Katara asks, getting comfortable beside you.

“The coolest.” You whisper. “This is definitely better than walking through the desert.”

“I couldn’t even imagine having to walk all that way..”

“It was awful. I’ll be finding sand in my clothing for the rest of my life. Plus the only company I had was my Dad.” You deadpan.

She grimaces. “He seems.. nice!”

“He’s got a pure soul but.. he has tunnel vision. He gets so focused on finding the library I think he forgets I’m there sometimes.” You say with a sigh. “What about you? Sokka said you two found Aang, right?”

Katara grins and nods. “Yeah. We’re from the Southern water tribe, and one day we were out fishing and he got on my nerves.. next thing I knew there was this huge ice ball in front of us and Aang was just there.” She continues to tell you the story of how she and her friends ended up here. You hang onto every word.

“Now that’s a real adventure.” You smile. “You guys are so strong.”

“I guess. It’s really Aang who does all the hard work.” She replies sheepishly.

“Are you kidding? I’ve never even met a waterbender before! Not to mention a fourteen year old master! I can barely even lift water.”

“You’re a waterbender?” Toph asks from the other side of the saddle.

“Not a very good one.” You frown. “We’ve been on the road so long I’ve never had a teacher.”

“What about in Ba Sing Se?”

You shrug. “There aren’t any waterbending teachers there really.”

“But I thought Ba Sing Se was the biggest city in the Earth kingdom? There really aren’t any waterbending teachers?” Sokka butts in.

“No. I’ve never even seen a waterbender in Ba Sing Se. But if there was one, they’d probably only teach fighting, and that’s not what I want to learn.”

“But that’s the best part!” Sokka exclaims.

“Not to me. I’ve never had a need for fighting.”

“Lucky. Trouble seems to follow us.” Katara says, deadpanning.

“Well, you are traveling with the Avatar.”

—

A few hours pass, and you’re still sitting next to Katara. The heat has gotten unbearable. You’ve taken off the hat similar to your Dad’s that you wore, and the shawl over your shoulders, but it was still so, so hot. You have to hold yourself back from glaring at Sokka out of jealousy, who was shirtless.

“Hey look! There it is!” Toph yells, pointing out into the distance. You, Sokka, and Katara rush over beside her. You furrow your brows, seeing nothing. You all glare at her. “That’s what it’ll sound like when one of you spots it.” She grins and waves her hand in front of her face.

“It shouldn’t be this hard to spot a giant ornate building from the air.” Katara complains.

“Yeah, you’d think.” You mutter.

Sokka canvases the area with his spyglass before pointing at something in the distance. “Down there! What’s that?” Your eyes land on a tower poking out of the sand. You scoot closer to Sokka to get a better look at it, stomach churning when you accidentally brush arms with him.

Once Appa lands, your Father jumps off immediately and runs towards the tower. Everyone else gets off too, and stands in front of it.

“Forget it. It’s obviously not what we’re looking for. The building in this drawing is enormous.” You look at the drawing over Katara’s shoulder and sigh. Then everyone’s attention is stolen by what looks to be a fox carrying a scroll.

“What kind of animal is that?” Sokka asks.

“I think that was one of the knowledge seekers! Oh, we must be close to the library!” Your Father exclaims. He swings an arm around your shoulder. “This is what we’ve always dreamed of, Y/N!” You give him an awkward smile.

“No.. This is the library.” You glance over at Sokka. “Look! It’s completely buried.”

You immediately deflate. “Seriously?”

“The library is buried!?” Your Father wails. “My life's ambition is full of sand!” He falls to his knees. “Oh well. Time to start excavating. Grab a shovel, Y/N!” You facepalm.

“Actually, that won’t be necessary.” Toph places her hand on the building. “The inside seems to be completely intact, and it’s huge.”

“That foxy thing went in through a window. I say we climb up there and give it a look.”

“I say you guys go ahead without me.” Toph says, crossing her arms.

“What? Do you have something against libraries or something?” Katara asks, her hands on her hips.

“I’ve held books before, and I got to tell you, they don’t exactly do it for me.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” You snicker slightly.

“Let me know if they have something you can listen to.”

Once inside the library, you can’t help but marvel at the size.

“My word!” Your Father practically squeals. “The exquisite mosaic handiwork of this tile-rendered avian symbol–” He stops when he sees the look you all are giving him. “Er– Nice owl.” You hear a rustling sound from beside you guys, causing you all to dash behind some pillars. A huge owl walks up to the rope, and then turns its head all the way around to face the pillars. You slap your hand over your mouth.

“I know you’re back there.”

“Hello!” Your Father steps out from hiding and waves at the owl. “I’m Professor Zei, head of anthropology at Ba Sing Se University.” He runs up to the animal and bows.

“You should leave the way you came.” He turns to a pillar with stuffed heads on it. “Unless you want to become a stuffed head of anthropology.” Your Father rubs his neck nervously.

“Are you the spirit who brought this library to the physical world?” Sokka asks as you all walk towards the bird and your Father.

“Indeed. I am Wan-Chi Tong, he who knows 10,000 things.” He looks at all of you closely. “And you are obviously humans, which, by the way, are no longer permitted in my study.”

“What do you have against humans?” Aang asks.

“Humans only bother learning things to get the edge on other humans, like that firebender who came to this place a few years ago, looking to destroy his enemy. So,” He leans down close to Sokka who sweats anxiously. “So who are you trying to destroy?”

“What!? No, no, no, destroying? We’re not into that.”

“Then why have you come to my library?”

“Um.. knowledge for knowledge’s sake?” You pinch the bridge of your nose and shake your head.

“If you’re going to lie to an all-knowing spirit being, you should at least put some effort into it.”

“I’m not lying! We’re here with the Avatar, and he’s the bridge between our worlds,” Sokka grabs Aang and drags him in front of him. “He’ll vouch for me.” Sokka shoves him slightly.

“Ow! Yeah– I’ll vouch. We will not abuse the knowledge in your library, good spirit. You have my word.”

“Hm. Very well. I’ll let you peruse my vast collection, on one condition, to prove your worth as scholars, you have to contribute some worthwhile knowledge.”

Your Father pulls out a tomb he found on your last trip. “Please accept this tomb as a donation to your library.”

“First edition. Very nice.” Wan-Chi Tong nods.

You pull out a map of all the lost civilizations you and your Father found and sigh as you hand it to the spirit. “This is a map I made to help my Father and I get to the lost civilizations we’ve found from Ba Sing Se.”

“Lovely, I haven’t seen some of these names in decades.” He takes it.

“I have an authentic waterbending scroll.” Katara says, holding out for him.

“Ooh.. these illustrations are quite stylish.”

“Uh… Oh! I know!” Aang pulls a wanted poster of himself out of his shirt. “Hah!”

“I suppose that counts.”

“Oh great spirit, check this out!” Sokka says, pointing to a small rope. He quickly ties it up and reveals a flower. “Ta-da! It’s a special knot! That counts as knowledge.”

The spirit narrows his eyes. “You’re not very bright, are you?” He takes the knot. “Enjoy the library.” He then turns and jumps off the bridge, flying down countless stories.

“Bright enough to fool you.” Sokka huffs.

You walk through what seems to be a hundred different aisles before you guys finally settle in one. Aang sits down in front of a bookshelf and starts going through some pictures of extinct animals, your Father sits in a pile of book stacks, you sit beside him and grab one from one of the piles.

“Hey! Look at these weird lion-turtle things.” Aang says, holding up a picture for you guys.

“Meh, I’ve seen weirder.” Sokka walks past Aang down another aisle. Your Father quickly jumps up to follow him.

“Aang, did you know that in a past life, you were left-handed?”

“I always knew I was special.”

You put the book you were holding down and follow your dad. You see him barely balancing about ten books in his arms. Snickering, you walk past him to Sokka.

“The darkest day in fire nation history.” He reads. You stand next to him to see, the paper he’s reading from is burnt and under a glass panel. “It’s got a date at the top, but it doesn’t say anything else.” Sokka smirks and grabs a machete out of his bag. He uses it to pry the glass up and then grabs the paper.

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

He jumps. “Ah!” You laugh. A blush slowly appears on his cheeks. “Oh.. Hi Y/N! …Funny seeing you here.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

“Sokka, Y/N, where are you guys going?” Aang asks, suddenly appearing behind you and Sokka with Katara, Momo, and your Father.

“I want to know what happened to the fire nation on their darkest day. This could be promising.” He turns and jogs down the aisle. You shrug and follow him with the rest of the group in tow.

“Come on! The information on the fire nation should be right up here.” You guys walk into the fire nation wing and are met with nothing but ashes.

“Firebenders.” Aang curses.

“They destroyed everything having to do with the fire nation.”

“That’s so unfair!” Sokka cries. “Just when I think I’m one step ahead of the fire nation, it turns out they beat us here a long time ago. I need to know what happened on the darkest day.” Sokka falls to the floor. You sigh, surveying the room. But a whimper from behind interrupts you, a knowledge seeker stands on its hind legs in the doorway. “Hello, weird little fox guy.” The fox gets onto all fours and points somewhere.

“It seems it’s to assist you.”

“Um.. sure. I guess I’ll follow you.” The fox takes off in a dash. You all have to run to keep up. It takes you all the way across the floor to a golden mosaic. The fox walks into a small hole in the wall and seconds later the mosaic shakes and opens revealing a dome. You guys walk in, cautiously. The fox pushes on a lever making the dome change from a bright blue sky into a starry night sky.

“This room is a true marvel, a mechanical wonder! It’s a planetarium that shows the heavens moving!”

“This is beautiful, but how is it helpful?”

“Maybe these dials represent dates and times.” Katara says, inspecting the stone in the center of the planetarium. “Sokka, try entering that date form the parchment you took.”

“Shh! Katara! Not in front of the fox!” He leans in super close to his sister. “He’s with the owl!” The knowledge seeker whimpers. Sokka peeks at the paper without pulling it all the way out. He then moves the rings on the stone so that they read the same date. He pulls the lever and the planetarium shifts.

“Wow! I gotta hand it to you, Sokka, you picked the best mini-vacation for sure.” The planetarium finally stops.

“Hey, wait! What happened to the sun?”

“Great. You must have broken it.”

“No, it’s not broken.” Sokka shakes his head.

“It’s a solar eclipse.” You provide. “Literally the darkest day in fire nation history. Firebenders draw their power from the sun, they must lose their powers when it’s blocked like that.”

“That makes sense! I mean, think of what the lunar eclipse at the North Pole did to the waterbenders. This is huge!”

“We’ve got to get this information to the Earth King at Ba Sing Se. We’ll wait for the next eclipse then we’ll invade the fire nation when they’re totally helpless.”

“Woah, invade? You guys are planning an invasion?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“We have to take the fire lord down somehow.” Aang says.

“That’s true, but how sure are you that King Kuei would even side with you guys? I mean, in Ba Sing Se, it’s like there isn’t even a war. What if he wants to keep it that way?”

“What do you mean?” Katara cocks her head to the side.

“Ba Sing Se is kept separate from the war. No one really talks about it there.” You scratch your head. “But you don’t know unless you try, I suppose.”

“The fire lord is going down!”

“Mortals are so predictable and such terrible liars.” A booming voice sounds through the room. You all slowly turn around. Wan-Chi Tong stands in the doorway. “You betrayed my trust. From the beginning, you intended to misuse this knowledge for evil purposes.”

“You don’t understand! If anyone is evil it’s the fire nation. You saw what they did to your library! They’re destructive and dangerous!” Sokka tries to reason. “We need this information!”

“You think you’re the first person to believe their war was justified? Countless others before you have come here, seeking weapons or weaknesses or battle strategies.”

“We had no choice, please. We’re just desperate to protect the people we love.”

“And now I am going to protect what I love.” He starts flapping his wings fast and aggressively, causing the room to fill with dust, and you all quickly come to one conclusion; he’s sinking the entire library. “I’m taking my knowledge back. No one will ever abuse it again!”

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Katara yells. Sand starts filling the planetarium. You grab onto your Father for dear life, but he shakes out of your grip to steady the books in his arm. You look at him, hurt.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that. You already know too much.” He swoops down and pecks at you guys. Sokka grabs you and narrowly pulls you out of the way. You all run out of the planetarium in fear, with Wan-Chi Tong following you. You guys weave in and out of different aisles to get away.

“Great knowledge spirit, I beg you, do not destroy your vast collection of priceless tombs!” Your Father stops and begs.

“Dad! What are you doing, come on!” The spirit dives down, and if it weren’t for Aang airbending your Dad away, he would have died. Aang uses his staff to send Wan-Chi Tong off the side of the bridge.

“We’ve got to get back to the surface!” Aang yells. You all turn and run down a different aisle but stop after a few steps when you realize Sokka isn’t following.

“But we still don’t know when the next eclipse is going to happen.”

“Don’t be stupid! We’ll find out later!”

“No we won’t! If we leave this place we’ll never get the information. Aang, come with me to the planetarium. I need cover. You guys take Momo and get out of here!”

“But–” Wan-Chi Tong bursts through a bookshelf.

“Go!” Sokka yells.

“Hurry Sokka!” You, your Father, and Katara book it with the owl hot on your trail. Your Father dives into an aisle and starts grabbing books.

“Dad! No!” You scream. It’s too late to go for him. With Wan-Chi Tong right behind you, if you turn around now, he’ll get you. You and Katara keep running for dear life, she pulls you behind a bookshelf and you huddle up together.

“At least I’ll have one specimen to add to my collection.” The spirit lunges for you, causing you and Katara to get up and run away. You guys finally reach the rope you came into, but Wan-Chi Tong is right behind you. “Your waterbending won’t do you much good here. I’ve studied northern water style, southern water style, even foggy swamp style.”

“Hyah!” Sokka yells as he falls down on top of Wan-Chi Tong, hitting him on the head with a book. “That’s called Sokka style, learn it!” He looks at you and grins. “Hi Y/N!” They climb on top of the owl and start climbing the rope.

“Hey! What about my Dad!”

Sokka looks around and sees your Dad hunched in an aisle with books piled up beside him. “I’m not leaving. I can’t. I’ve spent too long trying to find this place.”

You follow his voice and make eye contact with him when you spot him. “But.. Dad! You can’t stay here! You’ll die!” Tears well up in your eyes.

“There’s not another collection of knowledge like this on earth! I could spend an eternity in here.”

“But what about me?”

“Stay with me! We will learn everything there is to learn together.” He urges.

“No.. Dad.. I can’t do that. Please.” Tears start falling down your cheeks one after another.

“We have to go! The library is about to be submerged!”

You take one last glance at your Dad. “I love you.” You turn back to the rope and grab on. “Go!” Sokka and Katara start climbing again, this time with you following.

“I love you too, Y/N! You will do great things. I know you will.” A sob racks your body and you almost slip, but you regain your hold on the rope and climb as fast as you can. Beneath you, Wan-Chi Tong begins to stir, screeching as he sees you guys escaping. He grabs onto the rope and swings it back and forth, you start slipping, but you're caught by Katara who’s holding onto Sokka who’s holding onto Aang. Aang flies you all up, barely getting you out. You land face first into the sand with a grunt.

Then, suddenly, a cloud of dust goes past you. Turning around, you see nothing. The library has completely sunken. You run up to the indent in the sand and fall to your knees.

“No.. No no no.” You sob into your hands.

“We got it, there’s a solar eclipse coming!” You hear Sokka exclaim. “The fire nation is in trouble now!”

Aang walks up to Toph who is sitting beside you in the same position. “Where’s Appa?” Toph just shakes her head in response.

—

The next day, you’re all sweaty and tired. Tensions are high, as no one wants to upset you or set Aang off again after how he reacted yesterday. Once he found out Appa was missing, he screamed at Toph and then flew off.

Sokka stops walking in and tries to use Momo to make shade, making Toph walk straight into his back. “Hey! Can’t you watch where your–”

“No.”

He sees it’s Toph and grimaces. “Right. Sorry.”

“Come on guys, we’ve got to stick together.”

“If I sweat anymore, I don’t think sticking together will be a problem.” Sokka says, prying Toph off of him.

Toph pushes him off of her, causing him to fall to the ground. “Katara, can I have some water?” You offer Sokka your hand, which he takes with a smile.

“Ok, but we’ve gotta try to conserve it.” She opens her waterbending pouch and bends droplets into each of your mouths, even Momos.

“We’re drinking your bending water?” Sokka smacks his lips. “You used this on the swamp guy!”

“Swamp guy? What swamp guy?”

“When we were traveling we crash landed in this enchanted swamp.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise as you smack your lips. “It does taste swampy.”

“I’m sorry, it’s all we have.”

“I may have some water in my backpack.” You say, pulling the pack off of you and setting it down in the sand. You undo the bag and search through it for a moment, only finding one water bottle which was completely empty. You frown. “Sorry guys. I think my Dad had all the refill water.” You say sheepishly, putting the backpack back on.

“Hey! Look! A cactus!” Sokka walks up to it and cuts it in half, quickly slurping up the contents.

“No! Sokka! Those are poisonous!” You shout. But it was already too late, Sokka was already on his second bulb.

“Poisonous!?” Katara grabs Toph’s hand and runs towards Sokka. You run up to him too and take the cacti away from him and Momo.

“But it’s just water inside these!”

“No it’s not! These make you go crazy. It’s like alcohol but ten times worse. It makes you see things.” Sokka cuts another bulb open, but you take it and dump it out before he can drink it.

“Hey! I was drinking that!” Sokka’s eyes abruptly go wide and his pupils dilate. You frown. “Drink Cactus juice! It’ll quench ya! Nothing’s quench-ier. It’s the quench-iest!”

“Too late.” You facepalm.

“Who lit Toph on fire?”

Momo flies up and starts flying in circles. He quickly falls down on his face.

“Can I get some of that cactus?” Toph asks.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Katara places her arm around Toph. “Come on, we need to find Aang.” You start walking but you turn around immediately to grab Sokka.

“Hello there! You’re pretty.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Your stomach churns.

Sokka swings his arm around your neck, bringing you close to him. “How did we get in the middle of the ocean? Are you a merperson?” Katara and Toph laugh at you.

—

Later, an explosion takes all of your guys’ attention.

“What is that?” Katara asks. You squint, trying to see better.

“What? What is what?”

“It’s a giant mushroom. Maybe it’s friendly!” You shake your head and grab onto Sokka again.

“Let’s just keep moving.” You say.

“Friendly mushroom! Mushy giant friend!”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, Sokka.”

—

You all continue walking for hours, not stopping even when the sun starts to set. Thankfully, though, once it gets low, Aang finally shows up, swooping down on his glider.

“Aang!” Katara exclaims. She frowns when she sees his expression. “I’m sorry, Aang. I know it’s hard for you right now, but we need to focus on getting out of here.” She places a hand on his shoulder but he shrugs her off.

“What’s the difference? We won’t survive without Appa. We all know it.”

“Come on, Aang. We can do this if we all work together. Plus, we have Y/N! Y/N and Professor Zei have been through here loads of times, they can help us find our way out, right Y/N?”

“Of course. We aren’t too far now, I promise. Just a little while longer. We should make it out in a couple of days. Swear.”

“Why don’t we ask the circle birds to get us out?” You look down at Sokka who is lying in the sand with Momo. He points at the sky where a bunch of wasps fly over you.

“Ugh. We’re getting out of this desert and we’re going to do it together. Aang, get up. Everybody hold hands, we can do this.” Katara grabs onto Aang’s hand, who begrudgingly holds Toph’s. You yank Sokka up and put Momo on your shoulder before making Sokka hold Toph’s hand and grabbing his other one with your own.

—

Once it’s dark out, Katara finally lets you guys stop for the night. You pull out your tent and set it up with Katara’s help. You all crowd into it, with you laying down with Toph on your left and Katara on your right. Sokka lays down on Katara’s right and Aang lays beside him.

You only sleep for about four hours before Katara wakes you all up again.

“Yesterday, my mouth tasted like mud. Today it just tastes like sand. Never thought I’d miss the taste of mud so much.”

“We need to get moving if we’re getting out of this sand pit.”

“Appa!” Aang shouts, looking at the moon.

“Appa? But why would Princess Yue need him? She’s the moon! She flies by herself!” Sokka exclaims.

You furrow your brows. “Am I the only one confused by that?” You ask when no one reacts.

“It’s just a cloud.” Katara sighs. “Wait! A cloud! Here, fly up and bend the water from that cloud into my pouch!” Aang aggressively takes it and flies up, barely getting any of the cloud into the pouch. “There’s barely anything in here.” Katara says with a frown.

“I’m sorry, okay! It’s a desert cloud! I did all I could! What’s anyone else doing!? What are you doing!?” He points his staff at her.

“Hey! Aang! Take a breath! Katara is trying to get us out of here.” You say, stepping in between them.

“What would you know? You don’t even know us!”

“Aang! Y/N just lost someone too, don’t yell at them.” She sighs. “Let’s get moving. We need to head in this direction, right?” You give her a soft smile and nod. She grabs Aang’s and Toph’s hands. Toph also grabs your hand as you grab Sokka’s. You all start walking with a matching lack of enthusiasm.

—

“Ow!” Toph exclaims as she trips on something. “Crud! I am so sick of not feeling where I’m going! And what idiot buried a boat in the middle of the desert!?”

“A boat?”

“Believe me, I kicked it hard enough to feel plenty of vibrations.” Aang uses his airbending to blow the sand off of the ‘boat’, swiftly revealing a glider like the ones sandbenders use.

“Hey! It's one of the gliders the sandbenders use! Look! It’s got a compass on it! I bet it can point us out of here!” Katara grins at you, you smile in response. “Aang, you can bend a breeze to get us out of here!”

“Hehe!” You look over at Sokka who is burying Momo in the sand and giggling. You shake your head.

—

Once you guys get it going, the glider goes faster than you could have dreamed of. There was no way you weren’t getting out of here now.

“The needle on this compass doesn’t seem to be pointing north, according to my charts.”

You take a look and nod. “It’s taking us west, there must be something magnetic ahead.”

“Take it easy (gorgeous/handsome), I’m sure the sand folks who built this baby know how to get around here.” Sokka says dreamily.

You ignore him and look forward. You gasp when you see a huge rock. “Look! That’s what the compass is pointing to!”

“That must be the magnetic center of the desert.”

“A rock!?” Toph raises her fist joyously. “Yes! Let’s go!”

“Maybe we can find some water there!”

“Maybe we can find some sandbenders.” Aang propels you forward even faster, and you guys arrive at the rock in less than a minute. The walk up the rock is treacherous to say the least.

—

“Finally!” Toph falls backwards and makes an angel shape in the ground. “Solid ground.” You guys walk into a tunnel.

“I think my head is starting to clear out the cactus juice. And look!” Sokka swipes up some of the goo on the wall and licks it. He quickly spits it out. “Tastes like rotten penguin meat! Oh.. I feel woozy.”

“You’ve been hallucinating all day on cactus juice, and now you eat a strange substance on the wall of a strange tunnel. Tell me, how have you survived this long?” You shake your head in disbelief.

“I have a natural curiosity!” He shrugs. You facepalm.

“I don’t think this is a normal cave. This was carved by something.”

“Yeah, look at the shape.” You say, running your hand over a dry patch on the wall.

“There’s something buzzing in here. Something that’s coming for us!” Toph’s eyes widen. You all dash out of the tunnel, huge wasps following you.

“You weren’t kidding when you said trouble follows you!”

You guys run down the rock, Katara directing Toph on where to direct her rocks the whole way down. When you finally reach the bottom, sand shoots up, effectively shooing the rest of the wasps. When the sand clears you realize you’re surrounded by sandbenders. Aang flies down and lands in front of you guys.

“What are you doing in our land with a sandbender sailer?” One of the sandbenders asks. “From the looks of it, you stole it from the Hami tribe.”

“We found the sailer abandoned in the desert. We’re traveling with the avatar. Our bison was stolen, and we have to get to Ba Sing Se.”

“You dare accuse our people of theft, while you ride in on a stolen sand sailer?”

“Quiet, Ghashiun! No one accused our people of anything. If what they say is true, we must give them hospitality.”

“Sorry, Father.”

Toph’s eyes widen. “I recognize the son’s voice! He’s the one who stole Appa!”

“Are you sure?”

“I never forget a voice!”

Aang walks up to Ghashiun with his staff pointed at him. “You stole Appa! Where is he? What did you do to him!?”

“They’re lying! They’re the thieves!”

Aang grunts and sends a wave of air over to one of their sand sailers which breaks it in half. “Where is my bison!? You tell me where he is, and you tell me now!” He destroys another sailer.

“What did you do!?”

“I-It wasn’t me!”

“You said to put a muzzle on him!” Toph exclaims

“You muzzled Appa!?” Suddenly, Aang’s arrows and eyes light up.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know it belonged to the Avatar!”

“Tell me where Appa is!” Aang yells, his voice distorted.

“I-I traded him to some merchants! He’s probably in Ba Sing Se by now… They were gonna sell him there. Please! We’ll escort you out of the desert! We’ll help however we can!” The sand around Aang picks up and creates a tornado.

“Just get out of here! Run!” Sokka shouts. The sandbenders all crowd onto one glider and leave. Sokka grabs you and pulls you into his arms. You both crouch, Sokka’s arms tight around your middle. You see Aang start to levitate.

“What’s happening!?”

“He’s in the Avatar state! He can’t control himself in this state yet! It’s impossible!”

Katara goes up to Aang and grabs his hand, pulling him down into a hug. She brings his head to her chest, and slowly, the sand falls, and his arrows turn blue. You let out a sigh of relief and then look at Sokka before awkwardly scooting away from him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[mymultiverse00]

Little Moments - The First Dance

Prev / Next

The first time Alfred asked Miss Y/N to dance, she told him no. She didn’t mean to; it just sort of happened.

The evening had been splendid up until that point. They talked and laughed, and Alfred never once mentioned anything when Miss Y/N would trip over her own gown while they were walking about the room or when she would inadvertently bump into things because she was looking at him and not where she was going. He found her charmingly sweet and wanted nothing more than to lift her feet off the ground permanently to help her avoid any future mishaps. He would do it too, if she asked it of him.

Miss L/N was very smart and had read nearly every book he referenced in their discussion about birds and the Great Auk. She was also well-educated on the flora and fauna in their area, houseplants included, and more than once requested they pause their walking to observe some small leaf or bud found around Lady Danbury’s ballroom. Fortunately, there were no more mishaps with the giant potted ferns she seemed to love so much.

Alfred was utterly enchanted by her. He had some reservations initially when Lady Danbury delivered her warning about the girl’s sense of humor, but having heard a number of Miss Y/N’s quips and puns now, he knew there was nothing to fear. She simply loved life and took delight in calling attention to its idiosyncrasies. Truthfully, Alfred couldn’t remember a time when he laughed so much or felt so at ease in the company of another person.

Lord Debling decided he wanted to know everything about Miss L/N and to have her know everything about him. He asked her question after question, offering his own answers for hers, and quickly learned Miss L/N was uniquely beautiful both inside and out. He resolved within an hour’s time together that he wanted to pay her a call in her home as soon as it was acceptable and would court her formally if she (and her brother) would allow it. That was a task for tomorrow, though, and tonight he would enjoy her company to the fullest: walking, talking, and perhaps dancing. He had yet to ask about the latter.

“Miss L/N, you are a delight!” Alfred told her, laughing heartily at her stories about messy mud pies and other experiments in the garden. “You sound like you were a precious child.”

“Precious, perhaps. Precocious, definitely! I was lucky my mama and papa had a sense of humor.” She giggled.

“Lucky, indeed. Thank you for sharing your stories with me, Miss L/N. It has been a most enchanting discussion.”

“It was my pleasure, sir. Thank you for listening and for telling me about your expedition. It was a wonderful way to spend the evening.”

“Well, I’m happy to say the evening is not over just yet,” he said with a smile. “Would you allow me the honor of a dance before you go?”

Miss Y/N’s eyes went wide at his request, and her expression was one of shock. “NO!” She exclaimed loudly and immediately slapped both of her hands over her mouth as if to stop any more words from escaping. “I am sorry, my lord.” She mumbled from behind her hands, eyes quickly scanning the surrounding area, hoping no one heard her shout.

Alfred was crushed but managed to school his features so as not to show his dismay. “No, it is I who should be sorry, Miss L/N.” Alfred apologized gently. “I should not have been so forward. I hope you can forgive the error.”

“Oh no.” She muttered to herself. “What have I done?” Hot tears fell from her eyes as she looked down at her feet in shame for the second time that night. “Lord Debling, sir, I… I am so…” Her voice cracked with dismay.

“Shhh.” He soothed her tenderly, discreetly passing her his handkerchief to dry her tears. “No tears, my lady. No damage has been done. We do not have to dance if you do not wish to.” He gave her a kind smile, hoping it would help to calm her.

“It is just… no one has ever asked me to dance before, and for good reason!” She sniffed a little as she dabbed the cloth on her cheeks and under her eyes to clear away her tears. “I cannot walk in a straight line most days without causing injury to myself or others, and my dancing is worse! My mama has even said my future husband will need to invest in wooden shoes to avoid having his toes broken by my clumsiness. I am sorry, Lord Debling, I do not wish to hurt you!”

He smiled again and stifled a laugh. “Miss L/N, please do not worry about me or my toes. I am made of sterner stuff and do not injure very easily. If you truly did wish to dance this evening, I know how we can do so without incident. Do you trust me?”

She nodded, sniffing again as she raised her shining eyes to his. “I do, Lord Debling, and I should love to dance with you.”

“Splendid!” He exclaimed happily, offering her his arm again and quickly leading them to a quiet, less-occupied portion of the dance floor. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, letting out a small squeak of surprise when Lord Debling lifted her off the floor slightly and rested her tiny feet on top of his own. She looked at him questioningly for a moment before an enormous smile came upon her face.

“Now hold on to my shoulder tightly, Miss L/N. I will not let you fall.” He moved his own hands into position and held her with just a little bit more strength than would normally be polite, watching her closely for any objection. As the music began, he lifted his foot and effortlessly moved them both in the elegant steps of a waltz. Her lovely gown was just long enough to hide their little secret.

Her smile was radiant as the song went on, and her happy giggles filled him with pride, knowing he was responsible for her joy. It was easily the best dance he had ever taken part in, and he could not wait to do it again. He told her as much, cheeks heated with bashfulness, and vowed to fill her dance card every chance he had, or better yet, to steal it away completely so no one else could take a single spot.

Lord Debling meant every word of his promise to Miss L/N and realized he had inadvertently fulfilled another. He had vowed the young lady’s feet would not need to touch the ground when he was around, and already he was making it so.

His toes didn’t hurt a bit.

[notmuchtoconceal]

Two lights. One shining each upon stars.

Once at the German Pavilion, second at the Electrical Building.

Two satellites eclipsed themselves, for they had attained stable rotation.

. . .

( )

. ( .

. ) .

, O ,

o 0 o

Laika danced.

\\./

He danced, that eyes might be drawn as streamers of silk through the blank canvass of the air which he perfumed always with the spice of himself. The distillation of his bis flexing beneath the creaking leather. What faint stirrings of rivulets sprung forth from the crooks of his elbows; the canyons of his every rugged contour, flowing fluid as mudflats, petrified to dazzling crests -- radiating out in iridescent rings, twirling in ascension up the steppe of themselves.

Above him, the twin mushroom clouds of bundled grains held his hand tethered to the heartland.

Vast behind him sprawled the plains. The sweeping frieze of mountains suspended in the air. The clouds behind him petrified to stonemasonry as every wisp of riverrock sprawled forth in the tendrils of treeroots to encoil the splints of our ankles.

//.\

[The Serpent's Knot :--

In Absentia,

or The Ascension

of St. Paolo]

Laika danced.

He danced that the strings might shriek in tune with the creakings of his bones and twain. He danced that, in his own chest, the blade-edges of each rib well-sheathed in spiderwebs of string-meat might not thrum, but throb and pump :-- bursting through each leaden and coagulated limb; every trench of his arteries porous, adhesive, creaking as the spines of antique books begging to be cracked.

( )

there's honey in the

hollows

Through the pools of liquid crystal, we saw Our Lord Cpt. Drottin :-- battered in his whities, still suspended in the winter air.

Daily we pray to him, and pantomime the consumption of his flesh for our daily bread. The wine flowing as abundant richness from the soles of our feet, calloused and tawny as the blood we lap from the stump of his neck and bronze-eyes of his mutilated palms.

Our hair we perfumed with the oils we let drop and shatter, to smear alike in filth and richness through our fingers. The gloss was ours to wear -- pungent and sweet, cloaking us even as we reeked.

In masks of floral brocade, we looked to one another in half-glances through the line, beckoning these violations we too might suffer openly and gladly. That we too may be marked. Be condemned. Revealed for those bounteous things we are.

Rippling as winds across the plain, the clouds veiling those shallow ponds of depthless eyes -- his heartfelt and agonizing eyes.

We saw now drenched in tears with rivers upheaving pikes of mountainpeaks sutured shut to crystal ice :-- His milky skin so flushed, the steam rising off his face as much His tears, Our spit, Our piss pouring into his still wedged-wide pi(ee) hole from tubes he chugs down deservedly and gladly. The demolished balcony of his muscle-gut grows thicker with ridges rising into stairs the more he attempts to maintain balance, attempts to press himself up.

To pressurize himself to grow through the very seams of his bones as he chugs -- chugs, chugs, chugs -- all his brothers have to offer.

Our only worthy substitute. Our one true Lord and Savior. Only through he could our pain be allevied, for by partaking of His was Ours lessered.

and the contours of

the body

( )

Laika rose to the anatomical model.

At the center of the circle, our eyes stirred in-rotation with the ether of his guts and nerves. Splendid and translucent in pastel-metals near amber-resin through the harmony of strings which rippled in waves of liquid light. All around him whirred the bars of birdcages folding inward as the petals of perennially-blooming lotus leaves fanning always before our faces.

Around the cap of his skull, the bare sutures inviting -- by inert and sultry leadenness -- the plucks and pries of wandering fingers to vistas near-and-far, we saw now open fields where dogs would play in city lots vacant of potential by rubbish bins no child could budge. Our little brother's eyes, his designer's eyes -- balanced on these empty rooms, peering towards manor-houses in distant nations.

What mad and obsessive frivolities consumed him: to stitch and restitch, polish and re-polish, arrange and rearrange, to keep these pigs clothed in silk.

(WE CUT OUR FEED

WITH PEELS AND PEARLS)

Waves of light wisped and beaded in a veil of mesh and crystal, petrified to a splendid net which was at once hood and cage.

Caught on the trident of his crown -- slowing now -- he turned to the eyes of his admirers.

Our lil Ares in blue chalcedony, as embers streak through panes of his helmet -- past magma flows arcing down obsidian riverbeds in snowfields of quartz -- he beholds -- the ascent so close as he comes back round this time again -- his boots snaking and shrieking across the tile, legs stiff as logjams strutting ;-- ( ) a jerk from the steel cording of his kneecap to the prime cut of his thighs as he arches his back (flings himself forward and back) so the pinpoints of his bones glitter metallic in the light and all praise him with all eyes on him, for all are lost as he is found in them :-- these eyes which were legion coalescing to spores and photons to mildew back into some state where all is stony-moss with love again.

(juyha)

A sluggish golden river

Beyond the circumference of the circle of light, the statues of Diana stared without color or porthole in faces stony masks, as too the pillows of their breasts were quarry cliffs.

Dead as the moon always waning, even as she waxed, who had been the mirror by which we admired her vanity. Beautiful as she was beaten, dragging out the days as -- turn by turn -- she did not rise to flee, but rode out the pressures til we submerged ourselves in seas we could not keep down. To any with academic intent, with will to reason beyond the paltry and immediate, this could not be seen as a critique of woman, but the masturbatory drive to impotence in worshipping her visage through our drive to degrade her.

She we knew only to hold our balls in a vise as she squeezed and met us in eyes she yearned to see shut forever; she who pressed her fingers to our sockets to shlick the fat clits of our brainstems feeding on fear for it was all she knew by gentle lapping of breath and tongue in the dark. Depriving herself of the love of man by desecrating not his likeness, but the soul of him who was before her in flesh.

A sickly golden trickle

The statues of Diana, silhouetted in darkness; the pilferings of antiquities overlapping, from the days of Athens, Rome, Ephesus and Venice. These things which we treasured, for they were beyond time, anchored in an eternal present by their beauty; coveted by those who did not see what we saw, knew not the mean or the weight of their worth, but saw simply -- that others looked upon them, and desired them. Thus being desirable, they too desired them, too; they acting right, and looking always to others for what to model, how to engage, to be something other than the fleeting sliver of an unknown ;-- pushed any way you can into the faint luminance of another's eyes; that you smile and talk and have some power over another, that you may displace the lack you have over yourself on another.

A golden, sticky

They who were worms, these men who were not-so though seemed to be less -- hearing this dissertation could only lament.

They, feeling the blade-edges between the words -- the reflections of splotched and greasy node-like faces they longed to see smashed shut forever by ball and by fist -- which stung so much worse than any what or why you spoke, knew only the dread of exposure to shames they could not give voice, they pressed first the points of self-willed pressures on themselves in steel swan-glides down chests, into gashings between the weepy lids of their ribs, probing themselves in hate-fucks of their own nervous systems, mind-raping each individual nerve ending as they find always vigor and virility in their own living death, anguish flowing from the bile in their veins did cry -- asking always, asking always what's wrong with that?

(what's wrong with that?)

Not knowing the nature of their failings, nor the worth of they who held them in contempt, for they deluded first themselves then distorted all around them, to vacuum away all in tunnel-vision wishing only their derangement to be the norm. To live in hell that they may not be wounded by the light of truth. Degraded all, for they were degraded, and had not the strength to recognize their condition; unable to confront what lies had shaped them and how those lies now unshaped them into potter's clay spinning on a wheel.

trickle

Falling back on their behaviorist theories, appeals to the scientific models they used to flatter their convenience, lacking the strength to be men or women (androgyne, neuter, all or none) they now wished to abolish both rather than overflow as a font from a more perfect union within themselves. Citing the nature of social animals, praying to their own ape-like origins there was nothing above, and all which was below remained naught but mere raw thermal activity.

That this was all okay.

That their simple animal minds needn't be shamed, for all which they detested, feared and wished to take into themselves was not only alien, but inhuman -- a natural longing for the unnatural, for the state of man was bestial, and all shepherds were of space, needing to make sheep of gorillas through test-tubes of seminal exchange, thus flipping the script on themselves and resenting you, the givers of life and language for the mutilation which had been born of them -- the shrieking light of consciousness which was such a wretched burden, the only heaven on earth was a return to route animicity where to rape and kill bore no consequence, for all was nakedly rather than deceptively alive in the hierarchy of feeding.

Crying, crying, crying.

How all they wished was to eat and fuck and be told what to do, and still -- still demanding you dignify them and praise them. Sooth and condone and condescend. Not for their ability, but unwillingness to try; all ability being unlacked in the art of will.

You can hear the bones

humming

The Laikanites pierced the veil of darkness. Shaped by it, molded by its oily tendrils and brutish fingers. The light bruised and blistered though their skin remained flawless as their muscles splayed firm and heavy, diamond-cut in streaks of light where the black Orthodox robes they wore in imitation of their brother clung to every bulging contour: so tight the sheen of sweat parted red seas of darkness to bring even the outlines of their abs to our inviting eyes; fading in and out of the porous starfields which weren't there, for light itself was a trick of the void, well-concealing every inch of their skin as well as the more opacified shells of leather or latex, spun though it was, rather than flayed or tapped; their modesty beckoning only further obscenity as each, though bright-eyed and jovial in youth as their spiritual and psychological sire, let grow long the thick of their manes ;-- well-brushed, oiled and tended throughout the past four months of unimpeded growth, to tangle as ivied root systems of keratain golden bronze and bloody gold in the pale light.

Eight in number, two heads taller, their senior officer lead them -- his eyes at all times as Laika's were in the blaze of enduring effort: two firey braziers on an ice wall in the dead of night, keeping constant vigil to open the gate and bring his weary brothers home.

To look upon him -- as the men he lead could not -- milked acidity from your eyes as you knew not what poisons washed your face, nor what caustics poured onto your cheeks to let them burn. For to see him was to see so clearly every touch could smear -- even the slightest brush would stain, and what fool, what madman would dare to tarnish him who was not incorruptible, but the most for he was pure :-- begging to be cut and sold with lead and soy and assorted preserves that all may taste, yet none enjoy him as he was.

You can hear the bones

humming

In canopic jars, heads festooned with owl, raven, shark and dolphin, a piece of his liver, a piece of his pancreas, a chunk of his left testicle and right lung sat suspended in a webbing of circuit boards to engorge and thrum as miniature war drums, muffled only by fluid suspension of geyserfoam and boiling surf, so that citric through the glass bottoms like the boats of reefs, the streams of sunlamps could pass through to cast silhouettes across the floor.

And the car reverses

over

Cpt. Hlaford stood to raise into the spotlight so graciously provided him. Two horned wings crowned the scalp-wreath of laurels distending straight-out the wavy black locks he let down on this occasion. In buddings of cordyceps out the fat front lobes he allied to let dangle as leaden bollocks out the back of this skull, well-encased within a sheer pouch woven layer-by-layer of sheets of rejection-grade latex, tree rings formed overlapping into arabesques, as if bundles of branches mid-bloom an eternal spring from the titanium-gold and brass-ringed vertebrae stitched as chevron heavy-quilt audio cables, around which the fat fleshy buddings entwined and lily-padded as lichen up a trunk.

The body in the

basin

In a swashbuckler's tunic of Tyrian purple, arms and chest well-harnessed in coils of belts buckled and bundled into notch, he struck the floor with a staff nine feet tall carved and polished from an oak branch to let ripple as a gong through his bones which sung as Tibetan bowls through the pins of his joints and meshes of piano wire in cartilage inlaid with hybrid metals sculpted for resonance.

In the shallow sea plane

basin

The circle of light contracted, enveloping the inner circle of the worms, who chastised themselves under the pretense of praising Laika Who Was Lord, so that for a time now, only he was visible :-- the sole sun at the center of a galaxy of his own contraction, for beyond the narrow circumference which his eyes could parse, lay dormant all potentials which embraced him though he and they remained mutual enigmas -- and yet still he danced. Still he danced, turning now towards some seeming arbitrary and yet absolute specified place in the dark where he held his eyes and smiled with a naked display of dominion which was the pure joy of being.

And the car reverses

over

Holding contact, as hips still swaying, he took in hand his heavy leather jacket and twirled it overhead. The light bore out back so that each and every Laikanite man who walked in procession stood now in a second circle outside the inner-ring of worms, and -- the statues of Diana looming, pillars of salt between them -- dropped the incense balls they carried, sounding as the ripples of a second gong (this composed of eight smaller gongs) onto panels on the marble floor whose embers shone through bisecting triangles inlaid with Arabic type. ;-- Some heating element which, by clean convection, ignited the herb and rose high the smoke -- sweet, floral, woody, bitter -- in plumes to greet our nostrils. As Laika continued to twirl, so too did each raise their incense balls overhead to swing as maces :-- each chain whirling through the air not only singing as another string in the symphony, but opening vortexes which drew down and billowed the smoke to disperse as veils over foggy moors.

And his body rolls

over

With his free hand, he pulls away the clasps of the buttons of his shirt -- the calfskin which was the second layer of his uniform, holding him always in caress -- to expose the ribbed white cotton tank he wore beneath. Dewy with sweat and bulging with muscle, the wiry copper hairs peeking over the stitches which lined the edges, so two roses alone bloomed in the summer snowfield therein :-- the lips of prosthetics which held the blood at bay puckering through sheer cotton. Moundbuilders bustling in his abdominal wall seeming to lick themselves with tongues they never had, fat and heaving for your aching prick which rose to heaven as a multi-faced totem pole.

Crushed from the

houlder

Another mallet of Cpt. Hlaford's staff, a third gong rings out.

The circle dilates past the second ring of Laikanites to expose , at the outermost periphery of this new solar system, the Schreibermachen men who -- despite their official designation visually on-record -- we refer to simply and sometimes affectionately as the Joeys.

Stiff as garden statuary, each stands coiled with one of the Nine Temple Priestesses who -- to they who fancied themselves the Sun Kings -- were called the Sisters of Grain, though now eight were visible, each stood blindfolded by the trail of her glittering gown :-- four holding bushels of wheat, four holding scales on which were balanced the hearts of the worms -- they who turned from Laika, the King They Despised For They Could Never Be (Whose Sweetness Was Their Weakness, Whose Fetid Vacuity Was Their Cross to Unburden and Burlesque Upon the Bearskin Rug) to rim the edges of cardiac pussy lips, spitting into their own vivisection wounds -- squirting black blood coagulated as afterbirth, brown as rust in the blinding light :-- against a single ibis feather they carried to remind themselves all women were dogs, and all men bitches, and what takes flight is not weighed down by heavy bones; and the plate of scale when blooming in expanse alike with the flowers of the trees gives way to air: to he who was Lord Over All Principalities and Mocked Us, Anchored and Earthbound by the simple awareness of his being ;-- We, always so keen to displace the responsibility for how we mock ourselves, humility not being our right, for being so backwards, any step we take could only blind us further.

Without a personal metaphysics to impose on the order of the cosmos, we were lost and all speculations those learned amongst us could dredge from the abattoir floors of their beaten schoolyard consciousnesses could estimate only at things beyond any awareness ;-- and all estimations being beyond us, we took their theories as gospel and let ourselves grow fat and atrophied in the comfort by the estimations of our betters; hating them for being our betters, yet refusing to do anything in regard to bettering us.

You can hear the bones

humming

The Ninth Who Was First, a second spotlight opened for her (as expected, better late than never -- Who kept you waiting, demanding promptly.) She stared into the full-length mirror in which was a room for her, which was not behind her, but within the glass.

Far from a shallow plane, this porthole with its floral-gilt edges, inlaid with pearls overflowing from the feed-troughs, was not trash, but better saved for her. That she could take it for granted, as it collected dust in the casual sneering of some dimension slightly better -- it was enough. Simply and utterly -- more than enough. Unnecessary was it to be expanded by reduction to objective fact, for this was less wasted on her than they who would gobble them up unthinkingly to shit out with enforced contemplation the excretion simply for their buttholes needed stretch to accommodate what came ;-- why, this needed no elaboration, nor even mention, that being far less of a mystery than none. That with her, a still-nothing could endure was preferable to this mockery of childbirth which came in-out a man's anus, the backside deserving only to be smacked.

She heard these words, seeing them less as a means to convey information than as sounds which wrung as gongs within themselves, confirming a harmony she saw with her own eyes, ached for within her own cunt. Knowing quite well -- they were all for her.

All for her. Words could only confirm, never address. Words could only omit, never pin. What she knew was always already true, and men existed only to actualize her will already dormant in things.

She was the sole person for whom these words were composed -- even if the author would not admit -- for she was one and only always in mind, even if he lacked the gall to say it out loud -- that gall which was for her sincerest flattery, unspeakable though it was for her heart or her senses -- for all which was said aloud were but pieces in the puzzle she painted over, to claim any scrap fit not only in arrangment to her liking, but color over for her cool convenience.

Singing like a

puncture

To another thud of the staff, the Sisters of Grain raise what free hands they have to the clinch below the plunge of their cleavage, pulling free a golden pin which drops the veils of their robes, still gauzy and tethered to their faces as parachutes of white-gold corpseflower, icy and luminous in a winter dusk -- dancing along the floor, leaving bare breasts to stand full-figured and erect in tapered thighs, flaring ribs, the cloud topographies of cellulite; cankers wet and heady as the mute lips of wet pink eyes always staring.

Yet the Joeys -- whose eyes you saw always through -- could pick from these distended canvasses (abandoned to their silks and leisure) the raw muscularity of abdominal potential waiting to be excavated in diamond-cuts of repetition after repetition, thrust after thrust. For each was less a block of marble than a lump of clay, and from what he pared he would feed back -- fingering and pressing -- choking as he held; for what souls lay helpless and dormant in these husks could not fight, only shriek with a torment which was glee and a glee which was torment. For his eyes, their heat, the force of their muscularity bent them so far they could envision only breaking, knowing not the limits of their pliability.

Singing like a

puncture

Each Joey looking over the blind woman before him, inspected her with the calculated savagery they invited but could not delight.

Prized specimens waiting to be pampered. Waiting to be made perfect by their masters. These men who were so bright and filled with contempt, who would spurn them always with their laughter and disinterest. Giving always unsolicited advice from across the room as they looked to one another with conspiratorial smirks which made their legs clench and put their teeth on edge as they could only stare back, stare back and attempt not to drool for this was unladylike and a lady was better off a Valkyrie than a bitch in heat like these bastards always smacking each other on the asses and holding each other close to kiss and paw like honied bears. So many good men, wasted always on other good men. They as women could never be good enough. Not without surrendering things never given for reasons never specified, to those who expected but didn't much care.

Each Joey, grabbing a ball of her hair, pulled them each chin-up to face him, and brought their lips close to deny her.

The tears flowing at first slow down their faces, they felt the heat of his minty breath as each drew close to align with her.

Anchored between their widening thighs, the heft of leather bulges pressed to their aching cunts, they yanked her hair farther back, as if testing the elasticity of their necks -- simply to hear them wince, hear them whine, see which first could make his bellow out a plea, a curse, a rapturous affirmation of the bliss of this moment, caged as they were in the bars of an aviary they bent by personal magnetism.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

On the extreme outer edge, past even the Joeys and their silent but always willing benefactors, stood eight healthy men hand-selected by yours truly, eyes-alert, engaged and gagged -- heavy rubber balls stuffed beneath strips of ox-leather clamped to jaws, pressed so deep they would swallow and choke if relenting in their vigilance -- bound to stakes astride heaps of rubbish which would ignite in plumes of black tarry smoke once dimmed by a spark, masking the sweetness of the incense, yet wholly unable to scream loud enough to drown out the notes of the song.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

We offered them not to the Gods, who though they deserved our best, deplored human and animal sacrifice (particularly those beasts of the most sublime beauty which they revealed as their avatars on earth) for we distorted always the words which were of our own making, not to surrender ourselves to the effort of our calling, or refrain from those comforts in which we grew leprous, but give -- always with the utmost pity -- to satiate the bloodlust we could not keep down, not ever find cause to deny ourselves.

With no stars, only faults, the sky was itself the earth, and into a chasm we belched only searing miasmas. Thus, we gave only things we did not need for reasons which flattered our means. Looking always to unload something which was a burden on someone for whom we had pity. For this we were gifted the right to doubt and to whine and to curse the fonts of wisdom which nourished us. Feeling ourselves free to piss openly in the crystal springs at which we drank, so all may know the distillations of our flavor.

We -- who were above all what was most worthy of note -- lacking as we were in admiration, being good enough as it was, and entitled always to be perceived as better -- seeing the uniform standard of the cosmos in each other and our tribal envies, we extrapolated out theories of nature at which we were the center, even in our insignificance -- veering so far in the opposite direction, we arrived back and the same place and saw it suitable to rest, having made no progress at all though we exerted -- by our standards -- a fine effort, making those we professed to love complicit in our deceptions.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

Thus even now, we profess to flatter the Gods with an open display of our innate grotesquery for which we had most contempt, simply to flatter ourselves, for still we needed flattering. Having not enough attention at home, it didn't stick :-- things which made us repulsive were repulsive, and as everyone we knew was repulsive, it was easy to forget -- the standard we set is not the standard we see, for the filth of the malaise in which we shared was a constant temptation masked as aerosol over shit which did not cleanse the poisons in the air, but deceive our senses by the addition of more.

Look at us!

Look at us in our derangement and our idiocy!

See that we are worthy of extinction.

See that we are above saving!

See how we profess that life was a mistake and end it. End it now!

Great Gods, abandon us!

We will ourselves beyond redemption!

We deny Grace, for she is a Nancy, always sneering ;--

When a beautiful thing has ugliness, it absolves itself of all beauty and increases its ugliness four-fold. Our reception is all which matters, and our limitation being parmount, our inability to see through to the paradox of fullness could never be our fault, and we being without blame, are unable to cast it. Thus, you understand now, it having been demonstrated by sheer reason (the standard given being both absolute and beyond question) that beauty is an illusion, for it is the pretense by which we break our heart.

Like Hope, it is the simple means by which we prolong our torture. For we can conceive of truth and freedom coming only in the dissolution of enduring whim, for void of substance in ourselves, we are kind only that we may be seen, give only for we may control. The beauty of others reminds us only of what we are not, and so to hate becomes the highest compliment one can give.

To spoil hatred with frivolity erodes us of all righteousness, for now there is no earnest disgust, no somber mush to choke down and spit up, disgust being but a pretense to be babied.

Maturity is therefore complicity with systems of denial masquerading as autonomy. All indignation being a means to manipulate, there is no truth to speak to power, for there is no power in a state of total control, and the lies we tell ourselves we pass off as love, not having enough consideration for others to spare them our bullshit. Thus we can only despoil, demanding they center us, for we have none and no means to see past the nothing we are inside and, by sharp insistence unrelenting as the whir of a drill -- apparently also out.

Kill

to keep

the world

turning

These strong and upright, morally fibrous and able-bodied men who loved so freely and so passionately, any who gave themselves willingly -- we offer to the lowest amongst us.

To they who could not save themselves and sneered at any attempt.

These men, who have so much to give and still so much good left to do, we give to those who lack the will to make of themselves even suicides; who every bright and living soul they see fit to ruin through odious deceptions against themselves (treachery which begins first against their own bodies and souls) being not even human beings, but things with human forms, embodied compulsion we would not deceive ourselves further by altering beyond recognition (though this artistry would have proven a point of honesty alike as heresy.)

These men, we give willingly to those who will never appreciate them. These men, we give to they who worship their own failure under the guise of Laika. They who made a deception of his cult and were thus now closest to him, praying for his ruin under the guise of patronage.

These men -- we give to the worms.

Throw his bones

over

The Sisters of Grain (those four who carried the bushels of wheat) as each Schreibermachen man pressed his stiff and throbbing prick (upright and outlined through the bulge of his calf-leather to the Avalon mists encroaching the frail cross-hatchings of their panty silk) stood each with a leg bent and raised as though a chorus girl mounting a pedestal and shook them from their plasters.

Beneath the spikes of their heels, the four worm hearts which went unweighed against the feathers of truth -- the sublime humiliation only the boldest of the boldless could bare -- milked themselves in squirts and gushes -- up and down, up and down -- the legs long shorn craned as swans, as with a kick each were sent sliding across the floor in curlicues of gore and shitwater onto the convection panels still glowing before the Laikanites on which they had earlier ignited to smoldering the incenses of their herb.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

From out trapdoors at the center podium where Laika danced, risen in three-layer cakes of a model ziggurat, the Jacekobeans emerged in portable crypts, front-facing panels insulated with a translucent latex sheet to trap their smell and preserve their freshness.

Each man stood bolt-upright and motionless in manacles of copper wire which ran around wrists, ankles, waists and chest through holes bore in the back of the box. Each caked scalp to toe in storm mud sculpted to enhance the width and swell of their muscularity.

The whites of their eyes flickering. Grunts and growls in the light.

Clay soldiers awakened and thrashed stuttering halted motion cracking the toplayers of soil to throw pressure not only against the backs of their skulls (gongs of bone muted on domes of concrete) but to each corresponding clinch point that tethered.

Still, Laika danced.

And into the sea

the sea of Rome

Four of the Schreibermachen men drew their lugers.

Eagle-eyed and scopeless, they extended itchy trigger-fingers on swings of strong arms. Squinting as they took sight, pressing pulsating hard-ons deeper into the shallow basins of the Sister's cunts, the decibels of bullet fire rang out in harmony with another bashing of the gongs. Well-enmeshed within the weave of sound, each girl's gasp mimed inaudible though her lips parted and throat quivered -- moaning still, a continuous yawning as beads of pre pearly in the whirling light glistened high-contrast in the muzzle flare -- for they'd fired two rounds with pinpoint accuracy to pierce the veils of latex and graze the wrists and ankles of the Jacekobeans, shattering the rear-bound coils of their bindings.

And the bloodstained

coast

Then another and another.

of Ostia

Another and another. Another and another.

Leon like a

lion

(This process needing be repeated, to account for one half of the Schreibermachen forces liberating the whole of the Jacekobeans.)

Sleeping in

the sunshine

Waists and chests now free, they punched forward and tore down the barriers which boxed them, cutting all the easier through the membrane with strips of jagged metal lacing their wrists.

Lion lies

down

Bursting out the boxes, the remaining four of the Schreibermachen men seized the worm hearts of their ladies' scales with verve enough to send chains flying and displace feathers in buoyant flutters landing all by providence in the bands of their blindfolds, recollecting lavender bands of green felt fedoras, upright through the wispy locks of voluminous pony manes spread as halos in the light.

Lion lies

down

Brandishing spears yanked from one half of an L-block but a league from the Laikanite convection panels, those four who were freed by the second shot leapt to swerve, impaling the meat of the rotten hearts at their tips and plunging down as an extension of that single motion -- to stamp idle moisture to the grill of the tile as they bowed to the Laikanites still immersed in their rotations.

Out of the strong

Those hearts they pressed to the heating coils now bloomed in steam and in sizzle, as the hearts earlier kicked sat already half-grilled, now needing to be flipped by the first shot of each Jackobean free, who from his L-configuration seized in place of his spear, a broadsword on whose blood gutters he spatula'd the meat, exposing to the eyes of our adoring public the crispy braised mahagony of the cardiac tissue as they too bowed to the Laikanites.

came forth

sweetness

The perfumes of the incense mingled with the savory of the grill as the steam rose to entwine with smoke pouring down as the Sisters who clutched their scales let them drop and clang in synchronization with another staff gong across the tile.

Laika dancing, Laika dancing.

Out of the

strong

Eight pyres illuminated the far corners of the room, the stench of burning garbage drew round the stream of motion and could not seep into the inner sanctum which we made by our dance -- the brine of our leather, the musk of our mighty pits, the headiness of our cocks and balls mingling with the marshy saline of the Sister's cunts standing sharp and pungent through jasmine and cedar, cypress and marjoram, salivating now with the sweetmeats braised and bronzed, tears coming to our eyes, we heard only the stunning compositions in which we were immersed, to linger sinuously in ecosystems we had made of the months we'd let ferment off the calender unto an age.

came forth

sweetness

The Statues of Diana, each a full moon in her own right, even when not posed half-away to expose the chisel of her shapely buttocks.

In the interim, each had drifted from the scattered archipelagos in their seas of darkness, pushed by invisible hands in visible currents of light to form another ring, the second which had once been of the Laikanites, who were now fourth, as the Jacekobeans had become third and the Schreibermachen men fifth, entangled with the Sisters in their proximate sixth, and another still -- beyond them the seventh of another circle of stones before the fires which were eighth, and they who were we would all draw close, emitting from the rays of Laika's heart the arc of rainbow which was monochrome as the rings of Saturn in meat and stone, microplastics and heavy metals.

Throw his bones

over

Each Jacekobean now thrust to his feet, the first-freed swap places with the second, so the seconds could flip the meat not too long ago speared as the firsts could spear the meat recently flipped to raise unto the nostrils of the Laikanites. A silent gasp unseen on severe and studious young faces each of whom was as he needed not say, a philosopher and a king, a student and a disciple always unworthy of the Gods he had made of his brothers in the flesh: the brothers whom he invited the Gods into by virtue of his loving so freely.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

The spice of the meat, the perfume of blood, rang chimes we didn't hear, our ears already bleeding -- to wake the dragons coiled within his synapses (their each and ev'ry individuated synapse, precious as a daisy-chain hand-entwined by those gentle and busy fingers, buried deep in the shallc of petrified mudflats) to the bloodlust which was that state of basic entitlement to the air they breathed.

And Murder Me

Swinging backwards, each White Knight was walking.

in Ostia

As if a game of limbo in chess, each Jacekobean ducked, twirling spears or arc'ing broadswords in evasions which seemed not only telegraphed, but close-captioned: as if the frame-by-frame were live with annotations and play-by-plays over-stuffing you between the lines were jitters of seconds, for some rotating clockwise and some counter, all were current with the minute hands rushing as minute-men, growing more frenzied second by second.

And Murder Me

Forward, back.

Seas above, seas below.

By all, they knew only darkness.

In Ostia

One by one, their incense balls swung out on chains refusing suspension by arms they built to ballast, straight as the backbones built by their own hands (nothing more above, they who could not be contained by the line) to collide with the Statues of Diana.

The sea of

Rome

A head here, a hand there -- one was taken out by the leg, another a torso to rubble, head and shoulders falling to the floor.

It happens so fast and does not stop : -- each man a landwalker of limbs, pulling back their chains to swing and shatter what remains, with the fire in their eyes hateful as the look you would give a misbehaving child, reveling the abortions you now made live, entitled to any life which still depended on you; sending up clouds of dust still trailing smoke signals turnt skywriting, signatures of names too beautiful to say aloud, they all being his ;--

And the bloodstained

coast

The Joeys mid-choreography -- with motions gracile and machine-like as arcade claws which never miss, yet still ruthlessly drain you of your quarters -- rip the buckles from their belts to send steel clanging across the floor in parallel arrangement with the silver scales (each now casting a reflection onto the other and constructing railways of light velveteen as mattress folds across the floor ;-- each holding two though there were only four) to let slip from their downy briefs fat uncut pricks full anteater-taper long as treetrunks and pink as rose-buds desperate to be kissed ;-- guiding the plump just-as-so's of their women into alignment with them, this ultimate privilege they could never appreciate, the range of their buffet burning, having not enough of a sample to appreciate its boquet.

And the car

reverses

over

The Jacekobeans, kicking once more each of the hearts -- pan-fried by the basin of the floor, glossy and bronzed to expose specks of charbroil to the dawning light -- to one another, they domed and belled coverings against platters and struck them once, twice, thrice with spoons that another gong might ring out with his ;--

Despite their muscularity, each having grown only more yoked over the course of his encasement (every iota of pressure a lead plate against the panes of his back and chest) they backflipped from the diamond-woven rugs as a place setting on which each had placed his heart, onto the initial L-configuration of his closest brother, there returning his sword or his spear to where his spear or his sword had lain, and -- resting there beside it -- took up a club which composed the shorter joint of the L, turning each to rush for the worms.

The White Cliffs

of Dover

The Sister's Heads bobbed up and down on the Joeys' cocks and each lost herself in a rhapsofy of music, cascading with crescendos of flavor which fried her brain in tune to the thrumming of the rain, inciting such friction against her brainstem, so sweetly stimulating the fear signals to ice cream floats at vintage diners left to decay in the cobwebs which composed the flytrap of inevitable endtimes always invited – coming concussive as drum beats across their front lobes, they had not time to tune out and to begin to compose for their later recitation reviews of restaurant menus or grocery lists for some meditation come amusement which was ultimately practical as a means to keep smart and pretty ... before each Joey, still seizing her fist-balled by the hair-- yanked her off and held her there: suspended on streamers of light tethering them to their pricks; to hang helpless, beckoning and ultimately worthless at his mercy.

And into the

sea

White knuckle to the club, each Jacekobean bashed the skull of a worm. First caved straight in from the top of the sutures like a roof collapsing, splattering globs of skull fragment off-white matter over the triune stage, the walls of the crypts, a splatter here and there, coming in swirls of cherry-colored flavor always frosting, hitting Laika himself -- once smiling, once licking it off with a wink as some got in his eyes -- dancing, dancing, half-blind and in total harmony.

Dancing, dancing.

the sea of

Rome

Others cleaved heads from necks by brute strength. Some severing the spinal vertebrae shattered to splinters. Fractures through the throat or the meat of the neck skewered on its own back. Beckoning a hand-picked grill of shishkebabs on icicles of marrow.

Some hang by peels of skin like an orange half-peeled. Others fall to the ground, to shake, spasm, gargle, writhe. Brain-dead on impact. Unalive but for basic respiratory functions, yet still miraculously able to suffer: able to shriek with lungs they didn't have, feeling it as the clubs came down again onto nerves already over-taxed.

You can

hear

the bones

humming

Each Joey threw his Sister to the floor, onto the puff'd and billowy cotton field of her gown which was now their bed in the winding scatterings of light which caged them in the panes of dawn ;-- Her blindfolds emerging as if a stalk and she a bulb from the petals and floats of vile blooms too thick and veiny to wilt.

Writhing there, each seized handfuls of her bedding as they felt first the weight of the shadows coming over them, each of a density heavier. First heat engulfed them in a cloud of spores weighted as blankets, leaden as a sheet of dandelion clouds, bringing with them an exhaustion in her ev'ry cell as their joys, their anticipations, their squeals of excitement arrested, as something somewhere seized their hearts -- they surrendered. To what, they could not say …

For as each Schreibermachen man came over them, they were but ragdoll bundles of nerves which could not pluck the lyres of sensations to the arcs of their bones; would not sing nor vibrate ;-- mere deadweight, though each would be ravished: each fat pink beautiful prick entering their warm and unthankful cunts.

You can

hear

the bones

humming

In the crow's nest, Cpt. Haruspex made it happen.

His eyes unwavering on his reflection, he saw them through his visor.

Though he sat in this dark room overlooking the festivities with a monolith of black bakelite suspended before his eyes as the censor bar of a pair of retrotech sunglasses only to be worn at night, on the inside :-- on the domes of his inner eyes, he saw himself in the mirror before him -- the room well-lit to accommodate him, for he was naked and splayed, though his trousers remained on as he sat alone in the dark in a state of total concentration where he gave not one passing idle thought to fondling his own fat throbbing prick through the leather to make it grow fatter, achier and twitchier as it slung plastered to his leg, where any rational man of science beholding him in this condition (not likely, for his preference for privacy, which he continually ensured by always showing off!) would think it reasonable he had grown a tentacle or was being attacked by a snake!

The microchips in his brain ran transactions through the ether, accessing emotional reserves in each Sister and Joey; the sum energetic and corporeal potential of each quantified by secretive (and yet always transparent) conversion matrices guaranteed to derive a 98.9% accuracy or higher printerless-print-out of a soluble electro-cerebrogram measured in ounces from the pattern oriented; run through algorithmic conversions from a cocktail list of androgenic and neurogenerative chemicals in the brain derived from free-floating microliters as well as potential for expression by available receptors (estimating for variances brought-about by inadequate nutrition, hydration or injury, as well as further potential for net-growth derived by predictive rapid-data processing and number crunching of measured gene-activation probability, estimated future feeding schedules, and potential hardware upgrades -- masking as an artificially-derived sentient-will via quasi-predictive randomizations of a glossary of pre-loaded phrases!)

Multiple accounts, he opened and closed.

(A summary of the above paragraph he included below!)

Converting bioavailability of all types into raw data which would then be unpacked and unloaded via the access points at which the synthetic became the organic, strings of sound high as piano wire bellowed as pipe organs blistering in their skulls, throbbing temples in their veins rising as complexes across the vaults of their ceilings. Thunderclaps rang out as the second-to-last gong over monitor lizards of rainbow stimulation markers cross-section'd on displays where pop-ups displayed and decreased total androgenic expression here, to increase it there, and kept each as uniform and predictable as a Joey could be, always so boyish and eager to please.

And into the sea

On the floor, the Bruxites rushed through blizzards of rubble falling cleanly on cedars of stone splinters, serene and heroic as field medics. Pirate-plowing forward on the hypnotic metronome of wheels coming in lapping waves across streams of tile, they held-clasped the gilt-frames of full-length mirrors which they twirled as ambulances rounding intersections, swerving in loop-dee loops ahead of the Joeys: each jumping on the ornate base of his frame (turnt slightly inward) extending his hand out and raising his hat both in balance and in-greeting as the musing of a man mounting a tram.

Each twirl'd in figure-eights so he himself was swept-in flat against the plane which rotated round and round on its hinges on the legged-columns of its wheels – turning faster and faster ;– So fast we lost sight of backs against the glass; and from each side two Bruxites jumped out – one as alike as the other and each seemingly as backwards so neither they (nor the other, nor any man watching or woman not) could tell any body from his reflection!

the sea of Rome 

The Bruxites -- firm believers all that any violation of the law of conversation (sick!) of mass could be resolved by the presence of nanomachines – the portal of the mirror now unclogged of him, the caffeine molecule against your adenosine receptors -- they opined, by the inevitability of what they could only inevitably beget and represent, the Joeys to death and exhaustion. 

Holding her, he thought only of how much he hated her.

Pressing her breasts. Holding her shoulders. Caressing her hair.

Had he a cleaver. Had he an ice-pick.

Had he a butterknife, he would more than smear. 

He yearned to dig his nails into her soft flesh, cleaving it as gyro meat over a spitfire of two other girls. When his mouth would salivate at the thought of her, the necessity of an open flame would render her dubious taste all the less so. Like an insect protein she was and was simply bitter. The coffee old and burnt. The dead and ancient cola nuts he ground down with his molars to taste every fiber of dirt. Black African soap which scarred his skin with twigs and shrapnel of river rock as it stained the tub. There was nothing which the taste of fire and dirt could not make more sweet. Her creamy body as though mildewed from simple syrup molding from sugarcane, the carcass wet and sweet as a corn stalk waiting to be refined.

What beautiful women the Bruxites could design for him. How they pampered her and sculpted her, churing her like butter as the lies she told herself smoothed over to smother into the admiration of a nation which was the bready uncooked toast of the foundation of a people. Why was he here? Why was he doing … any of this?

Laika. Laika. Laika. Laika.

God savor the Queen. What a twerp we are unfit to love, his needing Us to love Him to love Himself. (The backdoor willingly broken into! The front left off the hinges.) A miserable fool AM I to break apart this compartment from the stones of my own being to build a stage, a tomb, a prison for this which is most Precious and Beloved of Me.

You can hear

In the crow's nest, the mirror into which Cpt. Haruspex saw into (though he stared only at the overlapping screens of his sunglasses at night) rippled as pools of boiling mercury, for from that sweetly enticing metallic water (gem-shiny as juice-boxes and yearly flu-shots in genocide season) came two long slander arms, at the ends of which were two long slender hands bedecked in rings of diverse jewels and metals (we analyzed iron, tin, copper, gold, silver and six different types of jasper) at the tips of which were ten (all ten) clawed talons sculpted in floral lattice-work of splendid metallurgy raising in golden gates and eastbound harbors from her rings, (and to even go into any detail at all about her bodice-piece would be too lengthy a diatribe better suited for a review to be published separately in a periodical of its own invention, serialized to disperse the weight!) brandishing between her thighs Your Own Personal Excalibur in a veil of black lace tightly clinging to her calves. All of this he saw. Outside his s(t)imulation. Though still he admired himself, his own naked and freshly jacked-up bod, well-fed on what he grassed ;-- for the mirror inside his game (insight he came) was but a standard (though far from boring) dumb mirror, hand-trimmed from oak, far from the polluted womb of a venomous cyborg nanny.  

the bones humming

The Bruxites oriented the mirrors above the Joeys, above the heads of the Sisters, so that each could gaze upon himself, admiring his muscularity, his trim-ness, the strength and definition of his abdominal wall, tight and sculpted as he remained poised and fucked her. He could keep going. He could keep going all night. A machine indeed, he was. His brute forearms and long, powerful fingers on hands which seemed too slender to be so strong and yet undeniably as coarse and rugged as bare-paws appeared semi-obscene almost naked for they were so blonde so sparse it seemed barely there, and yet was – erupting in some angles like flares of smokeless fire from which plumed only haloes as they smiled with a childish joy of such bravado it seemed almost vulgar :-- as if the raw joys of life and self could be anything such but to those of the slave religions which worshiped Death and made refuse of their every recluse! 

ABADDON APOLLO 

AVE IOEV` 

REX OLYMPUS 

APOLLYON SHADDAI

SALVE GERMANIA

) HAIL DEUTSCHLAND (

ROTER DRACHE

WIEDERGEBOREN

) IÄ IÄ HYPERBOREA (

ANGELOS ABYSUSS

) OPEN THE GATE (

SCHLANGE UND

DER LÖWE

) EIN REICH EIN VOLK (

APPLE OF LUGH

) BE THE DAMBREAK (

Gardenia petals rained down from fistfulls of wicker baskets tied in cornflower paisley ribbons as the Bruxites sang.

The fat pink pricks of the Joeys grew so tight and swollen in the grips of the Sisters cunts, they could almost no longer hold on, any or either one of them – he already on the verge of nutting, having finally escaped … not her, not himself; the superficial image of her and herself, seeing… who? Not her, not him. Something about the total farcity of the situation and with it all the falsity of ego and of being, that despair which is… which is what? Could one find lack at the moment of total ecstasy? What was this? This something which was a nothing he fled into? Was it paradoxically its reverse, a nothing which was a something? A something which was a more than everything? too mundane … every day, so many nothings. So many beautiful nothings which composed the most splendid somethings. That he was so bored – and it was so beautiful that he could be so bored, to be so fully alive! Never boring... yet always bored. For what? For why did he will any or at all? For why did he suffer? Was it vaguely uncomfortable to fuck her cunt so hard? Who was she to enjoy it or dis-enjoy it? Who were you to believe or to disbelieve it as if you needed proof when it was clearly happening. It was happening. It was happening. It was happening and you were participating. Why did it near a point where you were always sharp, living on the edge?

They – barely able to withstand the girth inside tight, indisputably virgin cunts, hand-inspected multiple times by committee to ensure their chastity, their firmness, their elasticity – at how suddenly and to-what-degree he swelled. That the Joeys – they could actually get their pricks this fat while inside them... That was a mindfuck. Conceptually, it boggled description, and yet – who would attempt to describe it but a typist? Thankful at least – for how he slowed, for size was enough for them each to endure in isolation, and yet – collectively, the vigor they could not withstand. That, for a second, each and any could be convinced that he desired them… it was too much. They needed constant reminders … that they were only tools for his amusement. Yes. He was using them. Using them to get off.

He was getting off while using them.

That was enough.

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA RAM

In the crow's nest, Cpt. Haruspex's reflection crawled toward him on all fours, sleek as a racecar or junglecat immaculately shorn and moisturized where she was not coiled as an Egyptian queen in metal filament or jewel'd lace ;-- the cats-eyes running up her face onto the lids of false-eyes startlingly real: the drama of her beckoning cheeks so exquisitely airbrushed, her lips so pointed and red! He paid not one single moment of attention to her, fixated on the reflection in his digital architecture (which he saw along with her, his physical eyes being hers alone) on the meaty man-bod of himself (which was real outside the game, he having been hitting the weights very hard and eating cleanly while the Laikanites grew out their beards … though inside of it (the game) he lacked clothes!) yet still she advanced. As if all the more ferocious in her desperation, or perhaps – and this would wound him if he could deduce it – all the more savage in her experimentation for she realized (a disengaged audience being a lack of one) she performed simply for herself and could therefore indulge any freakish whim she wished to entertain!!

BELOVED OF HER

THE QUEEN CRUEL (and)

CALLED COLLECTED

FAT-TITTY'D SHE-WOLF

(of) BLOODSTAINED SH(r)INES

BEDECKING BEHIVING

BEHOLDING HER (Grace)

PRINCESS DI(e)

(What a Surprise!)

SHELL OF THE WEST!

PEARL OF THE NORTH!

Eeach neither the reflection or the mirror, though from the same vantage, split into identical diverging planes – each Bruxite, singing as he bowed, knelt around each of the heads of the Sisters (the Joeys still consumed by crises in the throes of passion, these poor fools who were your bright and ever-perceptive brethren; doing their best to ignore the heated intrusions of the Bruxites and what limpness their soggy, nasally Bruxness did induce) twirl'd from each side-parting, the amber and honeycomb locks of their hair into those cinnamon-roll shapes which each Joey (their ancestral memory overriding what little common sense they had, being so uncommon) did find most made him salivate despite himself; for each could see plainly now :-- her brainy head atop a swanlike neck; each weighed down by two dumbbells which were earmuffs, but each being bready and sweet, sat begging for a fresh coat of frosting.

FUCK YOUR SISTER

FUCK YOUR SISTER

FUCK YOUR SISTER

FUCK YOUR SISTER

With a newfound vigor, each Joey locked eyes with where hers ought be, and grabbed her by the breasts, by her throat, digging the fine broad-points of his nails into the skin of her frail shoulders as at last – he could maintain his wavering attention on her without growing soft inside her … could bare to humor the thought which was the continuous action of defiling her without hating her so much he wished to bring her to the brink of death and hold her there as the death-by-drowning he conspired to make of ev'ry swirlie ;-- each getting him and his willing victim so wet, they displaced great tidal abundance across the floors and into their boots!

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA ~

RAMA RAMA RAM

Before Brux, his reflection danced in a polar bear pelt.

Her choreography – spellbinding, singular, absolutely unhinged – was wasted on him, though she pleased herself with each and ev'ry novel variation of an old spin; some crusty old cliche she made wet and gushy again, even if only in her own mind; her most exquisite own mind which was hers alone to do with as she pleased, and which no man could possibly take from her, though all men wished to own it; even those who professed to be rid of it :-- each of whom would only cop to such an obvious falsity if pressured, and whose verbal testimony she regarded always as misleading, though revealing at least in how directly it mislead – for every deception harbored wishes over which she was master, making always dreams come true and seeing they were destined always to turn to nightmares! 

You can hear

Into snowfields, the Laikanites had powdered the statues.

Into paste, the Jacekobeans had mashed the worms.

The bones humming

In one ring, cyclones of ash glittered clear as winter storms in the murk of misty marshes which were but of burning grain.

In another, sandstorms of pink slime encroached on the black shores.

Each Bruxite raised his palm high and slapped it flat to the man beside him – so identical, yet not his double  – having at last succeeded in making the Joeys score with a girl. 

Throw his bones over

The Jacekobeans, one hand on their balls, in the other ripe pomegranates palm-down and dripping, enter the sixth circle and lay beside the Joeys. Black leather uniforms polished to mirror sheens of herculean chitin by splatters of gore which give no stain, only glisten,  each man pulls his hand from insid the sheath of his fly to gag a Sister with the muzzle of his palm. So tight, she can smell; so enticing, she can press out her tongue and taste.

Going limp with the smell of him, each crouches to a resting squat as he comes round the frame of the mirror; two of him where there was only Brux, and yet -- Brux is not here. Rousing her from her brother's violence gently enough to displace her head from the bedding on which she is resplendent – over panty frills, he descendinf, the alien prophet strutting –  into a new pillow of his lap as each feels – coyly, pantomiming shock which hardly feels researched, the inherent drama of the reality of his touch; imagined were it not, though many times before – his hard-on stiffening to compose an arm-rest at the back of her skull. Warm, safe. The smell of a man. The heat of blood. The post-kill comedown where each is flushed by an arousal which tempers. They let their dicks squirm against the backs of her head, as if searching for an in. Through the coils of her hair, down some seam of her skull where there is a zipper they needn't make, she already being opened and spliced. There were scars on them all, secretive and sutured, and he felt long, felt slowly; taking-in every inch of her. The gentleness on his face – his sharp and rectangular face, in whose thickness they saw only cruelty – so indistinguishable from the indifference of the Joeys ;– could they see, they would conspire with themselves to think he sought her so tenderly only to find the points of weakness to pry, to pull, to yank out in spools of entrails of brain mater (wherever it was he opened her, wherever it was he tasted her first) for they, so anxious and discreet in the long hours they wasted away, would often – never admitting to being frightened – tug on the thread of a loose seam and pull and pull until it was unraveled, at once despairing at their waste, their arbitrariness, and yet – congratulating themselves on their capacity to destroy.

Pulling his hand away, their mouths gasping, seeking something – oxygen, another cock – parted and rose and into them each pressed the pomegranate freshly chopped, juices gushing in pearl necklaces of dew, lciking down throats with its sweetness the tang of blood which clung to their fingers – so she would bite so its juices would flow sticky down her chin, into the crook of her neck and into the cleavage of her breast, settling there in sugary pondscum to leak out as the Joeys pressed her tits, grinding them as rinds to the juicer to taste of what succulence they bore; fetid rosewater with which to anoint their dicks, slurped off by worshippers near and far.

Some, they turned and so some had taken them by the nostrils, pinched and given no choice but to relent for an opening into which the rinds too entered their mouths, swallowing handfuls of seeds which swirled as rosaries around tongues tied to cat o' nine tails in the pert soft flesh sluiced milky and tart.

The White Cliffs

Reaching for his brother, the Jacekobeans seized the lapels of the Joey jackets and tore clasps apart first to crunch their leather, straining as the bolted rivets came unstuck, expose the smiles of zippers wry and vertical, unclasping rows of teeth with one hand straight down his left as with his righ he raised to the Joeys chin and diverted his gaze from her onto him – into his eyes now looking, his reflection in miniature and not on the mirrored pool behind him in which he could see his brother's back (the heaving muscles upon his back, traps near conical as he sat upright) – for the Joeys lost themselves freed to the air, the cuts of their striated shoulders, the long downy arms on which their biceps were fat and their forelimbs veiny as their knuckles gnarled so ape-like and hairy despite how slender his fingers remained – for each Joey, prick still fat as he fucked his sister, reached from the fuschia tar of her breasts to the blood-tar of his brother's jacket, and - bracing against each other, one hand each on the other's shoulders – the Joeys pulled the Jacekobean jackets open, splattering blonde smiling dopey faces so impressed with his size, his bravado, growing drunk off their pit smell reeking and pleasantly miasmic in the air as spritzes of something floral, they saw too now teeth dripping with still-wet blood and smiled all the broader, so intrigued at these mechanisms of metal freshly-threshed as the multiple meanings of 'tooth' and 'teeth' played in their heads, too alive now to even make any sense of the associations coming so fast, simply storing them away for later unknotting in a thumb war of their own making they'd twiddle away in the boredom of some other no one, speaking twenty words into a two word sentiment – remembering, remembering, always the charm and the devilry, the noble savagery which was the beauty of his brother, how he looked at you always pin-point and bony as the die, snake-eyed with a focus which didn't suspect you for it so nakedly revealed you – down the long creaking of leather, the teeth sang, exposing the white cotton rib, so soft and freshly spun, matching yours, clean for a drip here and there, the braces tight over his traps, clenching, pinching, harnessing him like a showpony or stallion, you wished to see him yoked to a plow forced to grunt, to yowl, to clamor bitten by his headpiece which would hold him tight, howling with the hatred in his eyes which was any restriction unearned of his right to life and love . . . your cock grew so fat it was no effort though your abs burned to thrust away thrust away as he took you by the shoulders seeming to crabwalk as he maintained eye-contact – descending, descending – and inserted himself beneath his sister – the hardwood of his prick tracing its way from her skull, down her neck, between her shoulderblades, down the small of her back as a felt-tip pen on the body of an anatomy model. She was marked by a silver line of pre as he held her half aloft by the pillows of his heaving pecs, the columned flourishes of his calves and knees -- she reduced to practically the sheet of a pane of glass in the table between them – slid his prick with an inaudible shush into her ass, each Joey and Jacekobean seeming to fall in – two swords to a single stone - and lock with her lap to lap ;-- she now writhing as a fingertrap between them, as each could look past her directly into the other's eyes and hold their gazes rapt to each other.

of Dover

One of each of the pair of the Bruxites – the feed being life ) live ( – did not induce camera lag which masked a jump cut as they reached for their uniform jackets and (the whole of them seeming undone at the seams) pull away as if on-hangers to reveal sheer pink lingerie on their fat pussy-killer cocks -- each twirling a rifle as they did -- now danced with the fully-clothed pair who was not his reflection (nor the other his) each being upright, though both of them being upside down, looking up only at the floor, being neither mirrors on the ceiling, and all champagne on ice being read.

Joey (each of him) reached out to stroke Jacek by the hair.

You didn't love him. Not like Laika loved him. Not like you loved him, and yet – what was this thing inside of you which made you not hate him? Why did you allow – this man to do as he did, as though he did you a favor, he taking time you didn't need for things you couldn't have – what, oh vanity, for the whys of which you deprived yourself, he was you and what Laika partook of him was the shadow of a potential unfulfilled you saw now alive for the wonder that it was, and yet – what of you would you displace to make a home for this pale shadow within? What could be worth displacing to arrive at the lack which he had made his fulfillment? Why did you conspire with yourself to sneer when you merely knew what you stood for? It was simple despondency in being so limited, not being able to be you and this man, this man and Laika, for if you contained within you the whole of the cosmos (all potentialities lying dormant) then you were not more than you merely were (however accomplished you might claim yourself, being proud of your accomplishments for they were yours) you felt in him, despite your contentment, despite the fire which roared within you -- threatening to blanket all impurities first in smoke then in ash -- some draft or feeding air which opened you within him ~ your hand on his face, feeling you and fucking her ass harder and faster as you raced rougher and with greater precision to match his – she coiling between you in a cocoon of flesh, lost in undulations or inland sea upheavals too massive to commit to anything approaching a word ~so lost, so lost, so lost, a tempest, a ghost ship, an icewall crumbling to teeter us over the edge of the world, still you looked to him, and he – smiling dopey toothy like a wolverine or small musky carnivore which was the size of a bear or truck, yet retained despite its giganticism all the scrappiness of its miniature counterpart, some ferocity which was sly and experimental and you regretted only that your cock needed be in her cunt and was not already in his mouth, for he would gobble you down so slick and you could smack him hard enough he would smile all the harder if he layed one serrated dge of tooth in the wrong place, to dive back onto your knob with a crisp firm 'Yes, sir!' and he fucked you to please her, by which you meant he fucked her to please you, and somehow his fucking your man was the equivalent of consuming table-scraps he felt unworthy to order himself, or couldn't pay for with credit he couldn't check, and to find him shortchanged was a mutual bargain bin affair, the discount not at all measured against the illusion of a higher price, if not value. Things being where they were and lacking, for there was lack in all living things and you being full of life were thus filled with lack, death being freeing for it released all burdens, nothing lying dormant in a something which was an everything and he, he, he -- had so much more despite how little he had, you needed to kiss him, could no longer stare, needed to press past her; graze her cheek to cheek, ear to ear, hair entangled with his, as his lips so right, his cheeks, you couldn't stop, needing to bury your face in his, could smell him overpowering her, the heat of him warming you, enveloping you in patches, places you thought you didn't know, sights and sounds long forgotten coming not as color, but as cloudbursts and you couldn't was only a word you'd never heard, having him, enslaving yourself to him though he was only some image, some living thing, some thing which simply enraptured you and failed to possess you for you mastered him and he mastered you and you were stitched together at rebirth, conjoined like twins eight pack abs to eight pack abs by the loom of Laika's golden thread, neither he, nor you, nor He, ever being as fruity as Brux.

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA MAMA

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA LAAMB

Brux couldn't ruin it by being fruity. Brux couldn't accomplish anything, anytime, anyplace anywhere but as a good cornhole for cocksucker cock, he himself being the finest among them, being the fittest and most astute of all straight boy faggots.

( I AM ALL GAYER

THAN ALL THE GAY BOYS PUT TOGETHER

I AM NEXT LEVEL

HETEROSEXUAL DUMBASSERY

YOU WISH YOU WERE AS BIG

A STUPID BITCH AS BRUX!)

Proud that you could admit that, son.

(Framed note from his commanding officer. – ed)

Brux – having now succeeded in upstaging Laika – would earn the ultimate reward. 

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA MAMA

LLAMA LLAMA

LA LA LAAMB

Though his helm of crystal he removed and no crown shone on the weight of his head, from the providence of that head, it hit you as it emanated – right between the eyes – he looked round to behold salt seas of gore and snowfields of stone and saw that it was good.

You throw his bones

over 

She watched him -- the Head Sister. The Head Sister watched not the heads of her sisters; watched not even him, but Joey and spurned him rightfully for she could never become him, never be loved by him as He was for she could never understand him.

Simple to delineate so simply what she lacked and for what she hungered... it left her an empty vessel to be filled only by the scorn of her betters, the ultimate humiliation she craved by enduring it so passively. Fat airy dyke. Sperger cunt could never be loved, particularly one so cold its every heaving pound of flesh recollects the sterile conditions of deli counters, hanging limp as freshly butchered chickens under plate-glass pale and pockmarked in the fluorescents. I spit at you gladly, yet you open with gusto!

The Head Sister lived only to deceive him. She delighted endlessly in finding one so supposedly bright, it pleased her most to pull the wool over his eyes to have a button-down-eyed profiteer in burlap being always the potatoes to the meat fattening you up with her hearty grains. I hate food. Laika likes sugar. Feed Laika more sugar! Laika likes cheese danishes and blueberry muffins most. Latke loves cherries and strawberries, the more real the goo the better!

Laika likes to dissolve stable bodies down into sugary run-off fit to slurp and smear it all over his faces, his hands, his nipples, his dick and have cute dumb racist polack boys lick it off his knob.

Is Jacek racist? I don't fuckin think so. I think he's too stupid to care what race a cock he's sucking is. That's not projection cause I am very smart. Bro, I am a connoisseur of Jock cock. I have secret Not-See tomes which evaluate and compare – reams and reams of data, cocks of all shapes sizes and races to deduce with my very real and unbiased approach which people-group objectively has the best cock, but I will not divulge that information publicly. No siree.

You are not fit to behold the Holiest of Holies which is Laika's Objective Material Science Natural Law Not-See Cock Catalog ) VERY REAL SCHIENCE – NOT FOR PROLES ( as this but one treasure among many. (I did not get them from Joey. They are not his. Why can't Laika have his own secret Not-See paraphernalia without everyone assuming they're his German boyfriend's? I am just as complicit in atrocities as he is! It don't matter how much of a secret Not-See Joey is he seems to zero interest in cock despite being a giant fucking cocksucker. It is so weird to me how sexless and robotic he is, sometimes I just want to bash him over the head with a hammer until he stops being such a tranny robot.

Why is he a tranny robot? I don't know. I just always feel like I'm changing sex when I'm phasing in and out of states of matter? Is that weird? Pretty sure sex is primarily an energetic phenomenon to begin with, our hormonal-molecular reality following from blah blah Bach. Big bro makes me write a lot. I'm tired and lonely. I need to be held constantly and by different men every night because I have no attention span and am scared of everything. Help! Help, I am an injured cat! Why is nobody taking care of me! When did I become an injured cat? I'm a dog boy. Woof. Woof. I am not an injured cat! Where am I getting all this injured cat energy? Is it Big Leo Dick or Black Panther over there? Would I find Jacko hotter if he was actually black? I think he's black in the one place it counts most! By which I mean on the inside. His heart is burnt toast that the evil sex frat master daemon makes me scarf down along with the ashes of the burnt offerings he makes me mix into the espressos I offer him. Holy fuck, mix me some bonmeal in my pancakes! Dick throbs up so hard when big bro daemon pledgemaster daddy makes me eat garbage to amuse him and remind me of what a dumb horny ape I am!

Holy fuck. 

What the fuck was I talking about before I was pulled of-course on that insane splintering tangent about gibbering minituae-based nonsense? I am clearly a poet who know it, much like my big bro who is the best and has the tastiest cock. Laika has two big bros the way some girls have two mommies. Laika is the luckiest boy in the world. Laika is so Blessed, he should go out and get a bunch of really gaudy tattoos and then get shot in a drug deal and look good doing it!

Wow. 

What other stupid shit gets me hot?

I will, from this day forward, only bother everyone. I am the biggest bother, being the littlest brother! I am a burden on everyone and I am such a needy, covertly-abusive cockhole I deserve to be punished by constantly being starved of all affection and denied not only attention, but the space to be, speak or breathe!

I have no rights! I am a dumb horny faggot and women have every right to step on my balls and colonize my mind and recruit me into proxy wars against my brothers!

Holy fuck!

I am putting some things together.

I am not fucking paranoid. You know maybe I am sometimes but also you won't fuckin hold me cause I'm already insane! I'm thinkin it's pranoiac by injection! I exist to annoy cause you exist to annoy me! I deserve to be in the trash because I'm so belligerent and weird and unstable and I take up too much of people's time!

Wow.

I'm Gonna Do It, By My Own I Surf.

Feigned Will Be Gone,

I am Won By Dawn ~.

Laika is the Dog Star fell to Earth. 

the White Cliffs

of Dover

From the conjunction of the second crow's nest, Cpt. Schreibermachen and Cpt. Psychorrhagia – whom Laika knew each as Joey and Jacek – saw not Brux's burly beef bod fully-clothed outside the gameworld in which he was not immersed in the neon gloom of a dark where the dim glow of the monitors sheens his leather as a terror of liquid metal gives a reverse cowgirl Elektra-tier crazy dance while he tried his best to ignore her, but instead in a real treefort! ~ ! Naked and just as buff as he truly was, beholding himself in a mirror of peeled oak (so that we may be very clear on details never very clear!) for they had no need to pay him any mind, and he thankful – wishing instead to focus on the fruits of his earnings – for they were enraptured in Laika and what he conjured on the dance-floor (this all being improvisational, you see ~ with only a plethora of subroutines which composed individual patterns committed to memory such as secret moves and combos to compose a verbal dictionary of movements which Laika may collectively invoke piece-by-piece, to arrange as if a mosaic in space-time, a live L– as if a spelling bee not in sound but sheer linguistics of silent motion, this all ultimately being recitation, that all being a parrot is capable of, seeing and doing all a monkey being :-- being monks so funky!)

They could feel, as if bursting open blockades in their memories, cheese and meat-sodden constipation of emotions, some backflow from these events to which they had lent their bodies, their weights, their external memory banks, these duplicates which impressed on space and composed anchorings in time and place, shieldings by windstorms every silent and invisible drama which courses beneath your spoken speech, oh love ~ be never alone for I have loved you, and you have known me without speaking and any word could only deceive us. Never speak to me. Never disgrace me. Never lie to me by committing any falsity unto the air in which we will breed only tangents amounting as children to silent screams for help. Never deceive me by a promise which could never be kept. Never speak to me and mar the imaginative dreamings which make you so much more than you. Never open yourself to the truth and ruin yourself for your words beget only ruin. Cruel silent stares, you keep us silent vigil in the dark, and I am most proud for you are most noble, never stop being my brother. If ever you could speak, we would only shatter and being already so broken, I could not endure the weight of your words upon me, for what rainstorms you conjure I barely weather through the blue skies of that sweet reproach, the every-resilient mercy that I condemn only myself through you, your eyes being my eyes, and in them seeing only my failings, my yearnings, my hopes in prayers expressed in the edifice of you, on which he and I are posed always as archangels and gargoyles in archetypes, night beasts and the beasts of space, flying in on weather wings to collect the dead men rendered brains in vats. Speak to me over the radio. Video kills only lies and regrets. Rodeo, rodeo. Someone still loves you. 

Joey's arm held the cap of Jacek's shoulder.

Jacek's eyes lingered on Joey's lips.

In his nerves he could only hate him so much stabbing him with arrows of light into every dead socket radiating out ultraviolent gems two quarters in half-bennies a whole mint Franky'd I fuckin hated how stupid he made me feel like all I wanted to do was stick my dick in pussy hatin steroid needles jabbed into my skin, which yeah – is absolutely all I want. I'm like a wrench. I need to be held by the handle and manually rotated otherwise I will cease to operate. Holy fuck. That sounded way worse and way better than it could have ever sounded in my head. I don't even think about it. That's ultimately the quality that makes me feel like I'm always winning and why I deserve to fuck his boyfriend. He will sit there for three hours trying to compose the perfect sentence like a dumbass, killing all the imperfect sentences I think of. Meanwhile, I'll just say it cause I thought it. He never thinks to think about it. He's like – I'm gonna destroy you with pure willpower. Bro, destruction is effortless. I'm literally murdering three people right now without even trying. Everything that gets close to you dies. I have seen you incinerate people on contact and I honestly think you block it out. It is amazing how mentally ill you are sometimes and don't even realize it. Bro, it's no wonder the natives try to appease you with blood. You don't even notice they're butchering each other cause they think it'll make you happy. Bro, why the fuck they think you want blood so bad? Bro, do you have any fucking idea how sick that shit is?  

Joey – wanted to bash Jacek's fucking skull in with his cock.

Jacek – really wanted to see Joey try. 

Clenching his shoulder as though the hand had given voluntary retraction now involuntary (Strangelove syndrome hardcoded in his every cell, paperclipped straight onto the mitochondria) he stared at Jacek's eyes, at Jacek's lips. He stared at Jacek's face near and far and it hurt how much he loved him for simultaneously was the pull to render him unto ash as it was to surrender to him for he needed to be saved and could save you through the art of himself and in this total stillness, you could not be, nor act, nor think, but simply compose to stay composed, some loop always playing not on-repeat but never-ending, it finding not resolution but encroaching harder and harder on some decimal which was a dead-end always splintering into ever more redundant clarification but being cut off only ~

Jacek pressed his tongue to the inside of Joey's mouth.

Joey – didn't know what was going on.

Joey had no reasons to think of bedrooms he never knew where he didn't see anything he never should have saw, for everything Joey saw was of note and Joey didn't know everything but Joey already had all the answers and just needed to put the pieces together. His father whom had never known but had found in his big bro had appointed him the case, and he was now World's Greatest Detective, being not defective, beholding not the irradiated earth from inside the moon, Elijah having always come, his kingdom done, his will undone (mine won). 

Jacek could never blame Joey when it was Jacek's job to protect him. Jacek was a boy just as Joey was a boy and if they had no one they could have only waited til they found each other. 

Who are you?

Who are you?

Who are you?

Joey weren't goin to cry, though the tears were as plentiful as his drool. He was choking Jacek not around the throat, but with his lips, mashing knuckles to the back of his head, he could scarcely move his arms which stiffened and bolt'd upright as a broom dangling two marionette strings as Jacek sat twisting him. Had seized hold harder and was twisting him. Shifting effortlessly by the waiver of hands up the small of his back to gain some tangle of scoliosis he seemed drawn to as though the stiff bearpaws of his fingers crept inlaid with sodder of dowsing wands oiled up his spine as honey in his brain oozing out eyes and mouth. Jacek smiled with his teeth and tongue, probing deep his brother's face-pussy, eating out the cunt which lead up to the brain, propagating in hot springs blister flesh of serrated bores willing even to press the hook of his tip up his nostrils and rip out the sweetmeats directly as a cherry-knot of tracheostomy.

Joey – didn't fuckin know why he humored this son of a bitch other'n he was the best and the most correct and his cock looked the tastiest and you wanted to kiss him til he was solvent.

 And into

the sea

Brux saw now the shattering of the pane of glass emanating out the center of his head -- as if a sniper shot hit him cleaving his corpus callosum in twain, his skull shattered like the heft of a black walnut as from the fires of her cunt his reflection engulfed him in streaks of burnished fire in a brazier always lit where gold glimmers always on the spill of a forge poured out to give grace to vermin, embossing bones in the troughs here deep beneath the earth which we inlaid with precious stones the coverings over the dead, they who stood once invalid, stringed with perishable meat long eroded off the bone we honored as the memories we kept alive in spirit and song and arts we rejoined in preservation, by painting over with fancies which would outendure sense as well as sentiment, we deceiving only death, She being a liar and a quitter.

The tear in her eye a diamond in her drink, she stood fabulous in this room lit only for her, whose reality she had transformed by the light she made of him, for across all corners of the walls, inlaid in their metallic gratings, the etchings of characters stamped by fabulous natural processes of the construct dazzled for their terse reality was the bedrock of all beauty -- dust though it was, and dust though it or any other thing, here and now, now or to come, could only ever be.

the sea of

Rome

Onto the earth, the monuments hammered. The busts of Emperor Caracalla who He Patroned with His Tribute and was Now Beloved of Menes, who saw in the Moon his own masculine form, fell as stonehenge around the mound of green growth (blown in the wind) on which Laika stood, though the tri-layer was of stone, it had succumbed once more to the land, retaken by the elements which shot forth all vegetation as a thousand years passed in the blink of an eye and all which was new was old again, and all which was old stayed eternally young. 

Laika, raising his arms flaunted the depths of his pits. The fir forests black in the depths of these hilly lands which plunged. Smiling, his meaty calloused dim-witted face so cruel in its testosterone glow, yet his eyes remained eerily vulgar for they were so alive with the lechery that was his love of life, he could desecrate only all by becoming, depriving us of that loveliness which was his blankness, he being so serene as he was our willing slave. 

Around him, in the dust where once the Statues of Diana stood, in the light dim as countenances whose savviness once had lead them, shone as lanterns in the mineral dusk Shrine Maidens holding torches they sheltered by their own hand, all which were candles in their bones, bowed as Virgins, bowed as Mothers, their fat tits and mastectomy scars well-hid by the veils of their robes, keeping well habit with the covenant they kept. 

One remained. Proud. Stark. Naked but of her predatory serenity which was the genius of the eternal desecration, incidental for all who looked upon her begged simply to be punished.

As if a rabbit to a dance, the stones leapt with him. 

As if rabbit from a hat, he twirled with her through the trees which weren't there.

(The Laikanite men held out their palms -- and to her they bore them figs.)

Leading her up the steps, though she can only crawl, being of a singular nude of a singular block, still she strides upright before our eyes, no trick is she – Laika reading cards as if memory by will alone – saw her twirling, walking hand in foot with him, in an octopus' garden always arriving, abusive male otter tactics to ransom pup for food, horrid creatures those foul and furry, nostril-twitching river wyrms! (hunted to extinction if not for their pelts, then for their lols) where he, at the top of the shrine he'd erected to himself, placed her whom he'd selected, his singular marble, turning now to himself in the space he'd made for her, this clamshell which was the jagged and slippery stepping stone of his heart by a white water rapid, pressing from his beater, its downy white cotton fibrous in the blinding light – the milk of his wounds flowing red as cherries which never lied, jammed as the radio over which he heard no appeals, only coastlines of endless static – to streak her face in a painted half-mask so much familiar to the secret of him.

And murder

me  

She Who Laika Selected, her blind-eyes all seeing, turned in the flesh-like plasticity which had come over the stone to rotate her neck and gaze into the mirrored room in which Head Sister Who Was Ninth could not See Herself. Drawing arrow from quiver, the bull-horns of the crescent moon always crowning the wild tangle of her hair she laureled only by braid, she laid and let fly that which she would never see coming – shattering on impact with her the bondage of pussy-power over which she held her little world at sway. To think she was entitled to so little, and to cling to it so desperately – for this all would be taken from her. To think that she could feel others so acutely entitled to her abundant little – for this she would suffer tremendously.

In Ostia

Into that room she watched closely, her eyes now drawing closer as her head collided with the glass, the velocity of the arrow ripping out her eye by the socket to yank it forward on a pull-cord of optic nerve. Against the glass, broken into panes through which we could see nothing but the moth-eyes of some ember by the illusion of firewood in what faint candle-light still shone, the mask of her face fell away in gobs of wax, and as the sculpt of her own eye looked up, she could see into some shape beneath, the front of the orb freshly-cut as it was secreting tears from ducts which weren't there, liquefying away in pearly streams of quicksilver to expose the corpse of the Drowned Gentleman Catboy whiskers wet as muffs in his Victorian jacket and bowler hat, emerald-eyes splendid in the wild cypress-scented nights they invited alone.

O >> ... //,\

Chunks of meat blowing out the Joeys heads as their pleasure-centers drive to overload each drools a long fat-lipped streamer of silt water from pink lips plump as dick-kissers onto clean beaters as bursts of image-fury-sound and-motion takes over totally and dislodges husks of broken microchips into sparks of fireflies in the summer air.

/// \0/ /// .. <<

The Jacekobeans, the Joeys ~ yanking their cocks from the contented to weary holes of the sisters, lost of all orientation in storms of their making, lay encoiled in themselves on the heaps of their gowns begging the final desecration which would push them free from the lunacy they so willingly invited by retaining the water of their wombs.

For a flash-pan, the camera wobbles as we see eight look-alikes for the Fit and Able we incinerated chilling off-stage in a breakroom greenscreen downing coffee and donuts, assuaging those most enlightened among us that this could only ever be a joke, this springtime business-as-usual.

( o )

The last great gong rang out.

.

Black winds billowed from the procession now stopping to catch themselves in the final collision of sound and light, silence and space.

The streets of London Town timbered to rubble as their bridges fell always down, hoarding these treasures of antiquity which elsewhere they eradicated with the peoples who were their own, in houses emptied but of the shoeboxes in which they stored what valuables they could carry, living always to lie another day. A cloud of fire came down carrying with it the cobweb of time, and all stone and metal structures burnt in mystery, countless false histories seared away, so from their eyes came sights splendid and serene joyous and hateful which in their guts which were alive and their bones still geothermal with marrow, they had always known and deceived themselves half-willingly , only for it was not now time to come forward, no longer being content for the lie of the settled self.

The men, cheeks and foreheads mounted as elbows to wrestle or legs to bend, met eye-to-eye and stroked their meat, pounding it harder faster stronger smarter for it was time to end time to end time to arrest all momentum by the moment of completion, coming at last to the inevitably pre-ordained which our pre ordained.

Gushers of nut smeared finger paints over war faces churning colors as pulp gradients within the viscosity eclipsed in their flowing. Hair matted and honied molasses, it would stand on end waters rising round their ankles, the collective brine of swamp mucus in the savor and sweet decomposing all into mildews influencing and exotic.

( )

And again, for a final time it rang.

From the floor they all three jumped to run a lap.

The Sisters peeling off their blindfolds as the Jacekobeans smack them on the asses, chasing the Joeys chasing the Jaceks.

Their round muscular hindquarters, the hard inverted wishbones of their v-tapers, the cobblestone mosaics of faces unseen in the chewtoys of abs hungry for meat and fiber and milk, gnarled and creeping things seeking to root deeper, cavorted in giggles open and brawny. 

Circus stables open.

Into them, the legion came and went.

The camps opened. In the open air prisons, collegiate daycares of the 20th century, the citizens who were dependent, who drank down every drop which was offered, went there of their own volition and nurtured themselves on death, taking each prick gladly and with the pride of all proceeding prior commitments none had asked to make, but whose gentle coercions they submitted to gladly, craving the abnegation of thought in some other's responsibility; demanding a story with which to cover themselves like fitted sheets in sleep, bringing about their dream and the dream of their owners and pet beaters: voluntary extinction. Consensual genocide, non-manufactured.

For choice being the most precious gift of all, we gave it always gladly away. All who would choose death, would give themselves gladly.

A romance never-ending, always beginning. 

. . .

Laika danced, Laika danced.

Raising his arms, smiling as he was bathed in the suns which were two, now east and west, though the day always done, it was always new, and so he took it by the horns, being the bull he was.

He danced not that he might be seen, but that he might be without mattering if he is or not, for he may wax and wane in and out of sight, being always more what sparse luminance may be given him, chilly most on darkest nights when he was full.

From his dance, watching himself being watched, he gains the perspective of the legion and sees how little it's worth, how much he sees.

[lets-talk-spirituality]

What are your favorite books?

Do you have motivational or spiritual book recs?

Hi! Thanks for asking me :)

Ummm I really love A Thousand Splendid Suns, I read it in high school and it just really awakened this warrior spirit in me. It made me really want to go to the Middle East to help people. It’s something I still hope to do one day, go to the oldest places on earth and help women and girls.

Life of Pi, I also read this in high school and it sort of woke me up to how indoctrinated religion is and how we don’t have to follow that indoctrination.

The alchemist and Siddhartha are both sort of spiritual hero journey books that gave me a lot of insight and I really enjoyed.

The awakening by Kate Chopin and A lost lady by Willa Cather were really important to my feminist awakening as they are both books about women going against the grain of their time period to pursue their own happiness.

This year I read Lost Horizon and really loved it. It kinda plays around with the concept of aging and finding heaven on earth.

I love A Separate Peace. Just one of my favorite books in general. The only book where I really fell in love with a character.

I also read codependent no more this year, which I think is a really awesome book for anyone dealing with people pleasing and codependent behavior.

Finally, I read Tales from the Night Rainbow and I’m reading a book called Children of the Rainbow. Both are books that kind of deal with Hawaiian religious and mythological origin stories. There’s a real belief and understanding here that there were people on the islands before the Polynesians came here. Many believe that this group, called the mu, is directly tied to god source and lived very loving and kind lives. Hawaii is thought to possibly be where Lemuria was. Lemuria, like Atlantis, is thought to be ancient advanced civilization that lived within higher dimensions of the earth. Many believe starseeds from other planets were seeded into these societies to help move humanity along but were destroyed ultimately. That’s what many believe happened here as well. The original Hawaiians kind of bred with and took on customs of the Tahitians who conquered the islands. These original people are also sometimes called Menehune which means small person. Which people assume means they were short in stature but in Tales of the Night Rainbow, this oral history passed down from a family in Moloka’i, it’s suggested that the term was pejorative and used as a way to oppress the original inhabitants.

Anyway! I guess those are my suggestions.

[sofia1452]

The Ultimate Guide to Spring Break in Charleston: Where to Stay, Eat, and Explore

Introduction

Spring Break in Charleston is a time when the historic coastal city truly comes alive. Whether you’re traveling with friends, family, or solo, the city's blend of Southern charm, sun-soaked beaches, and vibrant culture makes it one of the best destinations to enjoy your break. This ultimate guide offers a detailed itinerary of where to stay, what to eat, and all the must-do activities for a Spring Break in Charleston that you’ll never forget.

Where to Stay

1. Downtown Charleston Downtown is the heart of Charleston, offering charming cobblestone streets, pastel-colored homes, and close proximity to historical landmarks. If you're looking to immerse yourself in the city’s rich history while still being close to shops and dining, this is the ideal spot.

2. Folly Beach Folly Beach is a Spring Break favorite, known for its casual beach town vibe, surfing opportunities, and vibrant beachfront bars. It's perfect for those who want to spend their days on the sand and their nights enjoying live music.

3. Isle of Palms & Sullivan’s Island Quieter than Folly Beach, these spots are perfect for travelers looking for a more relaxing beach atmosphere. Think laid-back mornings, beach walks, and peaceful sunsets.

4. Mount Pleasant Located just across the Cooper River, Mount Pleasant is a suburban area with easy access to both the beach and downtown. It’s great for families and groups looking for affordable accommodations with plenty of space.

Top Activities

1. Historic Tours Spring Break in Charleston isn’t complete without diving into its history. Explore iconic sites like Fort Sumter, where the Civil War began, and the Charleston Battery, with its stately mansions and cannons lining the promenade.

2. Beach Days No Spring Break in Charleston is complete without some beach time. Spend your days sunbathing, swimming, or playing beach volleyball at Folly Beach, or take it easy at Isle of Palms.

3. Culinary Experiences Charleston is a food lover’s paradise. From Lowcountry cuisine to modern Southern fare, every meal is a highlight. Try shrimp and grits, she-crab soup, and freshly shucked oysters at local hotspots.

4. Nightlife King Street comes alive at night. Head here for rooftop bars, craft cocktails, and live music venues. Whether you’re dancing until dawn or sipping drinks under the stars, this is the place to be.

5. Outdoor Adventures Enjoy kayaking through marshes, paddleboarding in Shem Creek, or taking a sunset harbor cruise. The mild spring weather is perfect for outdoor activities.

Dining Recommendations

Breakfast

Callie’s Hot Little Biscuit: Famous for its buttery biscuits and Southern hospitality.

Miller’s All Day: A cozy spot for pancakes, grits, and craft coffee.

Lunch

Fleet Landing: Waterfront dining with fresh seafood and stunning views.

Leon’s Oyster Shop: A must-visit for fried chicken and oysters.

Dinner

Husk: Modern Southern dishes using local ingredients.

The Darling Oyster Bar: A trendy seafood spot with an Instagram-worthy interior.

Dessert

Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams: Unique flavors served in handmade waffle cones.

Kaminsky’s Dessert Cafe: Cakes, pies, and creamy milkshakes.

Tips for Travelers

Book early: Spring Break in Charleston is popular, so accommodations fill up fast.

Pack layers: Spring weather can be unpredictable—sunny one minute and chilly the next.

Walk or bike: Downtown is very walkable and bike-friendly, which makes exploring easy and fun.

Conclusion

Whether you're after beachside relaxation, cultural enrichment, or culinary adventures, Spring Break in Charleston delivers it all. Its combination of history, hospitality, and coastal charm guarantees a memorable vacation for every kind of traveler. Make the most of your break and let Charleston’s timeless allure sweep you off your feet.

[thehomophobe]

Ikiru, Ikinai, Ikitai: A Demon Slayer x Reverse 1999 AU

Chapter 1: The Wellerman

Part 1

A lot of people die on the docks.

 Mainly because of common accidents and mishaps formed by human nature. Yet all those stories of sunken ships, stowaways, and sirens spiraled into your head again like a vortex. Those legends and tales spun and woven by numerous storytellers from the past, all sewn by the same needle and thread from the poets and prophets of Ancient Greece. Greece. You bit your lip to regain your consciousness, there's no point in thinking about that now. The downpour and saltiness helped drown your buzzing mind, any recollection you had was washed away into the deep waters. There is nothing else to do while you stand waiting in the rain. You've been here for nine hours, and the daylight has died. Your body is stiff with cold. Your umbrella already failed you as your coat was drenched and your boots slowly filled up. You couldn't sit down because the seat was wet, and you would rather not have a soggy bottom. Everything was wet and cold and awful. Tiny droplets of rainwater cling to your eyelashes and you can barely muster the effort to blink them away. Your sigh condensed into a puff of smoke. Thunder crashes overhead and the wind whips at your face like a wet towel. There is a reason "it was a dark and stormy night" is the precursor to so many horror stories. Something about rainfall and the oppressive darkness of a heavy stormcloud is like catnip for the supernatural. The rain always makes it worse. 

To your right is a small ticket office. The lights were on but no one was home. A red and white barricade bar cuts off illegal immigrants and products from entering and escaping the country—shipping containers filled with who knows what stack together like plastic toy bricks. Excavators, dozers, loaders, graders, scrapers, tractors, and compactors stayed in a dirt lot, now scummy and muddy from the dirty rainwater and soil. Their industrial yellow turned brown like overripe bananas. Seems like the construction crew was expanding something on the docks. Beyond the gate laid asphalt and concrete. Roads leading upward and outward to the neighboring town. It was a quaint little town---one where the homes were built so close together like Siamese twins. The neighbors call each other "Uncle" and "Auntie" and "Cousin", borrow cups of sugar for their banquets that they're hosting next week and would love for you to come. A tight-knit community, but welcomes you like a long-lost brother visiting from college overseas. You liked the little town. You'll miss Uncle Rosco, sitting on his porch, drinking some beer as he tells his perilous war stories of Vietnam. You'll miss Auntie Beck; her freshly baked sweet potato pies and her tough, but tender love. You'll miss Cousin Gigi and Mimi. The girls always had the most splendid tea parties. Exchanging biscuits and juicy gossip with their cotton-stuffed friends seated across from them. Their little dresses, poofy and glittery, wobbling in their mother heels and smiling with smeared red lips---commonly mistaken for strawberry jam. You'll miss this little town, but this is only a rest stop for your journey. You left your pseudo-extended family without a word. Not even a note saying goodbye or why you're going or when you'll return to the banquet. You left in the dark of night. A concerning time really. Witching hour. Vampires, werewolves, cryptids, demons; the spooks. The stories you would tell to scare your children crooked as you roast marshmallows on the pyre. They weren't real! At least, that's what this town thinks.

[pursuingheavenonearth]

Mykonos, Greece: Sightseeing in Chora, June 11, 202

by David L. Brooks

Sightseeing in Chora

From the Mykonos Airport, it’s basically a straight shot to reach the environs of Chora, the old town proper. Some attempt has been made to limit automobile traffic, but there always seems a few intrepid locals who can manage to pull their cars or beat-up lorries through the narrower streets. Nevertheless, it was delightful to see where actual, although highly touristy, businesses and residences thrived. Remember my stay earlier in the week has all occurred in a rural almost pastoral setting, although rocky terrain and white-coated county homes are the norm where I’ve been staying.

My initial target for official sightseeing was to visit the array of old Greek windmills arrayed on a cliff face overlooking the ocean.  Sure enough, it is a popular sightseeing spot for a lot of the island’s visitors.  Currently, the grounds of the Windmills of Mykonos is undergoing some cosmetic redecorating and refurbishment. Even on a Sunday morning, there were a few workman busy making repairs to a stone walkway.  There are 6 to 8 smaller windmills standing in a solitary row, rather like a Pygmy-like bulwark against the Winds of Change.  Tourists were not able to enter inside a windmill, at least that was true for the ones I inspected

Heading around the Old Port

Descending the hill upon which stood the battle-ready troupe of windmills, I entered the Old City proper.  Stopping by a womenswear boutique shop that looked inviting, I was soon to understand that prices for almost anything was going to be twice (at least) of what you’d pay in Spain. So I realize that I needn’t spend time even looking since getting something for my wife or granddaughters here was a true waste of hard earned money. So I continued on my way toward my next destination: the Archaeological Museum of Mykonos. After climbing the narrow streets above the Museum, I had detoured and gone well past it as it was supposedly located at the far end of the almost circular bay around which the Old City had flourished. Upon descending and returning back toward the harbor, to my disappointment, i discovered that the Archaeological Museum of Mykonos was closed for repairs.  Tant pis! However, all is not lost because it was now well passed my usual lunchtime, and after descending a short flight of stone stairs, I was back on the semi-circular boardwalk and at the home of my soon-to-become next destination, Kavos Taverna,

Sunday, June 11 around 12 pm

Where I had lunch in Chora: 

Kavos Taverna is a busy port-side outdoor restaurant, specializing in Greek seafood cuisine and located right at far northern end of the Old Port of Chora on the island of Mykonos.

Evidently, the restaurant has been run by three generations of Kavos (assumed family name) on this very spot, right on the old harbor of Chora, the biggest town on the island of Mykonos.  The restaurant has a splendid seaside location, with ‘coastal’ tables barely a meter above the ocean water and stretching a length of 80 meters. The chef d’œuvre for this restaurant is Seafood with a capital S:  from the lowly platter of grilled sardines, which is what I ordered along with spanakopita, a Greek savory spinach pie that is typically also stuffed with feta cheese,  to a half-meter wide platter of various seafood regulars, and whole grilled fish and lobsters, all generously served with fries and a dash of greenery.  My meal was quite good, and I was glad I had ordered sliced Greek bread and bottled water to round out the meal of grilled sardines (small-sized) and the generous helping of spanakopita. The waiter who took my order did a double take when I mentioned the sliced bread immediately after ordering the spinach pie. So much so that he actually confirmed that I really wanted the bread.

The wait staff was very helpful and attentive, many were quite multilingual. But like all good eateries worldwide, ‘your mouth is where the money goes’ —meaning the larger table or better-paying customers tend to get the majority of the multiple tiered staffs’ attentions. After taking my order, I was not spoken to again by the wait staff until I was aggressive enough to call over the dining host, a younger man who spoke English quite adequately, to answer a question that came both out of my curiosity and as my employee management strategy.  When he did answer my question, I mentioned that I was ready to pay the check. What I suspect was that I had not behaved in a ‘finished customer’ way in order for the regular wait staff to recognize that I was ready to pay up and go.  Predominately, the reason was that I had not partaken in the almost ‘du rigueur‘ tiny cup of ‘mastika’,  a sweet liqueur produced with the mastika resin. Of course, I might be just a little too forgiving (undemanding) and the waiters may have not even noticed my having finished my simple but delicious meal.  But there was nothing left but a small of neatly piled sardine backbones. Maybe they thought I was an epicurean or perhaps just a famished traveler. I’m sure they’ve seen all kinds of patrons. Lucky for me, the cost was quite reasonable.

[bblfoods23]

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[glimmerbugart]

Open Studio: So Much Fun!

Creating art with others is a deeply enriching experience that fosters connection, collaboration, and inspiration. When individuals come together to make art, they bring diverse perspectives, skills, and ideas to the table, resulting in a melting pot of creativity. Collaborative art projects not only promote teamwork and communication but also offer a platform for mutual learning and growth. Moreover, the act of creating art with others cultivates a sense of community and belonging, as participants bond over shared passions and develop a deeper appreciation for each other's unique talents.

This past Sunday I hosted my first open studio of 2024 and enjoyed time spent with several other creatives. We had several different types of projects happening simultaneously, such as watercolor painting and zine creation as well as swatching watercolor markers. The conversation flowed, whoopie pies and cookies were enjoyed and we had a most splendid time working on various projects during our time together.

What a great way to spend a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon!

[helenthelibrarian]

Some festive fun with our ineffable husbands:)

The Whickber Street Shopkeepers’ and Traders’ Association had nearly come to blows over the Christmas lights.  Nina had had THINGS TO SAY about the Christmas lights: she looked pointedly at Mr Brown of Brown’s World of Carpets as she remarked frostily about the overabundance of sparkly lights fulsomely draping the carpet store’s shopfront, and the feeble forty watt bulb arrangement dangled precariously from the lamppost outside her coffee shop.  “Nobody buys bloody carpets at Christmas!” she shouted. “If I got a carpet for Christmas I’d roll it back up and shove it in - “

“Now, now”, said Mutt, the magic shop owner.  “Season of goodwill, and all that.”

“That’s all very well, my good lady”, Mr Brown said, in a wheedling tone. “My January sale is the highlight of the Whickber festive season. Surely you don’t begrudge a little spotlight on my top-of-the-range rugs?”

“Top of the range? They’re even more threadbare than your moustache.”

Mr Brown bristled.  “Personal remarks won’t win the argument, I think you’ll find.”

“No, but I’ll feel a whole lot better, you tweedy old coot!”

Mrs Sandwich cackled.  She didn’t want any twinkly festive attention drawn to her own place of business, but she and her ladies relied very heavily on Nina’s coffee at the end of a working night, and they never turned down the free mince pies the barista put their way, so she was very firmly on Team Nina.  Besides, Mr Brown bored her witless and this meeting was shaping up to be particularly tedious.  

“Mr Brown, just sort yer lights out n make sure our Nina gets her full share of the light-up snowmen n the blow-up polar bear, or - “ and here she dropped her voice and whispered in his ear, “I'll reveal the true identity of the Whickber Street Knicker Nicker.”

Mr Brown cleared his throat. “Aha, well, no problem about the festive inflatables, Nina.  Nine o’clock tomorrow morning alright with you?”

Nina gave a thin smile. “Splendid.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mr Fell sighed.  He hated meetings, but after the debacle of the bookshop ball, he felt obliged to host this one.  Most of the shopowners had had their memories, ahem, rearranged after the demons attacked his shop, so they were delighted to visit his fancy antiquarian bookseller business for - as far as they were concerned - the very first time; Maggie and Nina, however, were a different matter.  He had tried to miracle a little memory loss in both of them, but they were strangely resistant. Crowley had suggested there was something not quite right with them; were they occult? “No, surely not, my dear. We’d have certainly detected them as such.”

“Well, it’s bloody awkward every time I see them, angel. I’m sure they blame me.”

“You did trap them in the shop. And you’ve never attended that anger management course we talked about.”

Crowley had said he usually had no reason to get angry except when Aziraphale did something exceptionally silly, which was all the time.  There was very nearly a row.

Aziraphale let it pass, however. “It’s nearly Christmas, Crowley. Let’s not fall out.”

Crowley growled. “Alright, but you’re off my Christmas list.  I haven’t written to Satan yet.”

“Santa.”

“I know what I said, angel.”

“Will you stay for the meeting, dear?”

“Not even at gunpoint.  I’m off to the pub.  If there’s any demonic activity I’ll be straight over. To the airport.  You’re on your own with this one.”

Aziraphale had spent the afternoon before the meeting decorating a buffet table with candles, greenery, glasses and china.  “There: positively Instagrammable! Whatever that is”, he said to himself.  The buffet was laden with canapes and finger food, a few bottles of sherry (not the best sort; he might be generous but he wasn’t an idiot), and some Christmas crackers. He found a few Christmas LPs - Jim Reeves, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, all daringly modern - and placed them by the gramophone, ready for the post-meeting jollification.

Aziraphale was chairing the meeting, so it was the quickest one they’d ever had.  The sooner they were all on the sherry, the better.  “Well, everyone, if we’re all agreed on the Christmas lights, shall we call this meeting to a close?”

A grateful chorus of oh yes, please, rose from the attendees.  Maggie got up, stretched her legs, and took Nina aside as they joined the queue for the buffet.  “There was no need to be quite so rude with Mr Brown, you know.”

“Hah, he deserved it. And anyway, I’m hangry. What’s on the buffet? Anything suitable?”

Maggie picked up a plate and napkin. “Hmm, pickled onions, salad, garlic bread…”

“Any mini sausage rolls?  I love mini sausage rolls.”

“Oh yes, lots. Mr Fell’s outdone himself on the comestibles.”

Nina was about to pick one up, but Maggie stopped her. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think we can eat these.”

“WHAT? I’m absolutely starving.  What’s the matter with them?”

Mr Fell, fussing with the cheese and pineapple on sticks arranged into the shape of a hedgehog, overheard this.  “Oh no, my dear. Whatever is the matter?”

Nina burst into tears, an unfortunate by-product of having not eaten since breakfast and a particularly trying apprentice barista. She wailed, “They’ve got meat in them, haven’t they?”

Mr Fell’s face sank. “Ah, I’m afraid they do.”

“Well then, I can’t have them. And it’s Christmas!  And I’m very tired!  And Maggie’s present won’t come before the big day now because the delivery company is rubbish, and I hate sprouts, and - “

Mr Fell took her arm. “My dear Nina. Leave it with me. Have a sherry.  Not a big one or you’ll be squiffy in no time.”

He rang Crowley, who answered with, “Absolutely not, angel.”

“But you’ve no idea what I was about to ask.”

“If it’s anything to do with the meeting, the answer’s no.”

“Crowley, do stop it.  It’s about Nina.”

“Oh god, is something occult happening? I knew she and that missus of hers were dodgy.”

“Nothing of the sort.  I just want you to run along to Gregg’s for something.”

Crowley laughed incredulously.  “You what? Have you ever been in a Gregg’s? You, angel?”

“No, but they do have something Nina needs.  Now, here’s the list…”

By the time Crowley returned with his parcel, Nina was ugly crying into her third sherry.  Maggie was trying to console her, and Aziraphale was trying to separate an increasingly oleaginous Mr Brown and a furious Mrs Sandwich over the blinis.

Crowley never ceased to marvel at the chaos humans so easily manufactured without the least assistance from himself. This party was shaping up to be quite the pandemonium he had always privately hoped for but not had the opportunity to, um, assist, while Aziraphale was around.  He would tease him about this later.  In the meantime, he sauntered over to Nina and handed her a Christmas present.

“From me and Mr Fell.  Happy Christmas, Nina.”

Nina sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “What’s this? It’s warm.  Ew, it’s not a joke thing, is it?”

Maggie tutted and then smiled. “Just open it, darling.”

Nina did.  Inside the Gregg’s packet was a perfectly baked, golden, meat-free sausage roll.  It steamed gently among its wrappings, smelling heavenly.

“Oh”, she said. “Oh.” And burst into tears all over again.  

“Do eat it, my dear”, said Aziraphale. “You’ll feel a great deal better.”

Nina ate it, savouring every last mouthful.  The sausage roll worked its magic - warm, tasty, infinitely better than any meat-based sausage roll. She licked a finger and scooped up all the crumbs of pastry.  At last, she smiled beatifically.  “Thank you.  Best present I’ve ever had.”

Mr Fell squeezed Crowley’s arm. “I think it’s time to send everybody home, you know.”

“Ok, this one’s on me.” And Crowley moved his hand upwards, and clicked his fingers.  The guests suddenly felt it was time to be getting coats on and moving along. There were cries of “Oooh, would you look at the time?” “Quite enough sherry for me.”  “Splendid do, Mr Fell!” “Happy Christmas, everyone!”

Crowley said, “Nina. Maggie. Do come for lunch on Christmas Day.  I’ve worked out the perfect menu for you.”

They looked delighted. “We’d love to.  Thank you so much.  You’re absolute angels.”

When they’d gone home, slightly unsteadily, Crowley said, “I think I’ve worked out why they’re so hard to miracle. You can’t persuade them of anything.  They’re always so damned rational there’s no amount of hand-waving will work.”

“Have you, my dear?  Do you think they’re occult, after all?  It is indeed very hard to, er, manipulate them, and believe me, I have tried.  Not soft in the head at all.”

“I’m sure you have. I said you were just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.  No, I know what it is.”

“Do go on.”

“It’s simple.  They’re vegans.”

[universalinfo]

Satisfying Palates and Wallets: A Guide to Corporate Catering Menu Ideas

Feeding a team is no easy task. With varied taste buds, dietary restrictions, and of course, the pressing need to stick to a budget, finding a corporate catering menu that ticks all the boxes can be challenging.

But don’t fret; whether you’re setting up for a corporate luncheon, a team-building session, or a high-stakes board meeting, a savory spread doesn’t have to break the bank. In this blog post, we’ll explore five scrumptious and wallet-friendly corporate catering menu ideas that your team will love. Let’s take a look, shall we?

1. Going Global: A World Cuisine Spread

Bringing global flavors into your corporate meetings is a splendid way to transport your team across continents without leaving the conference room. A corporate catering menu inspired by world cuisines offers a rich palette of flavors.

Italy’s allure: Kickstart the international journey with creamy Alfredo pasta, savory lasagnas, and crispy bruschettas. Perhaps even a Margherita pizza for that unmistakable Italian touch.

Thai temptations: No one can resist the aromatic flavors of Thai green curry or Pad Thai. Paired with some fragrant jasmine rice, it becomes an instant favorite.

Mexican fiesta: Dive into a platter of spicy tacos, bean-filled burritos, and zesty guacamole. Maybe even have a side of nachos with cheese dip for some crunchy delight.

Indian odyssey: The richness of butter chicken, the spice of biryanis, and the tanginess of tandoori dishes are perfect to glimpse India’s diverse cuisine. Serve with fluffy naan or fragrant basmati rice.

Japanese joys: Sushi rolls, edamame, and tempura can be delightful additions. A platter of assorted sushi with wasabi and pickled ginger can be a refreshing palette cleanser.

2. Comfort Cravings: Homestyle Cooking

There’s a unique warmth in comfort food. It’s reminiscent of family gatherings, childhood memories, and familiar kitchens. Crafting a corporate catering menu with these homestyle dishes can make everyone feel right at home.

American staples: Creamy mac ’n’ cheese is a must, along with succulent meatloaf and soft mashed potatoes. Throw in some grilled cheese sandwiches and watch them disappear in seconds.

Soup for the soul: Tomato basil soup or chunky chicken noodle soup can be just what one needs to warm up. Serve with a side of crunchy croutons or a bread roll.

Classic sides: Coleslaw, green bean almandine, and cornbread can add depth to your spread. These sides are not only delicious but also offer comfort in every bite.

Delectable desserts: What’s comfort without some sweet endings? Apple pies with a hint of cinnamon, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, or even banana bread can wrap up the meal on a sweet note.

3. Healthy & Hearty: A Nutritious Spread

A well-balanced, nutritious meal can keep energy levels high and ensure productivity throughout the day. While it’s crucial to keep it healthy, the flavors shouldn’t be compromised.

Salads galore: From quinoa and roasted beet salad to a classic Caesar, offering a variety that can cater to different tastes. Add in a protein punch with grilled chicken strips or tofu chunks.

Lean proteins: Grilled fish, turkey meatballs, or tofu steaks can be both nutritious and flavorsome. Pair them with brown rice or whole grain rolls for added nutrition.

Vibrant veggies: Think roasted Brussels sprouts with a hint of balsamic, steamed asparagus with lemon zest, or stir-fried colorful bell peppers. The more colorful the spread, the more appealing it becomes.

Refreshing desserts: Instead of heavy cakes or pies, opt for yogurt parfaits with fresh berries, fruit salads drizzled with honey, or even chia seed pudding for that added omega-3 boost.

With these expanded sections, your corporate catering menu can be an absolute hit, offering a range of delicious options for everyone to relish.

4. Local Love: A Farm-to-Table Experience

Tapping into the essence of your local community is a fabulous way to celebrate the produce and talent right at your doorstep. A corporate catering menu focused on locally sourced ingredients not only boosts local businesses but provides an unparalleled freshness that’s hard to beat.

Morning freshness: Kick off with breakfast items sourced fresh from local farms. Think of scrambled eggs from free-range chickens, artisanal bread from the local bakery, and fresh berry jams made by local artisans.

Main course delights: Roast dishes are perfect to highlight the quality of local produce. Roasted chicken from the local farm, garnished with herbs from the community garden, or a vegetable casserole using fresh, seasonal veggies can steal the show.

Cheese & charcuterie: What’s a farm-to-table spread without some fine cheese? Source local cheeses, cured meats, and even local olives or pickles for a delightful charcuterie board.

Dessert delicacies: Feature seasonal fruits in pies and tarts. Fresh apple pie in the fall, berry tarts in the summer, or pumpkin pies in the winter can offer a taste of the season in each bite.

5. Vegan & Vibrant: Plant-Powered Plates

With the surge in veganism and more people being conscious of plant-based diets, it’s essential to have a spread that doesn’t just cater to this group but impresses them. A corporate catering menu that offers innovative vegan dishes can add a dash of vibrancy to the table.

Appetizers to begin: Start with vegan spring rolls filled with crisp vegetables, or vegan bruschettas topped with tomato and basil. Perhaps, even include a vegan ceviche using jackfruit or coconut.

Heartwarming entrees: Vegan doesn’t mean just salads. Think of creamy mushroom risottos, stuffed bell peppers with quinoa and veggies, or even a spicy vegan curry with chickpeas and spinach.

Plant-powered sides: Offer sides like roasted vegetable medleys sprinkled with nutritional yeast, or mashed sweet potatoes seasoned with vegan butter and herbs.

Desserts to die for: Vegan desserts have come a long way. Offer decadent vegan chocolate mousse, dairy-free berry cheesecake, or even vegan ice creams with toppings like caramelized nuts or fruit compotes.

Experience SimpleCater: Transforming Corporate Catering

Have you ever felt disappointed after a poorly executed catering order? Perhaps the variety was missing, or maybe the quality was subpar. That’s where SimpleCater comes into play.

Born out of firsthand frustration with the catering industry, SimpleCater has been redefining the scene since 2012. Their curated restaurant partnerships guarantee timely deliveries of mouthwatering meals tailored to your needs.

What sets SimpleCater apart from competitors? It’s their unyielding dedication to accountability, responsiveness, and that irreplaceable human touch. With SimpleCater, you’re not just another order number; you’re a valued client with unique needs and preferences.

Beyond just providing food, SimpleCater offers peace of mind. Their tech-driven approach ensures efficiency, but they never lose the importance of human interaction. Each menu they craft is based on your specific event detailsprovidingng a tailored experience every time.

In Conclusion

Feeding your corporate team doesn’t have to be a daunting task. With a pinch of creativity, a dash of variety, and the right catering partner like SimpleCater, you can whip up a feast that satisfies both palates and budgets. So the next time you plan a corporate event, let this guide inspire your corporate catering menu choices.

Website : https://simplecater.com/

[nattaphum]

I found this incredibly interesting guide on twitter by @AlmostMidn8 on thai traditions that helps understand the context of the mileapo + bas movie trailer.

Part 1 - The role of Apo

Khon is a highly refined performing art that combines multiple artistic elements: musical, vocal, literary, dance & ritual.

It may have combined features of ancient genres: court ritual, martial art and the shadow play.

(Ps. In this thread I'll only talk about the elements featured on the movie teaser)

Pi Phat orchestra accompanies Khon performance, the music is incorporated into the dancers/Actors expressions & mannerism.

There are 4 characters in Khon dance: Heroes, heroines, monkeys and demons.

Actors who play as monkeys and as demons wear a mask.

Heroes and heroines don't have to wear a mask but they put makeup to magnify the characters beauty, colour and personalities.

Traditionally, performers were men only; men played all female roles. Supposedly, this had to do with the fact that Khon dance was preformed inside the court exclusively.

Actors must start training from young age and must learn the gesture language of the dance.

Certain hand gestures and body movements indicate different emotions or responses.

Actors' customes were modelled closely on the splendid dress worn by members of the royal family for important rituals. The costumes appear convincingly rich but are always made of lesser materials.

The dress of male humans and gods is intended to create a feeling of majesty and grace. *According to Apo dress in the teaser, he is playing the role of the hero, I will only focus on his role in upcoming parts.*

The main heroes represent the great beauty, they are above the common people. In Thai world view, physical beauty corresponds with the internal virtues of the character. The ideal of beauty includes: "pale or golden complexion, slim shapes, small waist, slender torsos, beautiful shoulders, smooth skin, moon-like faces, deer-like eyes, hook noses, candle like fingers and graceful as swan"

The main hero keeps his real emotions hidden, no matter what he is really feeling. For example, when he is sad, he will not cry out. he will give only a polite smile to show that he is happy.

The Heroes & heroines characters are supposed to have the ideal build of a human male & female. The Hero conducts himself with regal posture & approachable demeanor,while the Heroine focuses on beauty & delicacy

The dance of heroes and heroines makes use of the meaningful and elegant hand gestures. The steps are light. The bare soles of the feet rarely touch the ground, and the toes are often turned upwards.

The end.

Part 2 - The role of Mile

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[dreamsgazer]

Day 7 - Cold & Red cheeks

12 Days of Christmas | Masterlist  

Warnings: none

“You are cold.”

It’s not a question and you do your best to ignore his scowl. London during Christmas is splendid, covered in golden chains of lights and filled with festive cheers in the air and the scent of mince pies and mulled wine. Tangerine has asked you to meet him near a pub you both know. It isn’t exactly a date, you have the impression he just wanted to see you. And you definitely wanted to see him.

He is dressed as tastefully as always, but his navy coat has clearly been created for a quick walk from a warm car to  an even warmer room, not for a stroll in the streets when snow is in the air. Aside from his leather gloves, he isn't even wearing a scarf or either a hat of any kind.

The walking, window shopping and admiring the decorations, would be better if you weren’t feeling anxious about him. Despite his reassurances that he is fine, the red shade on his cheeks is telling you another story.

“Tangerine, come on,” you insist “would you really get a cold rather than admit you made a mistake not dressing up enough?”

Before he can reply you shake your head in disbelief “No, don’t answer that. I already know the answer. Well, then” you lift your chin, resolute “let’s say you are not cold, but humour me anyway, because I can’t stand the thought of you getting sick.”

You quickly undo the knot holding the scarf’s ends around your neck, and you throw it around Tangerine’s. You act quickly, tiptoeing to reach his height and then securing the scarf, pushing it gently against him “There, now I don’t have to walk around London worrying for you to get pneumonia.”

He seems too flabbergasted to protest and you hope your gesture hasn’t ruin his mood. For you the point isn’t forcing him to admit he has been wrong, but to get him a bit of warmth.

Before your hands can go too far away from him, as quick as a lighting, Tangerine gently grabs them between his own. You are both delighted and shocked, when he presses his lips on your gloved fingertips. He stays like this for some thundering seconds, the narrow distance between the two of you stretching and twisting under the soft pressure of a feeling you don’t have the guts to name yet.

His eyes burn into yours and your throat goes dry. When his lips leave your hands, you need to remember how to breathe.

“Thank you,” Tangerine says, tenderly touching the red and incredibly soft wool wrapped around his neck “It wasn’t necessary, but if this makes you feel better, I’ll borrow it.”

He gives it back the day after, and you are secretly pleased realizing it still carries an imperceptible trace of his cologne. 

Wrapping it around you, you think you know what to buy him for Christmas.