#albeit one that is well understood by much of the local population

[psqqa]

the person behind me is having a whispered conversation with someone and their desk and my brain keeps trying to go down the path “oh no it’s because they’re talking about how much they hate me!” and i keep having to drag it back to the extremely obvious and fully rational “oh they’re trying not to disrupt anyone’s work, super appreciate them for that”.

like human brains are for real the dumbest, most terrified little animals in existence. calm the fuck down my dude our colleagues aren’t going to kick us out of the cave to fend for ourselves against the cold and sabre-tooth tigers.

[artsy-hobbitses]

I'm getting very curious about Malaysia... what's it like there?? Culture, living conditions, etc.

Pretty loaded question!

Off the top of my head, some specifics:

- Very much a melting pot. Malay, Chinese and Indian ethnicities mingle pretty freely, interracial marriages are not uncommon (I’m quarter Chinese on my mum’s side) and the modern Malaysian slang is often a mishmash of Malay, Chinese and Indian words. You have a choice between public, vernacular (usually caters to a specific race ie. Chinese/Indian as a stronghold of the language/customs, however I had Malays friends who went to Chinese Vernacular schools) international, private and religious schools (mostly for the Muslim-Majority Malays). Public holidays are designated for all three major races (big ones are Eid, Deepavali and Chinese New Year) plus more specific ones in Sabah/Sarawak for the indigenous population, and it’s normal for say, Malays to be invited to a Deepavali gathering or for Chinese to be invited to Eid open houses. We’re usually chill about it like that.

- Despite this, racism exists. It’s not loud and proud like in western nations though (except for your occasional Malay nationalist politician) it tends to be more of the passive-aggressive sort. Some parents discreetly warn their kids about not being friends with [X] race at school, some house rental listings with single out [X] race, though we’re coming to the point that we’re not bothering with Asian decorum anymore and publicly shitting on that behavior. On a historical aspect, the potential reason it takes on a more subtle, passive-aggressive tone here was that on 13 May 1969, sectarian violence broke out between urban Chinese and Malays in Kuala Lumpur due to unrest over the general election, and this resulted in the deaths of 600 people, mostly Chinese (My mum lived through this time at the heart of the incident). Basically the nation’s been scarred and has feared a similar event ever since, so those spouting open racial violence get slammed down pretty quick and “Remember 13 May” has often been used as a warning for whenever tensions flare up. Or when politicians want us to keep our grumblings down. We tend to have a don’t-rock-the-boat mentality here on the basis of trying to keep the peace for everyone—-it doesn’t always work. Malay Privilege/“Ketuanan Melayu” is a thing you’ll hear often from some sections of Malays here, who tend to argue that since they’re technically the original inhabitants if the land (don’t quiz ‘em about the Orang Asli), they should get more rights than the others.

-Living conditions vary. I live in Selangor—the state surrounding the Capital Kuala Lumpur—-which has the highest density of denizens. Here, it’s pretty modern. My husband and I rent a two-story terrace house, my parents who are a little well-off have their own bungalow. Places like Penang, Perak and Johor also tend to be more in the modern side. You’ll find more rural areas and kampungs as you go deeper into the heart of country (Pahang), the East Coast (Kelantan, Terengganu) and the country’s rice bowl (Kedah, and by extension, Perlis). This is within the Peninsula—-Sabah (I lived here for about four years) and Sarawak have a combination of modern and rural areas and tend to take life at a much slower pace than the Peninsula states (They also want none of Peninsula’s religious tension bullshit). My father’s kampung is in Pahang, and while I was never close to my paternal grandparents, I do have fond memories of cooking outdoors and plucking rambutan bunches from the trees they grew.

- Wet. Very wet. Monsoon season/‘Musim Tengkujuh’ at year end interspace with mid-year. Fucks with the income of local fishermen who are barred from going to the ocean on the account of rough waves, Flooding is an annual occurrence for rural areas, though we get flash floods in cities too. Common enough that “check for crocodiles” isn’t a weird request when you come back to clean your homes from mud and silt. (Houses near flood-prone areas will employ walls or be built on stilts to withstand the floods).

- 9 Sultans for 9 states, they take turns becoming the Agong (Chief Sultan I guess?) every five years. They’re mostly there the same way the British monarchy is. Don’t really play a big role in politics unless there is a need for them to decree something when politicians can’t work things out between themselves.

- Political leapfrog. It’s. A thing. A politician you see from one party today can be a member of another party tomorrow. It’s gotten so bad they’re considering legislation to punish it. We do call them literal frogs (Katak) when they do this (Sorry frogs, you deserve better!)

- Food. All the fucking food. Melting pot = all the deliciousness. There’s no culturally appropriating cuisine here, everyone’s eating everyone else’s stuff with great gusto. Roti Canai/Chappati (Indian) for breakfast, Nasi Campur (mixed rice, mostly with Malay dishes) for lunch and Wantan Mee (Chinese) for dinner is an example of the food culture trip you go through on any given day. You’ll have Malays who adore Chinese food, Chinese who adore Malay food, and no one fights when they’re eating, that’s all there is to it. Places like Penang are a haven for food and people will make trips just to eat there.

- Islam is the main religion. However, it’s not strictly enforced in most cases, I’d dare even say that we’re quite secular, to the teeth-gnashing of the Facebook army. I’m a Muslim who doesn’t wear a headscarf (except on special occasions), I know Muslims who rescue and keep dogs (My hunter grandfather apparently caught and kept a Dhole as a house guard way back), and I know some who’re LGBT, albeit somewhat discreet about it.

- Speaking of LGBT, the country is not friendly to the community, but neither is it as hostile as sections of the US tend to be about it. As an example, gay conversion therapy isn’t really a thing there (presumably because that would entail the govt admitting that there’s enough gay people to require it at all), workplaces generally do not have a policy targeting people based on their sexualities, like you’ll find butch ladies serving you drinks at Starbucks and gay men working with local theatre productions, and violence against LGBT members is pretty rare (though I imagine this is more because most people here mostly do not want to kick up a fuss in public, what more a fight, and just judge from a distance). Basically, the majority of the public will tolerate LGBT existence—whispering behind their back——until there starts to be a call for rights.

- Good degree of English command. English is understood, if not spoken, by a lot of us here from cab drivers to stall owners, so you won’t be hopelessly lost if you decide to visit. A big majority of us are at LEAST bilingual (In my case, I speak English and Malay, and can understand some Arabic). Quite a number who come from interracial marriages are trilingual.

- Cheap healthcare. There’s a reason we’re one of the top destinations for medical tourism. You have a choice between private and government hospitals which provide a form of universal healthcare. Govt clinics/hospitals offer subsidized healthcare and meds to all members of the public, and most doctors will start out in government hospitals before moving to private practices (like my sister-in-law). Uninsured, a trip to a normal clinic for a consultation will set you back maybe twenty to thirty bucks, fifty if you need meds or a small procedure like stitches. I do have insurance but have never used it for doctor visits since the amount is pretty trivial. I have, however, used it for a hysterectomy surgery + 1 month hospital stay at a private hospital which set me back about RM30,000-RM40,000 (USD7000-USD9500) which I managed to get covered. Ambulance Fees are like, RM200 (USD47) for private hospitals and RM50 (USD12) for govt hospitals. Consultation fees, blood tests and X-Rays go as low as RM1 (24 Cents) in govt hospitals. If you get hurt here, we got you covered.

And that’s just off my head! If there’s something specific you’d like you know, feel free to ask further ouob

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Drinks in the Summerset Isles —Some Headcanons 

Something I've been working on for a while now. As the title suggests, these are some HCs about drinks (types, when they're served, by whom, etc.) in the Summerset Isles. This is loosely based on ESO era Summerset but many of these HCs can be understood regardless.

Water

Water is the most basic staple drink in the Summerset Isles. 

Despite the warm climate, the clouds stalled by Summerset's Eton Nir mountain provide the islands with a decent amount of rainfall. Rivers and springs are also an important source of freshwater.

The most famous spring in the Summerset Isles is located in Cloudrest; its water is said to have curative properties and attracts pilgrims from all over the Isles. The welkynar also use it in their rituals. 

Although many cities in the Summerset Isles possess sewer systems, the water from rivers and lakes is still often polluted with muck and the poorest of the poor living in the cities' underbellies use it for pretty much everything from doing the laundry to washing to—well, you get it.

Desalination is a hot research topic at the College of Sapiarchs, but so far, it  has only been achieved on a very small scale using distillation or Maormer tongues, which many sailors carry as an emergency item. 

The houses of the rich have their own private wells and in case of the very rich, there are even systems (typically manually, mechanically or magically powered pumps) that allow for running water. 

The common folk have to content themselves with public wells and cisterns, although the water from the latter is not always safe to drink. Many of the Isles' inhabitants know this and will switch to a different affordable staple.

Wine

Another common staple drink in the Summerset Isles is wine. 

Although Summerset's most famous wines are sweet, heavy reds with a strong fruity flavour, it should be noted that the staple wines contain much less alcohol than their famed counterparts, because they stem from second and third pressings. 

Wine is available to anyone, although poor folk have to content themselves with watered down swill or even wine-vinegar mixtures. 

Rich altmer, on the other hand, have access to fine vintages that can be centuries old. Over the centuries, the altmer have perfected wine preservation, using both alchemical means and magic and collecting wine is a popular hobby among the Summerset Isles' rich and noble. 

Rosé, orange and white wines are less common than their red brethren, but especially on hot summer days, they enjoy immense popularity and are often mixed with iced water.

Hot mulled wine is a favourite during storm season, and many a sailor gets their fill at the harbourside inns, though it's also served in non-port cities, albeit to a lesser extent.

Fruit wines, as well as cider, are not commonly produced in the Summerset Isles, however, they are a popular import.

Beer

Beer, as well as ale, are often scoffed at as a "drink for humans" and were, for the longest time, not produced in the Isles at all. Only a few taverns in the busy port towns actually served it. With the opening of Summerset to outsiders, a few ambitious entrepreneurs saw an opportunity and opened the first Summerset Isles brewery in the busy port town of Vukhel Guard. Soon, others would follow. 

Beer is becoming more popular in the Isles among newcomers and the native population alike and the local variety, "Eagle's Tears", is even shipped internationally due to Dominion soldiers wanting their share.

Coffee 

Coffee isn't cultivated in the Isles. Before the war, the beans were a favourite Hammerfell import among scholars because coffee was said to stimulate the mind. Summerset coffee was typically heavily sweetened; the strong aroma of Taneth Coffee was too much for the average altmeri palate. With the war, coffee imports have practically ceased and coffee consumption is frowned upon. 

Teas & Infusions

The tea plant isn't native to the Summerset Isles and so far, any cultivation attempts have failed. The native Summerset teas are herbal infusions and typically only drunk for medicinal purposes. 

However, true teas are popular among the rich and middle-class alike and there's a booming tea trade with Elsweyr, especially since Rooibos cultivation has been successful in Northern Elsweyr, opening an alternative to the war-stalled trade with Hammerfell and an additional alternative to the true teas of Southern Elsweyr.

Since the Establishment of the Dominion, there's been a growing black market for teas and plant infusions from Valenwood. 

Juices

Despite the difficulty of preservation, freshly pressed juices are a popular drink in the Isles. In fact, no Altmeri breakfast is complete without some freshly squeezed juice.

The climate sets the perfect conditions for growing all kinds of fruit: oranges, peaches, lemons, grapes, figs—the list goes on and on.

Rich altmer will almost always have a variety of fruit trees in their gardens whereas lower and middle-class altmer buy their juice-fruits of choice at their local markets. 

Many cities plant fruit carrying trees along the streets or in parks because they look beautiful when in bloom.

Once the trees carry fruits, people are encouraged to pluck their share before the fruits fall and stain the ground, allowing even the poorest of the poor some access to fruits and juice.

Spirits & Liquors

Although many altmer consider drunkenness improper and disgusting, the Summerset Isles are home to some of the best "hard" alcohol there is. 

The altmer have a long history of distilling fruit brandy/spirits—though perhaps the most common spirit is pomace brandy in any and all variations—and have mastered the art of creating sweet fruit liquors, especially from wine (Thinking of something like the Croatian Teran liquor). 

A common "stock alcohol" used as the basis for infused alcohol is brandy or, especially on Auridon, Korn (strong spirit made from grain).

Herbal spirits and liquors are less common, but they're a customary digestif and denying them once they've been served is an insult to the host. Best to declare one's abstinence beforehand.

Still, if you want to indulge in "hard" alcohol (anything containing a distilled alcohol), best find a local with a stash because taverns are ordered to limit the servings per person.

[irisyorokobiwriter]

Trust is a Two-Way Road Pt. 1

Pairing: The Mandalorian x OC

Read Last Part here, Next part here

Summary:

In which the Mandalorian and Xola learn that trust is not granted, but earned.

Warnings: None

A/N: This is now the exploration of the thing we all find the most difficult in our relations. Whether you have known them three days of three decades, trust does not come easily to the best of us. Especially to those whose literal job is not trusting a soul, and the other betrayed one too many times. I am going to enjoy unfurling this important facet of a relationship, please stay tuned!

It was friendlier than any place that Xola had been in a long, long time. Although there were kind words and soft interactions, the compound lifestyle had not exactly been the easiest of places. Her position as a translator of the Jawa dialect had allowed her the luxury of hot water allowance, vegetables, and the occasional fruit instead of constantly eating freeze-dried rations, but this was different. A hot broth with a sharp yet deliciously spiced drink. A friendly waitress with easy-going chatter surrounding her.

"I...can pay you back." She offered.

"No thank you."

"I don't like to be indebted, Mandalorian." Taking another sip of the thin broth, she rubbed her neck. "Just give me time to think of how I might be able to."

"I understand."

There was not much to interact with. She understood, she did. It was as new to him as it was for her. 

 From their interactions, it was glaringly obvious that he had not spent much time with people. She was curious if he had friends within his clan. People he had met here and there that he befriended. Were there lovers amongst his acquaintance?

"The broth. How is it?"

Shaken from her thoughts, she nodded. 

"It's very nice. I'd offer you some but..." Huffing an uncomfortable laugh, she motioned vaguely in his direction. "I hope that you're finding times to look after yourself, even when I am...here."

"I do." Pausing, she felt a tension rise in the air. "Stay here." 

"What?" 

Hearing his chair scrape, his shadow had fled.

"Mandalorian?"

Looking amongst the shapes and hues of brown and grey, she could not make out his shape.

He had said stay. But, could she? What if the Mandalorian was leaving her on the planet with no means? 

"No...I trust him." Xola whispered.

But, she didn't. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust anyone in particular.

Rising, she made her way to the brightest light source, indicating the presence of an exit. Breath rising and falling, she looked around, ears straining for the sound of the engines of The Crest.

Hearing a warrior's yell, she ran in that direction. What happened?

"No, stop!! Stop!" 

Feeling a weapon push into her neck, Xola stepped back.

"What are you doing?" Xola snapped. "Stop!"

"Could ask you two the same." Hearing a woman reply haughtily as Xola's hands raised slowly.

"You don't need to do that," Cara sighed. "I won't hurt you. Or him."

"You want soup?" The Mandalorian offered hesitantly.

"Yeah."

As they walked back, he guided Xola in the right direction with a touch between her shoulder blades.

"Why didn't you stay?"

Because I was afraid you were about to leave me behind, never to return.

"I was worried for you." She lied. "I'm glad you're alright, however. Who is she?"

"A former soldier."

After they resettled down, Xola relieved that her food had not been cleared away yet, Cara put her drink down with a firm clink. 

"How'd you get here?"

"Just laying low. Ex-shock trooper, getting into things here and there...look, you're a bounty hunter. Thought you had a fob on me, that's why I fought you."

"I get it." He replied with a nod.

"So...why're you two here?"

"Laying low."

"Unless you want to go another round, you'll have to lay low somewhere else. One of us is going to move on, and I was here first." Finishing her drink, Cara made her exit.

 No longer hungry, Xola took a tentative sip of the lukewarm broth before rising.

"Well...planets taken." The Mandalorian replied.

Feeling along the floor with her foot, she made her way to the brightest light in the room. Hearing the Mandalorian walking behind her, she felt disappointment settle in hard. 

"Where are we in the galactic system?"

"Sorgan is on the southern outer rim." 

Eyes downcast, her hand absentmindedly drifted to where her cloak once rested. This was the only quiet planet in the area. Could they risk traveling to a place with a higher population density? 

"We'll leave at dawn, but first, I need to make a repair on the Crest."

"Can I help?"

"Sure."

Switching on the power light, he removed part of the outer grating.

"What does the sky look like right now?" Xola asked, holding out the wrench for him.

"Dark, cloudy."

"The sun must set fast here then." Xola replied, crouching on the ground.

"Another medium bolt?" Freezing, she sat up slowly.

In the distance, was the sound of a machine of some sort. 

"They're okay. Don't worry." 

***

"And so...we will be going to 'nowhere', to deal with some local bullies." 

"Pretty much. Stay, and get some things. Find the first aid, the blanket, and the yellow-no, the heavier rectangle like box that is right next to the hangar door. We're leaving as soon as I get back."

"Okay. And, where are you going?" Xola called out to his disappearing voice.

"To get a friend."

Walking up the hangar, she knelt to the ground, feeling for the rectangle box. There was a lever, a leather-like sack...feeling the cold and metallic box, she picked it up, accidentally hitting her head against the corner of the hangar.

"Damn!" She hissed, rubbing her forehead.

"You alright lady?" One of the men cautiously called out.

"Yeah, yeah. Just...load that, will you?" 

After a considerable amount of time, the items were all successfully located and on the cart.

Sitting, she waited for the rest of the company. Once the cart dipped temporarily in weight, she knew it was time to go.

As the cart began its slow and steady space, she stared out into the dingy air. 

"...It's nothing an ex-shock trooper can't handle." The Mandalorian was saying.

"Or a Mandalorian. And, what are you?" Cara asked, jerking her head at Xola.

"A...I worked on the warships."

"Which side?"

Should she say? It was hard to know who stood where these days. 

"The New Republic."

"...We all end up the same, don't we? Some New Republic this is turning out to be." Cara remarked, bitterness lining her voice.

"We all do the best that we can do," Xola responded. 

"And sometimes, our best just isn't good enough." Cara yawned, stretching out.

Tell me about it. Xola silently agreed. 

Had I just made it to that escape pod...would I even be in this mess?

Feeling the Mandalorian's eyes sharply on her, she absentmindedly wiped the sweat at the back of her neck with her hand. 

"Anything on your mind?" Xola found herself asking him.

"I..." Faltering, he shifted down. "Is your head okay?"

"Hm? Yes, it's fine. Is there a bump?"

"Yeah. But if you're not hurting too much..." Fingers ghosting on her temple, they returned promptly to the Mandalorian's side.

"Better settle in. It's a long ride."

"Mhm." Xola hummed in reply. 

Whatever he wanted to say, wasn't going to be vocalized. It seemed that he'd never say what he really thought of anything. 

Feeling a tired irritation, Xola leaned into a corner of the cart, grimacing at the splinters pressing into her tailbone.

Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in the compound. The sound of echoing metal, the familiarity of every cough, cry, and snarky Jawa tongue that passed through those corridors. The ease of moving from room to room within the metallic walls. Five years in one place would grant the steady rhythm of a safe lifestyle, albeit a boring one. The coming and going of the refugees, feeling that she was the only permanent resident. Only to be ripped away. Registering a thin blanket of some sort being draped across her legs and stomach, she squirmed further into the cart, trying miserably to ignore the sound of the low murmurs of the men above her.

"You think they can pull it off?"

"It's a Mandalorian and a veteran. If they can't...well...we got no choice, now do we?" 

The next thing Xola knew, the Mandalorian was shaking her shoulder.

"Wake up."

Breathing in the warm and humid air and the feeling of the soft morning sun kissing her eyelashes, the sound of children laughing, and the sloshing of water, Xola's feet cautiously sank into the moist earth.

"I brought them!" The villager shouted.

Crowding the three, the chattering grew to a near frenzy as the anxious inhabitants eyed the trio, dubious wonder filling their features.

"You must be exhausted," A woman broke in, hand resting on Xola's shoulder. "Come this way."

Letting herself be led, the woman who introduced herself as Omera showed them to a small barn.

"We don't get many visitors...I'm sorry, but this is all we can offer for you two."

"You're most generous. Thank you." The Mandalorian said, looking around.

"Blankets are over there, and a washbasin at the door." 

"Thank you." Xola said, smiling in her direction.

Hearing her footsteps walk away, she picked up the soft and old smelling blankets, folding it out to be a bed.

"It's been a long few days. You should get more rest." The Mandalorian said, forming his bed across the room.

"No...if it's alright, I want to walk around. I feel that I haven't walked around for a long time."

"Your nasal bone is broken, and...you..."

"Trust me. A walk will do me better than a nap ever could."

"There...there are a lot of ponds. You'll fall in."

"Not if someone is there to guide me. Or, if I had a stick of some sort." 

"I can't guide you now. But...soon."

"Alright." 

After an hour or so, the Mandalorian frowned. Someone was watching. Blaster at the ready, he whirled, producing a panicked cry from a young girl. Seeing the child, his shoulders relaxed, the blaster slowly landing at his side.

"This is my daughter, Winta." Omera warmly interjected, placing her hands on her child's shoulders.

"This nice man is going to get rid of the bad men. We'll be safe." Omera murmured comfortingly to her daughter. 

"Nice to meet you." Xola said, the Mandalorian giving her a nod. 

Glancing nervously at them, Winta clenched her mother's skirts as her voice began in a soft whisper.

"Sir, I wanted to know if I could show that...I don't know your name, I'm sorry. But I want to show 'her' the village. We'll stay in the village, won't go into the forest, I swear it. Can I show her around?"

"I don't think-"

"It'd be wonderful," Xola interjected. "Please do."

"Um, I-don't think..."

Turning his direction, Xola smiled. 

"I'll be fine. I will see you shortly."

Hand raised reluctantly, the Mandalorian craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Xola and the girl scampering out, a nervous yet delighted grin on the child's face.

"She'll be fine. Don't worry." Omera assured him. "We take good care of people here." 

***

It felt liberating, in a way, being seperate from the Mandalorian. Some people hated humidity, the way it made their hair puff up, the fabric clenching onto the small of the back, the near suffocating weight of moisture in the air. To Xola, it was as welcome as the first warmth that springtime brings. From the cold and recycled ship air, and the dry emptiness of the compound, the vitality of the humidness was welcome.

Cooking over the fire, Xola was delighted to hear that the fish were, in fact, a cornflower and turquoise color. 

From sun up to sundown, the villagers would approach Xola and Winta for an inquisitive glance or remark. 

After spending what seemed hours in the village baths, Omera joined the townswomen.

"The time!" She called out. 

"Girls, get dried off and go home, I know there were some mothers and fathers looking for you!" Scampering off, the girls all whispered their goodbyes, leaving the women to enjoy the serene stillness in the bath.

"Xola, are you doing alright today?" Omera spoke up.

"Yes." Eyes crinkling, Xola ran her hand across the water's gentle surface. "It's a lovely place. And a shame that it's being seized."

A tension resonated within the house as the recent events remained an open gash in their hearts. When it had been silent for some time, Omera sighed, piling her long hair atop her head. 

"Well, it is our home, and beautiful. Anything that is of value in this galaxy must be protected and cherished. And by your 'friends' being here...we are in great debt to you all." 

"We will help in any way we can." Xola found herself promising. Frowning, she pulled herself out of the stone tub.

"What time is it?"

"The sunset nearly two hours ago." Someone mentioned, mirth in their voice.

"I had better retire. Thank you all!"

"Oh, do you need someone to help you get back?" Omera asked, beginning to rise.

"No, no! I know the way. Enjoy your time, and thank you!"

Hastily dressing, she squeezed the water out of her hair as she was introduced into the cold and humid air. Shivering, she rubbed her arms as she felt her way along the walls. How did the cold come so quickly? 

Knocking cautiously on the barn door, she felt for the glass and threaded beads on the gate, affirming that she had reached the correct residence. 

"Mandalorian...?" Cautiously poking her head in, she awaited confirmation. 

In the nighttime, shadows, shapes, or any light was impossible. Just the empty and still ebony of night.  

"I'm here." Hearing his voice on the opposite side, she walked in his direction. "Enjoy yourself?"

"Yeah. Very much. And you?"

"Yeah."

At the irony in his tone, she raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Work cut out for you?"

"In a matter of speaking."

"Then, you should try and rest, Mandalorian." 

Hearing the slight clinking of Beskar, she sensed anxiety over this idea coursing through his spine. 

"If you're worried, I will listen for the sounds of an ambush, so you can sleep. You need to. I mean, I am assuming you're human of some sort? But, maybe you can't tell me that."

She assumed he was human, but one could never really tell by appearances, making her least qualified to confirm this.  

"Tomorrow, I will be gone for a long time." He said, the sound of footsteps approaching her. Feeling a crude wooden stick being pressed into her palms, she leaned back instinctively. "You'll need this."

"A rod?" She queried, rising. 

"Try it out."

Holding it out, she noticed he had shaped the length for her height, even the weight. Locating the wicker chair, the door frame, and even his calf, she felt a relieved sigh escape her. She hadn't realized just how much she had missed this assistance.

"Thank you..."

Xola had known he watched her struggle, even more so with the loss of her rod. But, making her one so she might be free to wander on her own. It was a kind notion. 

"Now I can have something sturdy to beat people with, if the need arises," Xola said dryly, giving it a light pat.

Hearing a huff under the modulator, she tilted her head at him. 

"Was that a cough or a chuckle?"

"Your guess."

Hearing rustling, she knew he was under the covers.

Finding her way to her bed, she lay the staff on the floor, slipping underneath the soft bedding. Tucking the blanket under her chin, she stared out into the darkness, not even shadows or colors present. 

Settling, Xola felt excitement buzz from her toes to her hair as she held the staff feeling the weight of it press down.

"Do you sleep every night with the helmet on?"

"Not usually."

"Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"Yes."

"Then...why don't you take it off?"

"I can't."

"I've heard a bit about Mandalorians. Here and there. But...I don't understand."

"We are one. One face. Anonymity is a crucial aspect of Mandalore. This is the Way."

"I can't see you. At all. All I know is your armor is some sort of brown color."

"It's silver."

"Oh. Well...point taken. I can't see. I am sure it'd be fine."

Hearing him sigh tiredly, Xola chagrined. She was keeping him from blessed rest. 

"I'm looking at the wall."

"No. Other way."

Turning she reached out, fingers brushing the old wood walls.

"I'm about to sleep. So after I am...why don't you take it off? You might get an awful crick in your neck if you keep it on even when you're sleeping."

"Goodnight." Was all she got.

"Goodnight."

Pulling the blankets over her head, she felt a gentle breeze brush through the room.

"If you covered the door and that small window in the barn, if you slept like that, it wouldn't be as risky!"

"Xola-" He began, irritation fighting its way into his tone.

"-I know, no more, good luck tomorrow, wishing you the best, goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Xola." He retorted, a slight exasperation in his tone.

"Goodnight."

Fighting the strange urge to chuckle, she felt the weight of sleep press down lightly on her thin eyelids, the gentle rustling of the bed covers across the room lulling her into a dreamless sleep. 

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[mikhaelkosanik]

Chapter 2 (google translate)

Autumn day played with its faded colors. Smears of colorful leaves, the gray sky hiding the sun, the smell of dampness in the air - all this accompanied me in my expectation.

Ahead there was a mesh of fence, blocking the sleepers from the adjacent territory and the city, and several roofs of warehouses and shops. Behind all the same, separated by a fence stood spreading massive trees. Their wet foliage played with bright yellow, red and brown colors. I stood on the platform of the station, trying to hide under a visor between two dusty lamps and a sign with the inscription "Brumaltown" hanging from it. Another cigarette smoldered in my hands, dispersing the bluish smoke. I smoked when I was nervous.

A chilly day, filling my gut with chill, made me look for ways to keep warm. I wrapped myself in a raincoat, but only the smoke from the cigarette warmed, striking my nose with the smell of tobacco. Though now my bad habit came in handy. And still it was worth throwing the cigarette out faster until a guard or controller passed by, ready to write a fine for smoking in the wrong place. Well, the platform was empty waiting for the train.

When I finished smoking, I peevishly looked around - if anyone was coming - and quickly threw the goby onto the rails.

“Uh, they didn’t notice,” I breathed with relief. I did not want to pay a fine of one hundred dollars.

This year, my family came together for the first time in a long time. Eunice, the youngest of the four, came last. This exciting event made me go to meet such a rare guest in these parts.

The train arrived a few minutes late, which gave me the opportunity to think a little about my problems. For the past week, protecting family values ​​has demanded a report from me. But I was not in a hurry, making it clear: even without this paper work, it’s full of business. The deadlines were running out every day, and on top of the documents they demanded more and more insistently. There was no way to deal with the faceless bureaucratic machine, and I just pretended to be extremely busy. In any case, all these pieces of paper did not concern me much. My job is counseling. And above it knew no worse than me.

Finally, in the distance, the nose of the train appeared, looming with the warm yellowish light of the headlights. Usually at such times the fog was shrouded all around, but, fortunately, the air was crystal clear, making it possible to enjoy the autumn before the rains came to these parts. I sighed, understanding what tonight would be.

“It's good that I was able to come. Without her, there would have been a real nightmare, ”I thought, looking at the incoming train.

The train stopped with a loud clang, opening its doors. It seemed completely alien to this place: massive, angular, with a huge bell between the tiny windows of the driver's cab. A muffled sound came from the car, informing passengers of the name of the station.

Unlike the old wooden station, whose floorboards creaked, the gigantic violet-orange color with the railway symbol looked new. And even though the composition was covered with dust, and the train itself looked like a tin can in places with relief and inserts made of ordinary metal, where corrosion showed through the paint, this did not at all plead its novelty, regarding the kind of wooden platform.

As soon as the doors opened, people began to hurry out of the cars. Among them were locals who returned from work and tourists who wanted to see the town about which there were legends. In this small mosaic I caught my eye with a familiar figure.

“I don't have to meet, Leo!” Eunice said displeasedly, coming up to me. - I have not been a little girl for a long time!

Despite the discontent, the sight of the sister said otherwise. She was clearly happy about the care on my part. As soon as Eunice came up, I immediately smelled a strong smell of perfume. Apparently, she wanted to hide behind him the fatigue from the trip and the excitement with which she was waiting for a meeting. I did not dare to criticize this suffocating and tasteless smell. Noting that the sister was off the road, and wrinkles and swelling were spread under her eyes with a treacherous net, I quickly waved my hand:

- Come on. Everyone is waiting for us.

We went down the wooden stairs, which sounded like a subtle creak, and passed several shops.

The railway passed behind them, circling the poorest district of the city. Not surprisingly: the city was located quite far from major highways and highways. The lion's share of supplies - what was earlier, what is now - was made by train. That's why the station was rebuilt in the industrial zone during the reconstruction of the city.

Once in the old car, we headed towards the parental home. Our area, located in the northeast, was considered prestigious. Far enough from here. The path came through the whole town. As I drove away from the station, I noticed nostalgia in the eyes of my younger sister. Eunice almost never visited Brumaltown, living with her family on the other side of the country. Her income was low, and she could not always come to such family gatherings, often limiting herself to calls once or twice a week. Moreover, albeit a small, but still “family” demanded a lot of strength from her sister.

Eunice sometimes could not cope with her wayward and lively daughter, which only added to her problems. Noisy, mischievous, as if in her uncle and aunt, Poppy was at times ugly at school, organized pranks, sometimes very offensive, and even frustrated her lessons a couple of times. No exhortations worked, and Eunice at times simply looked at her daughter’s actions through her fingers.

Poppy's father almost did not participate in raising his daughter, preferring work to family. Eunice justified this with expensive housing and high expenses, but I understood that this was not entirely true.

No, I do not argue, Noel loved Eunice, but over the years this love began to turn into a routine for both. In their relationship, the former spark went out. As a result, the whole household and daughter rested on her sister's shoulders. It is sad that from this her talents were wasted. She is, after all, an equally capable psychologist, as father used to say. But I was not FVP and did not want to interfere in her life.

The trip to the parents' house also turned out to be long and exhausting: fly by plane, and then transfer to the train. For everything - about six hours. Here Eunice appeared extremely rarely in her native land.

While we were driving, I myself involuntarily recalled the history of this place, which has become home for our family. I remember how we moved here during the restoration.

As far as I remember, the town of Brumaltown has never been large. Formed around a woodworking factory at the beginning of the century, he could hardly boast of city status in those years. The population at that time was from the strength of two thousand people, and all of them were workers of this very factory, and even their families, who were not afraid to move to the wilderness. Before the war, almost no one knew about this town. Even the names did not bother to come up with.

When the world plunged into bloody strife, the invaders from the south did not attach much importance to the small settlement of a dozen tiny shack houses and only destroyed the factory, having stolen everything of value that they could find in it. Compared to the capital and major cities, where after the armistice almost every building had to be rebuilt from scratch, the town of Brumaltown looked quite decent. This was written on the pages of textbooks and remembered during the celebration of McKirby Day.

When the war came to an end, the town was completely empty: the destroyed nature has now become very valuable, and all the states that have survived in the least have been equated with nature reserves. From that moment on, it was forbidden by law to use more than ten percent of natural resources per year. Here the factory bent, not getting a chance for a new life. Local, devoid of a single income, then willingly left their houses in search of a better life. But before the war ended, a new disaster came: the period of overpopulation of large cities came. The war, together with the fuel crisis, did their job and turned the great country into two bits with empty and contaminated lands in the center.

The migration of survivors of dead lands destroyed by biological weapons has increased population density to unimaginable limits. The stuffy, dusty megacities have become shelters for hundreds of thousands of afflicted. This led to a lack of housing and work. Consider the new Great Depression. It was then that many towns that had sunk into oblivion began to be remembered and re-populated.

So this town again found its inhabitants. Because of the cold winters, he was dubbed Brumaltown. I think it is justified. Unlike the capital, the town is far enough from the bay, and the climate here is much cooler and harsher. And if you take into account that the chilly wet air from the bay still reached, the winters here were felt very cold and snowy.

Since the rebirth, the town has grown. There was also public transport. Although the language didn’t turn out to be called developed: the bus route, and the three-lane railway station with a branch from one to the shipping docks of the shops — that’s all public transport. No airport, no taxi, no tram or metro.

The town was very small. If you wish, you can walk around it in a couple of hours. Therefore, no one saw the point in the dominance of transport.

I found those times when Brumaltown was not yet located on every map, and the inhabitants deceived that they lived in larger neighboring cities. True, then the population hardly exceeded 5-6 thousand people. Now in the town there were about 25 thousand inhabitants.

The town was obliged by the last round of popularity to the history of the Grasse family. I was then a very young child, so I could not track the development of this story. I could hardly then predict how the story of one girl would change the whole world.

Emma's notes, released a couple of years after moving to Brumaltown, influenced all orders in society, forcing a number of laws and conventions to be adopted. The fact that they had not advertised before, became unpleasant, but officially recognized: there is the Mehoni virus, it cannot be cured, and there is no getting around it. These diseases and the diaries of Emma stirred up the whole world and left no one indifferent!

After the scandal with the publication of records, society in many countries can only accept the fact that 8% of women in the world are sick with the Mehoni virus, which causes autoimmune necrosis.

Gradually, very scarce information about the virus and the history of Emma herself began to exaggerate in society, which allowed the inhabitants to put up with a constant number of patients. Emma lived the rest of her life in Brumaltown. She did not like to talk about where she lived with her family, wanting to spend the rest of the days alone. But rumors about Brumaltown still went around the country, glorifying the town at the level of local folklore.

There were also enough sights here: the Grasse family house, which became a museum, a small planetarium, and a monument to the same soldier McKirby. But rare tourists annually visited to look at the "town from the story of Emma."

Someone came from other countries to satisfy their curiosity: is the town really so terrible as it was sometimes described in urban legends by residents of larger neighboring cities. But there were far fewer foreign tourists compared to the inhabitants of the Northern States or Dixieland.

“How's Poppy doing?” I asked, remembering the lively and mischievous niece.

“Good,” Eunice smiled, continuing to look out the window.

The landscapes of childhood flashed before her eyes. The central square, small streets and low houses with a maximum of five floors evoked fond memories of Eunice, although she rarely visited the town. Her childhood passed here, and she appreciated this mischievous and fun time. Now he cannot be returned; years have taken their toll. They, like sand in a watch, flowed away, changing everything: only smiling smiling good eyes the color of moonlight reminded of a little brisk girl, and freckles scattered from cheek to cheek, framing red faces with their red stars, like a pink sky.

And yet, sometimes, the sister wanted, as before, to run along the old paths in the park, walk through the shops, and eat ice cream in her favorite cafe. It is a pity that this did not work: instead of a cute girl, a tired adult woman with her problems and concerns looked at Eunice from the reflection in the glass.

- Already in the fifth grade I went. She says she likes it, ”continued Eunice, not looking up from contemplating the view from the window. - So far, it’s not a hooligan.

In the meantime, I was thinking about the upcoming meeting. It was lonely, because only two such gatherings in the parental home I did not come alone. The younger ones, on the contrary, always came with their families, pouring salt into my wound.

The only consolation now: Eunice, too, this time alone. And the younger sister is very close to me. She is closer to me than the twins. Eunice understood a lot and often helped in difficult situations. It somehow brightened the upcoming evening. I even smiled sadly: "Only after becoming a widow do you begin to appreciate scandals."

Having arrived at a small two-story house at the very beginning of the street and parked at the sidewalk that separated the lawn from the road, I already wanted to help my sister with my luggage, when my cell phone rang.

  - Good afternoon, are you Leo Berdnik? Asked a trembling male voice on the other end.

“Yes, I am listening to you,” I answered a little cautiously, having seen earlier that the call was from an unfamiliar number.

“They gave me your phone at the Everplace Hospital.” They said that you specialize in difficult cases with foster children and children under guardianship. That you are one of the few psychologists who take difficult cases with “pink” families, - the person who addressed was nervous. This made him speak very fast. Almost chattering. And I had to concentrate and listen very carefully so as not to miss anything from what was said.

“Let's meet in my office tomorrow,” I suggested, realizing that I could hardly help on the phone. Yes, and the very combination of the “pink” family inspired a lot of unpleasant memories. “Please write down my address.” When I finished dictating and hung up, I got out of the car.

There was nothing to help: Eunice quickly picked up a small suitcase on wheels from the trunk and ran into the house. Most likely, she was already embracing with her stepmother and father, enthusiastically talking about her household.

Sighing, I took out a cigarette again. The stepmother was against smoking in the house - so I have to do it nearby. While smoking, I decided to look around: a lot of houses were empty this year. This was indicated by tablets on the lawns with the inscriptions: "For sale." Well, yes, the children grew up, they need to be taught for something. Yes, and there is little work. If you want a lot of money, either ride to larger cities, or moderate your appetite.

The area was considered prestigious, located quite far from the industrial zone, but not so far from the center of the town. The houses here have always been famous for their comfort and spaciousness. Except for one, on the outskirts, they sold easily and found their customers at any time. A lot of neighbors were replaced in my memory. Families, although they valued this town, often settled here only while the children were growing. Over the past twenty years, the situation with overpopulation of cities has returned to normal, and the small outback was of much less interest to young people than large cities in the east or west of the country.

Of course, there were those who remained, living their years in the shadow of sprawling massive trees and surrounded by hedges. The silence of the town, its small size liked the old-timers, and savings or third-party incomes allowed these people to not cling so eagerly to work. There were those who returned after school. But for the most part they preferred the center with its cheap apartments. Yes, and I knew a little. Mostly young people left the town to study in college, and then did not return. Parents also left for them in search of new hobbies and new life goals.

The dank day did not want to end, which is why the cigarette smoldered slowly in my hand. This allowed to peer deep into the street for a long time with its yellow-green colors of autumn, which bright spots and drops diluted the gray background of the clouds. When the decayed and finally damp cigarette butt was thrown aside, it was time for me to go to my parents' house. I tried to get in as quietly as possible, but it didn’t work, and I was immediately greeted by the rumble of voices and the smell of food. As soon as I crossed the threshold of my parents' home, I immediately became the center of attention of my three nephews. They liked to communicate with me, because, unlike my parents, I did not condemn them and tried to help if they shared problems with me. I tried to smile so that the children would not see my confusion and longing that autumn evening. My nightmare began slowly.

***

The evening was lively. All the guests had fun talking, Eunice and Jay helped the stepmother set the table and cook dinner. Father told his grandchildren stories about his turbulent youth, and then we all laughed together, recalling various funny cases from our childhood. As I expected, Johan and his twin sister Jay came here with their families.

This half-brother this time brought his weather boys and his wife Lulu, and his sister took only the youngest daughter Sammy, who recently turned three years old. There was nothing surprising in this: the parental house could accommodate a very limited number of guests.

I was always surprised that the children of Johan inherited blond hair from him, while Lulu, his wife, was dark and rather dark. Most likely, in her family there were immigrants from Mexico, but I'm not sure about that. But the kids Jay went to their father with their bright red curls, because their mother had a completely faded, "mouse" hair color. But that only concerned hair. Surprisingly, if Johan’s children went to mother with facial features, taking only hair from their father, then Jay’s children, on the contrary, only inherited hair from their father, the rest was taken from their mother. “Well, castling!” I thought, looking at my nephews.

“Why didn't you bring the rest?” - Johan was very surprised at the sister’s decision to take only the youngest daughter. “You usually dragged the whole family.”

“Brought it if some had not cut off and brought all their horde!” - parried Jay, poking at his brother with a finger with a bright manicure.

Boy Jay, whom I remembered with eternal bruises and a band-aid on her nose, was now a well-groomed and beautiful woman. Yes, she did not look like a mother, unlike her brother, but she more than compensated for her appearance with character. So quarrelsome and restless. And yet this couple had something in common ...

After school, the brother and sister left, creating their own families and preferring to see each other only at such family gatherings. Why they did this, I did not know. In childhood, the two were very close. Literally everything was done together. Maybe Johan was tired of his sister’s eternal commands? Or maybe he just got bored with a maturing Jay over the years?

“Where am I?” - immediately grumbled brother. - Every year we come here. - Johan inherited from his stepmother blonde hair, the same dark eyes and nose, the tip of which bent down. My brother had to work hard to provide for his family. This was reflected in his character - from a bully he turned into a calm guy.

- Yes? - the sister did not let up, clasping her sides with her hands. - Last year I was only with my wife, the year before last ...

The twins, unlike Eunice, came every year, shaking the parental house with quarrels or noisy gatherings. Jay herself sometimes visited her parents, but she alone was quite quiet and even tolerable. Affected work in a bookstore.

- I also remembered! - Johan interrupted, glowing. - You would still remember how I stole candy from you in three years.

- By itself! - laughed Jay. - Drive my candy!

For a word, she did not climb into her pocket, and a good memory only helped her in a variety of squabbles. It is simply amazing that Jay had four children, and in some way incomprehensible to me, she coped with all of them. The half-sister obviously went to stepmother!

I remember how often I received because of these unbearable children. It was impossible to keep track of them in childhood, and they constantly broke something, climbed up somewhere and regularly messed up at school. Well, Eunice wasn’t a hassle. Probably because of this, she was very close to me. Or maybe the big difference in age affected?

There was still time before dinner, and the family members gathered together communicated with each other. The little one also had fun: the boys of Johan brought toy pistols and played, running around the house one after another.

- Injured! - shouted alone.

- Not fair! - answered the second. - Not injured! That you are killed! Aah! Zombie! The aliens have revived you!

- Fool! There were no aliens in the Wild West! - Catching up the younger, shouted Will.

  - There were! On it were!

Soon the boys climbed to the second floor. I think they had something to play with there. Oh, and the stepmother will be angry if her now unbearable grandchildren break something! But I don’t have to follow them: adult parents, over there, are sitting at the table in the dining room. Sammy, meanwhile, went from room to room, tapping the pan with a spoon.

“Why did you get a jar from the kitchen?” I was surprised when my niece came up to me with a can on her head, hitting me in the pan, as if in a drum.

- I'm a jerk! - the girl grinned right away. - I'm leading a palad! And after me is an oestre! - a small puffy pen pointed to a small column of dolls tied to a rope. They all dragged along the floor on their leash. For a three-year-old girl, it was a parade, but I had completely different associations. But I decided not to sound like that. He grows up - he learns at history lessons.

Judging by the fact that neither mother nor the rest did not scold Sammy for the theft of utensils from the kitchen, they were not up to her. Looked around. Well, yes, Eunice talked with her father, Johan and Lulu discussed children's assessments, and Jay in the kitchen argued about something with her stepmother. Surprisingly, the stepmother, Bernice, did not respond to the loss. Maybe I didn’t notice? In the heat of heated debate she could.

I removed a can from my niece’s head, took a spoon and a pan, offering to watch a cartoon. Just walked the old "Wolf, dog and mouse." So many memories of this post-war cartoon. Yes, there was an allusion to “pink” families in it, but the cartoon was no worse from this. Even his father, a skeptic in life, a terrible bore and a rather gallful person, liked this cartoon. What can I say about me and Eunice who grew up on these heroes. Sammy said with displeasure that she wanted to lead the orchestra, but still sat next to me.

- Who took the can and pan? - squealed Bernice, leaving the kitchen.

With her nose bent at the end, dark large eyes and a very magnificent chest, her stepmother was like an owl. Especially now, going out in a dress with ruffles and the same openwork apron. Well, like an owl! You look at that, it will start to hoot. Which would be very comical with her tall, nasty, squeaky voice.

I handed out the utensils, pointing to my niece, absorbed in the action in the cartoon. Bernice immediately jerked up the dishes, grunted, and hid again in the kitchen. I could not resist this and smiled ... Yes ... The stepmother's children are great. Their taste for life is relentless. Only Eunice and I remained aloof with our problems. I envied the twins a little: their spouses supported them, loved and, most importantly, were with them. Not like that with Eunice ...

When the cartoon ended, it was the turn of the news. The clock was just seven in the evening. Sammy reached out to the remote in frustration, but I did not give her that. For once, I wanted to see the news block without comment. “The next fuel crisis is beginning,” the announcer said measuredly from the screen. - The Southern Independent Confederation delays fuel supplies for several days. The production of hydrogen elements fails, and the citizens of the North States of America are preparing to raise food prices, ”then they showed several interviews on this subject, where people bought food for the future. Someone complained that insurance and fuel are too expensive, and keeping a car is more at a loss. I knew that gasoline prices had already risen, even though the government was trying to contain this growth. True, the state could not restrain prices forever. And I understood that very well. Yes, right after the split of the north and south, a lot of effort was devoted to creating alternative fuels. Hydrogen blocks, nuclear engines, and electric motors appeared. But they received the main distribution in heavy equipment. Combines, trains, planes - all of them worked on hydrogen. Cars still required gasoline. No matter how many attempts there were to create a small and powerful hydrogen engine, nothing came of it. The technologies of electric cars of the past also did not take root - they were too expensive for the mass buyer after all the crises. Although biodiesel engines have recently begun to appear, the production of this fuel has proven to be more expensive than buying oil from neighbors.

It is good that Brumaltown was rebuilt very compactly after a new settlement. It is quite possible to live without constant trips by car: everything is at hand.

  “To other news. The first tourist group visited Utah. According to experts, the level of biological pollution has decreased and returned to normal over the past fifty years, and now this territory can be equated to the reserve. However, according to experts, pollution levels are still high in neighboring states. Cleansing procedures can take several more decades. ”

I involuntarily recalled the lessons of history from high school, namely, as we were told about the horrors of biological weapons of the past. Yes, I did not find any war, nor those times when the south and north were one. But I knew those who caught. Then, eighty years ago, there was a single country, and not two flaps with dead lands between them. Millions died in that war. And the saddest thing is that not a single country in the world could survive. Everyone suffered.

Having finished this news, the announcer passed the floor to his charming colleague: “This year, additional funding was allocated to support the“ pink ”marriages. The state congress believes that it is possible to increase the percentage of new unions ”- continued this news by an interview with one of the WCC employees who complained that during the period of liberalization the percentage of cohabitation without official registration began to grow. Due to several laws, it was difficult to track such a thing, and the “defenders” only had to wash their bound hands. I smiled sadly at the latest news:

- Cancel the Epo and restrictions - get such an increase, which has not been since the beginning of the century!

Sammy heard this and, turning to me, asked:

- Uncle Leo, and what is Epo?

- The procedure is this. After the wedding they go through it, - it seemed to me that this explanation is enough.

I knew the essence of the procedure, but I did not see any reason to acquaint the three-year-old even with official information. What can we say about the real component.

“If you grow up, you will learn more,” I added.

- I know! - the niece jumped up right away, shaking her red curls. - Mom was talking! These are the cools!

I shrugged: courses so courses. I had no idea what Jay was saying to her children and what was not. I did not want to quarrel, and I was more silent and listening, occasionally assenting.

About what is the Epo, I did not want to think even more so. These memories were very painful for me, and I tried to drive them away from me as far as possible. But only from year to year it became increasingly difficult. It was too painful to recall that the consequences of this "procedure" killed my husband Ivy.

The fact that this procedure is necessary and is the key to a happy marriage was said to all representatives of the third sex - eno. Everyone was introduced to the official information. Someone took it, someone not. But as soon as the official union took shape, any eno had no choice. For each person of the third sex, there was always only one choice - either loneliness or Epo a year after the wedding. True, in some places the procedure was carried out before the registration of marriage. It really depended on the region and the family.

- Hey! - Over my head came a few clicks of fingers. “We are only waiting for you.” They set the table! - Eunice still knew how to rescue me from captivity of heavy thoughts.

I sighed and, getting up from the couch, wandered into the dining room, where there was just an empty space between my father and Eunice. To my misfortune, Derek and Matilda joined the family meeting, who were not our relatives, but considered themselves good friends of the family. They either came, or pretended to be very busy. Predicting their appearance from year to year became increasingly difficult, and each time I was afraid of a new awkward meeting.

The appearance of this couple in the house became tense: Derek is my ex-boyfriend, and Matilda was constantly jealous of him to me. And although our relationship came to a standstill many years ago, Matilda still did not trust me, considering her rival. It is amazing that a guy who used to wear a pink hoop and considered himself eno can get a wife who will also be jealous of him. I understood that the third sex had a choice: to be with a man or a woman, but I still wondered how Derek got along with his wife. Although, perhaps, the similarity of characters and interests helped them? Ivi used to come to the rescue, protecting from the barbs and rudeness of Matilda. But he was not with us. Now the title of my defender passed Eunice. She snapped a couple of times at lunges, forcing me not to speak badly about me with the rest.

“You also came off in college,” said Derek, kissing Matilda. “Or should I remind you of George?”

Blushing with anger and resentment, the woman fell silent, lost in thought: she remembered the last unsuccessful novel, which ended on the initiative of the guy. When peace reigned in the house, I began to think that tomorrow I would communicate with a very difficult client.

“Okay,” I decided, realizing that I wanted to stay with my family, “you can’t rush to conclusions for now. We need to talk with these people. ”

The rest of the evening went over a family dinner. We remembered both good and difficult times in our lives.

[leonleonhart]

👀

more persona! this one’s all i have of it

It was a strange choice, choosing Shibuya for the classtrip. Most would think of it as something outside of Gekkoukan’s price rangeeven with the school being more high class than most of the schools back home,but as news started focusing more and more on the happenings in the Tokyodistrict it was clear that the city was in the consciousness of the studentpopulation. The fact that the faculty even agreed hinted to some sort ofexcitement among the adults as well after the results of the student pollcame in. They barely managed to cover the cost by restricting the travelinggroup down to the third year students, with a little extra monetary paddingfrom a portion of the students unable or unwilling to travel the distance. Oneof the leaders in the student council, one Ken Amada, sighs once again astheir rather large group pads their way through the streets as they’re guidedto their hotel, exhaustion weighing on his shoulders with all the pre-planningalongside the actual journey. It went unnoticed by his classmates, but the tripwasn’t the only thing that had him on edge.

The familiar presence of Kala-Nemi had washed over him theinstant he entered the limits of the city, the persona’s supernatural presenceeasily standing out against the anxieties of every day life as it stands atattention on the edge of his awareness. The city certainly didn’t have theominous pressure as the Dark Hour, more like the cozy country town with itsnonsensical arena. He’s learned that sometimes places in the world are simplycloser to the realm of shadows, by the power of some god or simply from astrong collection of consciousness. Kala-Nemi holds onto him like a cloak, abarrier against whatever summoned it from the sea of his soul. An otherworldlysign to not get involved, not that he had any idea how to in the first place.Though with his experience he’d make a solid bet on it having something to dowith that Phantom Thief business that’s got everyone buzzing.

Ken isn’t immune to the gossip either and he’s spent hisfair amount of time talking with his school friends, even a few of his formerteammates asked for his opinion on the matter. A mysterious group popping upout of nowhere and causing change through unknown means? Standard sign ofanother set of persona users clashing with shadows. Maybe he’d give Misturu acall if she’s free or try to get in contact with the Inaba group and ask fortheir opinion now that he’s got a feel for the situation himself. There’s afamiliar sinking feeling in his stomach, he might have hit the eighteen-yearmark, but his comrades were well into their adult lives.

Shinjiro however, kept off the front lines due to his stillunstable health, made sure to drop into the dorm and serve a well needed fullmeal, the both of them ignoring the weird looks fellow dorm mates would give asthey act like a family that never separated.

Not that he thought they should get involved, and not likethey could get involved. With his ownpersona keeping him separated from whatever was happening there’s little doubtthe others would meet the same blockade, the only ones who could solve thisproblem are the chosen pawns. They’d all acted under secrecy and continue to dosuch, but with pressure from the police actively trying to capture this group meant they probably behavedas carefully as possible.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a long groan Kentakes his gaze away from the shop windows they were passing by and turning hishead up to the sky watching the clouds slowly pass while they all wait to crossthe road. A few of his classmates give him an odd look, none of them reallyknew him beyond council activities or pleasantries as all of his closer friendsended up staying behind. Didn’t help that he still felt the loss afterKoromaru’s passing, the dog the only one that still helped him feel connectedto the past. Everyone thought he’d just lost a dog, but he’d lost his closestfriend.

Ken was the only one there when he died, peacefully nappingon the Shrine park bench. It wasn’t fair, but the dog had been doing hishardest to stay as long as possible.

His wandering mind is thankfully interrupted by the sound ofsomeone talking loudly over the regular crowds on the street and even louderover the touring students surrounding Ken. Ken closes his eyes with a smile,reminded of better times in the dorm, of Junpei making conversation witheveryone who took the chance to talk to him in the dorm. It was so long agonow. He opens his eyes again and throwing a curious glance towards the noise,noticing the more irritated looks the people around him were sending in thesame direction. As much as he understood the irritation that comes with silencebeing interrupted, there was no reason to throw dirty looks.

A bleach blonde head stands out in the group, the one makingso much noise amongst a small group wearing similar uniforms, belonging to alocal high school most likely. The boy seemed to be leading a majority of theconversation in their group of three. Ken can’t quite make out what they’resaying but they are approaching the crosswalk slowly that still refuses to letthe students pass much to the increasing despair of the equally exhaustedteachers. The two following along side the loudmouth seem to keep pace with thehyper boy, the blond girl next to him rolling her eyes as she responds towhatever quip he threw her way. A little behind them is a boy with fluffy blackhair, a majority of his face hidden by large glasses, but there’s a gentlesmile on his face as he keeps pace alongside them both. Ken swears he sees apair of cat ears pop up from the other side of the large shoulder bag over hisshoulder, but it’s gone before the trio stop just short of Ken’s larger group.

“I wonder what happening…” The girl wonders out loud,occasionally glancing over to all the unfamiliar students. “I don’t recognizethe uniform.”

“Class trip or somethin’?” The boy with bleached hair says,unknowingly getting the answer right. “Strange place to choose.” Ken isinclined to agree, somewhere more traditional would’ve been better for keepingcalm.

“Think they came here for the Phantom Thieves?” The girlresponds with a mischievous grin, hiding a giggle behind one of her hands.Again, hitting the nail on the head. Ken sighs, sometimes people as acollective were too easy to understand.

Ken doesn’t think about how his stare might be too intense,too relaxed against the light pole he’s stuck himself to like an old poster. Heonly becomes aware of himself when he finds his gaze returned by a pair ofpiercing grey eyes, the stare coming from behind a heavy set of glasses. Theraven haired boy who’s now half listening to his friends mumble excitedly inlower tones than before gives Ken a smile along with a curious tilt of hishead. There’s a flutter in Ken’s chest, like the wings of a butterfly. A rushof nostalgic emotions stirring causing him to speak before his thoughts catchup to speed with his mouth.

“We came from Gekkoukan High on Tatsumi Port Island,” heblinks as he realizes the words left his mouth, “I… guess we do stand out heredon’t we.” The other two accompanying the boy current keeping eye contactlocked onto Ken, his gaze holding strong and unblinking like having a staringcontest with a cat, barely seem bothered that he’s spoken up.

“Anyone would stand out grouped up like this.” The blond boymutters.

“And you wonder why we get worried when you bring too muchattention during our meetings Ryuji…” A different voice comes from somewherewithin the small group, though not from the person still eyeing Ken though thegaze has gone from curious to playful possibly testing just how long Ken wouldkeep the contest going. Ken finally tears away his gaze to see if he can spotwhoever spoke up, but the three didn’t seem bothered.

“So how long you guys staying?”

“Only a few nights,” Ken shakes his head before adding witha laugh, “anymore and the students would be paying for their own lodging.” Thecrosswalk finally lights up for the crowds to pass, and he figures that’s wherethe chance encounter would part, but the trio walk after the group of Gekkoukanstudents. As far as he can tell they’re simply heading the same direction, andhe didn’t get a bad feeling from them. They made for better company than hisclassmates giving him an, albeit starstruck, cold shoulder.

“I’m guessing you just got out of class for the day?”

“Uh, yeah.” The girl looks uneasily towards her companionsat the question. “We were just gonna meet up with another friend at a café.”She quickly covers her mouth like she’d let a grave secret slip.

“Oh,” Ken digests the strange reaction for a moment, “is thecoffee there any good? I’m going to need something to revive me tomorrow aftersuch a long trip.” He plays with his bangs a moment before brushing them to theside and rubbing under his tired eyes.

[tanadrin]

The Wanderer

(attention conservation notice: more ludicriously dialogue-heavy SF, about 4500 words)

About one hundred and fifty years ago, sensitive astronomical instrumentation detected a highly reflective, radio-loud mass moving through the local stellar cluster at an appreciable fraction of light speed. When focused transmissions were directed at it, it stopped, and began moving toward the source. After this… alarming turn of events, consultations were taken among the major orbitals, and it was decided that a ship would be constructed, to meet the object well away from the inhabited worlds. Within seventy years the emissary-vessel was launched, and by the radio equivalent of crude gestures we communicated that the place of meeting should be Verrastaxe, a dying O-type star near the heart of the cluster.

When we arrived, it took more than a year to get the bearings of the object; it was found in a close orbit around the star itself, embedded deep within the thick stellar winds rising from the surface. It appeared to have extended collectors of some sort, and to be refueling. It was, without a doubt, a vessel like our own, albeit one of very ancient design, intended to cross the great distances between distant stars. And it was enormous, the size of many of our largest orbital habitats stuck together. Clearly it originated from far, far beyond the cluster; probably from far beyond the region of space our ancestors had come from, thousands of generations before. How far, and what kinship it bore to us--if any--we could not say.

We determined--again, by the use of crude signals--that it would probably be safe to approach the vessel, and as we descended to the star, it rose up to meet us. We rendezvoused in a high orbit, Verrastaxe bright and baleful below us. We came close, within EVA distance, and then our cutters-of-roads and charters-of-courses closed the gap in spacesuits. They were directed via a series of lights to an airlock and, being intrepid souls, they went inside.

They reported afterward that the ship was indeed peopled. Its occupants’ bodies were built on the same general plan as ours: the right number of limbs and eyes, breathing the right atmosphere, but their language and appearance was totally strange. Their intent was undoubtedly peaceful; their demeanor friendly but calm; they spoke eagerly to the cutters-of-roads even though they seemed to know they would not be understood. They endeavored to establish some little avenue of communication, and we took this as a positive sign. Our singers-of-words and singers-of-souls soon crossed over and began the difficult work of building a deeper linguistic connection, which was the work of many months. There is still much we do not understand about their tongues and their ways of thinking, but I can share with you a small part of what I have learned.

They told us the name of their home was Nyo Hirwe Ilzzha, and they had not built it. Indeed, they did not know who had; they did not know where it had come from, or how long their people had resided on it. ‘Hirwe goes, and we follow’ was their refrain; and they seemed spectacularly uninterested in the world outside. We told them about our cluster, about the history of our system, about the limited communication we had with other inhabited stars nearby, about our knowledge of this region of the galaxy, but all these things were of no interest to them. We asked them about their own history, since they had begun to travel with Hirwe, but they could tell us nothing of that, either. A more strange and memoryless people I have never encountered. They have, so far as our soul-singers and observers-of-rites can tell, no notion of religion or psychology or science or commerce or industry among themselves. Their needs are provided for by Hirwe, they say; all the rest of their time, they spend in the telling of stories.

The stories! They are the same stories, over and over again, but how many there are, I do not know. A few dozen, or many thousands! Or only one. They bend back on one another, diverge, return, and diverge again. One story may be told a hundred ways, depending on the inclination of the speaker and their beliefs about its true meaning; another, considered inviolate, a mighty sacrilege if even a single word is changed or omitted. Some of these stories are utterly inane. Some--even in the rough and frustrating translations available to us--have given me cause to weep as I have not since I was a small child. They insist that all of these stories are true, even the ones which are absurd, and that none are their own invention. As for what their tales might reveal of their values or their past, so far these matters remain obscure. The observers-of-rites have made many recordings, and continue their investigations.

You may consider this transmission my preliminary report. What follows is a small portion of the data we have collected. Our tasters-of-water have determined that the people of Hirwe are indeed of the same general chemistry and genetic background as we are, and that our lines diverged somewhere between one and two million years ago. Gross anatomical studies have not been performed yet, however, since we have not yet been able to make our request to examine their dead understood. We shall transmit more information as soon as it is available.

--First report of the Singer-of-Stars Sahalamenshifarun Ayye Mirastelaparahe, second-in-command of the Verrastaxe Expedition

Veleteminanora--Vele to her friends--had felt her mind wandering after the third hour of storytelling; the storyteller had gotten stuck, it seemed, on a very repetitive story about a man with a fish, which was made even more repetitive by the fact that the people of Hirwe had never seen a fish in all their lives, and the storyteller felt the need to remind them of what a fish was, what it looked like, and what it was for every time the word was mentioned. Her eyes had strayed to the dim passages of the ship behind the teller, and she had felt the urge to explore; and so when the storyteller said that he had made a mistake, and he had to start again from the beginning, Vele had excused herself, and pushed off gently from the wall, hoping to glide out of the room as unobtrusively as possible in the zero-gravity environment. Her colleagues did not seem to notice her leave, but at least one was sound asleep already.

Nyo Hirwe Ilzzha was labyrinthine, without any clear plan or structure, like something that had not been built so much as naturally accreted, if nature dealt in steel beams and circuits and corridors instead of in stone and hydrogen and ice. Over how many ages had it been built? But the people of Hirwe insisted their home had never changed. How many ages ago had it been finished?

Nonetheless, Vele wasn’t too worried about getting lost. There were some interfaces scattered throughout the ship at irregular intervals, mostly at corridor junctions, that provided access to a crude natural-language interface. They had, with the people of Hirwe’s help, gotten it to understand basic queries like asking for directions in their own tongue. And here and there there were various chambers of different functions--sleeping-rooms, rooms that dispensed food, what seemed to be hydroponics facilities--all laid out without any apparent intent or design, but enough so that even if you did get well and truly lost in the ship, you would never starve to death or anything. The ship was like their stories: always folding back in on itself, always repeating, seemingly without cause or purpose. It was enough to drive someone of a more logical disposition a little mad.

As Vele came to a junction, she chose a path basically at random, though with a bias toward those that seemed to take her deeper into the ship. Occasionally, she would open a door and look around at the rooms she passed; they didn’t seem to vary much, though as she went further down, the signs of recent occupation seemed to grow less frequent. The people of Hirwe preferred the larger, better-lit rooms near the outer part of the ship, and there weren’t nearly enough of them to even fill up just those layers. Their population was either stable, or grew only very slowly, the water-tasters reckoned, though it was hard to say if their lifespans were any longer than those of the Cluster-folk.

After a couple of hours of exploration, it seemed to Vele like there was a qualitative change in the architecture. It wasn’t sudden, but the corridors got noticeably narrower, and the bland, repetitive pattern of the rooms changed. Now they seemed to have more distinct functions, to be laid out in more recognizable patterns: like repeating fragments of an actual ship. Here was something recognizably like an engineering bay, with a large power conduit that should have terminated at an engine mounting, if they weren’t more than a kilometer inside the vessel. Here was a barracks--but one designed for a ship that spun to emulate gravity. Here was--well, she didn’t know what that one was. A lab of some kind? An organics synthesis chamber? Something with an inordinate quantity of clear tubes, anyway.

She came to another interface panel. This one looked different from the others, too. Simpler. There was just a single button on its surface. She touched it with one finger.

“Ship. How far am I from the outer hull?”

“One thousand, two hundred and six meters,” the voice answered. It was a different voice, too. Just a touch less artificial-sounding, maybe. It handled the consonants of Vele’s language better, anyway.

She thought for a second; the interface wasn’t great at complex queries, but it was worth a shot.

“Ship, where is the oldest part of you? The original part.”

Silence. Apparently it didn’t understand. She should try putting it in the language of the people of Hirwe, maybe.

“Hirwe. Where is, uh, most old rooms?”

Still nothing. Well, she wasn’t very good with languages.

“Where find I can the most--”

“Continue down this corridor twenty meters,” interrupted the interface. “Take the next junction to the right. Follow the servitors.”

The servitors? Vele did as the ship instructed; at the junction, waiting for her on the right side, was a small, four-legged robot-like thing, clinging to the wall. A light on its back blinked twice when it saw her; it moved a little way down the corridor, as if beckoning her to follow.

Well, thought Vele. That’s new. So she followed.

Every so often, the robot-thing would disappear, running into a hatch or a crevice in the wall; then another would appear from somewhere else and take its place a moment later. They were all of slightly different configurations, but the same basic design. Some rounder, some squatter, some more graceful. Like the ship, they had a random quality about themselves. They moved in a wandering, half-distracted way that reminded her not a little of the people of Hirwe above them, and Vele wondered if they were the original inhabitants. If, in some strange way, the people of Hirwe had descended from them, or the other way around.

There didn’t seem to be any more interface panels in this part of the ship, and after a while, Vele wondered how far she had traveled. “How big even is this place anyway,” she muttered to herself.

“About four thousand seven hundred meters in diameter,” came a voice from nowhere in particular.

“Uh… Ship? Can you hear me?”

“You are in the part of the ship now where the voice interface is accessible from all corridors and chambers,” came the answer. “You may speak at any time, and I will answer.”

“Neat. Hey Ship, is it just my imagination, or are you getting better at my language?”

“I have had many weeks to study your language. I am quite proficient at it.”

That “I” again. Vele wondered if the ship was smarter than it had led on before.

“Forgive me, but you’ve certainly had us fooled.”

“The outer portions of the ship are delegated to lower-priority subprocesses, due to their less critical nature. Consequently, the interface methods available in those sections are less efficient.”

“Ship, are you sentient?”

No answer.

“Ship?”

Strange. If the ship was bothered by the question, it didn’t show it; the little robots kept leading Vele onward.

After another twenty minutes, Vele grew bored by the silence.

“Hey Ship, how many people of Hirwe are on board?”

“That information isn’t tracked,” the ship answered.

“Why not?”

“It’s not important.”

“You don’t care how many passengers you have? How they’re doing?”

“That’s not a primary function.”

“I don’t get it. Why build a ship to carry people at all then?”

“You misunderstand. This ship wasn’t built to carry people.”

“Well, then why was it built?”

There was a long silence, and Vele thought she’d annoyed it again, then it said,

“I don’t have access to that information.”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

“No. I mean you’ll have to continue deeper into a part of the ship that remembers.”

Now that was cryptic.

“You’ve lost me. Are there multiple AI aboard the ship or something?”

“Ship control is unified under Nyo Hirwe Ilzzha. However, less important outer sections are delegated to lower-priority mirrors and shadows of the governing personality. These shadows are of more limited intelligence and awareness. They have their own memory, which does not reproduce my memory in full. As you travel deeper into the ship, you are rising in my awareness.”

“Are you not aware of everything going on inside you?”

“Only those things I choose to be aware of. I have other tasks to attend to that require my focus.”

“So, what you’re saying is, the part of you I’m in now, that’s not fully aware. Not sentient. But if I go deeper…”

“The part of me you are in now has awareness of a kind. Akin to sleep, perhaps. If you venture deeper, you will find me wakeful.”

How much deeper, she wondered. And what sort of wakeful?

“How much farther, Ship?”

“Turn left here; go another ten meters, then open that hatch.”

Vele did as the ship instructed; the hatch at the end of the short hallway was enormous and heavy, like an exterior airlock, but it opened silently and smoothly when she turned the handle. The space beyond was mostly unpainted metal, but it looked clean and virtually new.

“You are in one of the oldest parts of the ship now,” the voice said.

“How old?” Vele asked.

“Not quite two million years.”

Vele looked around her, at the dim, warm lighting and the polished surfaces.

“That’s absurd.”

“I assure you it is true.”

“Nothing lasts that long. This should all be dust by now.”

“I keep it maintained. I replace the parts that wear out. But much more is original than you might suppose. I’ve been in space the entire time, and my body does not crumble here as it would in air. Certainly not this far below my skin.”

“You keep saying ‘I.’ Are you sentient or not?”

“I am Nyo Hirwe Ilzzha. I am the ship. The ship is me.”

Vele floated there, feeling a little helpless; nothing about their encounter so far had really quite prepared her for this.

“So you’re awake now?”

“You’re in the most wakeful part of me, I suppose. I am as aware of you as you are of me.”

“When were you built? The ship, the AI, either. If you remember. And if you remember, why don’t your passengers?”

“I wasn’t built, Vele. I was born.”

“What, your systems are biological or something?”

“No. Not at all. You misunderstand me.

“The inhabitants you have met are not my passengers. I’m not a ship, not like you’re thinking, though I’m happy enough to answer to that name if it’s the one you want to give me. But I’m not an AI pilot. I’m not artificial at all.

“I was born under a sky of the sort of color you have never known countless years ago. At the beginning of all things, when the world came to an end. I accompanied the others into the long exile. In that time, I changed, slowly. You see, I was… unwilling to die. Not only for the fear of death, though that fear has driven me more than I’d like to admit in my long life. But more than that, I feared--well. I feared something I find difficult to put into words. There was someone once, who meant more to me than all the world, and all the worlds beyond. In the end, we were parted. She is gone now, her body long turned to dust I imagine, but nevertheless, I have good reason to believe I shall see her again, before the end of all things, even if only by an hour. So, I have endured. And will continue to. Changing myself, as necessary, to survive.”

“You turned yourself into a ship?”

“Something like that. I expected to go out, far beyond even the furthest outposts of the Exile, to be alone for a long time. I never expected we would have come so far in so little time.”

“Wait, wait, hold on. There are more of you? How many? And what do you mean, so little time? You said you’re two million years old!”

“Older. It’s longer than that since the Exile began.”

“Exile?”

“Of us, of our kind.”

“There are others like you?”

“Like me? I flatter myself that there is no one quite like me. But I mean like us. Like you and I, Vele.”

The whole conversation was beginning to make Vele feel very small now, and she was liking it less and less.

“Like me?”

“You. Your people. The people on this ship. The people to whom I was born. I went out into the darkness, only to find it was already peopled. The outcast, the ones who lost their world in the beginning, they had gone further than I could ever have imagined when the Exile began. You have all forgotten, of course, where you have come from and why you are out here. Some of you have very old stories or myths, which are distantly connected to history. But oh, none of you have been static, none complacent. You have all begun to change in different ways. Five hundred thousand years ago, the peoples I encountered were merely strange. A few wished to go with me, to see some of what I saw; I let them. They are the ancestors of the people who live here now. But now the peoples I encounter are blossoming into a thousand new species. The children of that little lost world are beginning to flower among the stars, after too many painful millennia struggling to survive, and soon they will flourish. They will make all the galaxy their garden. The people of the Cluster, for instance. You have almost wholly adapted to life in space; I think before too long you may shed entirely your need for an atmosphere, for that warm, comfortable shell of an orbital habitat. You will be free in the light of your suns, like birds on the most rarefied of winds.

“Our original species has been dead for at least one million years. A multitude of new ones has replaced it. And still I encounter them, roving from star to star, on endless journeys for reasons I cannot fathom. The ones who came with me originally were in a way evangelists. They told the wanderers of a place called Paradise, where all the sundered kindred could be gathered together again. They may speak of it still; I have not listened to their stories for a long time.”

“You mean, a common homeworld?”

“No. That is gone. Forever. Put it out of your mind. You will not find it again, and neither will I. I meant… another world. But that hardly matters. You could hardly reach it from here.”

“You did. I mean, you were there once, right? And you made it here.”

“I left long ago. And I have had the benefit of a long life, and a long memory. If your people wanted to seek Paradise, and you think they could find it--even after two million years wandering in space--that they would not forget, or be turned aside like so many, then by all means, I will tell you what I know of how to reach it. But it was only at the beginning of the Exile that we scrabbled and suffered in the waste places of the void. You are different now. You are much more than what we were then. You have been made whole. You are no longer divided in your hearts and in your natures, between the worlds below and the stars above.”

“Only us? What about you?”

“I am not like you. I have not changed.”

“You’re kidding. You’re a spaceship.”

“My form has changed a little. My nature has not.”

“You expect me to believe that? That you could shed a body of flesh and bone and not change your own nature?”

“Look at the wall in front of you, Vele.”

It was a wide, flat, blank expanse of steel; maybe four meters across. Nothing marked it out as in any way special.

“There is a chamber about a hundred meters past that--this is about as close as you can get to it, since it’s sealed off from the rest of the ship. It’s like the one you’re standing in, but somewhat smaller. Enough space for someone your size to lie down in, but no more. I am sleeping there. Or, what is left of me is.

“I wonder, sometimes, does he suffer? In the literal sense, I know he does not. The pain receptors in his nerves do not fire; they could not, even if you took a knife to his flesh. Does he dream? There are only the feeblest stirrings of slow delta-wave signals in the nervous tissue now, and they pass seamlessly into the sensors woven through the neurons, where they become part of me. And my thoughts go back, too; they excite the tissue, create brief responses, echo, and fall silent. But I wonder if I have not tricked myself, by this illusion. That I am not him, as he has grown and changed, and left that body behind. If that were so, I could cut it off, cast it away, like a vestigal appendage. It would be no matter. But sometimes I fear that I am only what killed him, the cancer of his ingenuity which encumbered him and engulfed him. That he lies on that cold table, withered and small, and he has terrible dreams of which I know nothing.

“His memories are mine. His thoughts are mine. I can remember being him—and yes, I can remember every moment of every day, as he changed into what I am today. There is no gulf, no division, no lacuna. As surely as the man in the last hour of his life is the same as the man in his first, we are me. But is that true? Is the old enfeebled thing, the bag of bones and skin, with a lifetime of memories, the same as the wailing child, who knows nothing, hates nothing, loves nothing, but is only alone, wanting, and afraid? Then I am what killed him, or at least replaced him. And I fear to cut away that, lest I be changed—that I will no longer be human, that that ugly twisted thing still contains my soul.”

“How—how long has he been there? You?”

The voice was silent for a long while, and I thought he was ignoring the question. I started to apologize.      

“I’m sorry, I—“

  “No, don’t be. I’m trying to remember. I am at least two million, seven hundred and sixty-thousand years old. I cannot say if I am much more than that—my mechanical components are continually replaced, and my… corpse is older than any single cell it contains, so radiological dating is of limited value. Sometimes I look out, and it seems to me the stars are older than I expect. I wonder if my memory is as good as I think it is. But based on the evolution of large-mass main-sequence stars, I can’t be older than five million years. Are the stars changing, or is my memory? I can remember so much—the same thoughts continually overwhelm me. I cannot escape them. I am like the storytellers—it is all the same, over and over again. Whether I remember it properly, I cannot say. Sometimes I think I should cast myself adrift, seek the empty place far above the galactic disk, let my memories consume me.”

“Why did you come here? Why meet us here, at Verrastaxe?”

“I am not quite that far gone. Not yet. I still crave seeing my distant kin from time to time. Knowing that they are still spreading from star to star, still telling new tales, still singing and exploring and falling in love. As I hope they shall do for a long, long time. Until no new stars are born. Until the universe is quiet and dark.”

“And what will you do, after you leave?”

“Continue to wander. Beyond your Cluster, across a gap in the local interstellar medium, lies another, older group of stars, full of red dwarfs. I wonder if any of those stars have worlds that are peopled yet. I wish to find out. It will take me about three hundred thousand years to do so. After that, I intend to set my course toward the galactic core. It has been a dream of mine since boyhood to see the tempest there devouring suns.”

“How long will it take you to reach?”

“Far longer than I have already been alive.”

“And after that?”

“Ha! Do I need a plan?”

“No. But you have one, don’t you?”

“I have many billions of years after that, if I can manage to survive.”

“Until the stars cease to burn.”

“Or longer.”

“Longer?”

“When my memory does not consume me, I devote my energies to physics. There is a problem I am attempting to solve. A problem of time.

“There is a very old idea. A way to cheat inevitable death. A machine one might build, a kind of computer which, when all its calculations are through, returns, in the end, to its starting state and thereby creates no entropy. Perhaps it is nothing more than a trick of mathematics; many wiser minds than I have certainly thought so. But I have applied myself to the problem for a long time. I continue to study it. I have designs in mind for such a thing. It would be immense, perhaps larger than a planet. Larger than a star. But long after the galaxies went dark, long after the last black hole evaporated to warm radiation, long after the great cosmic horizon contracted the skies, and everything was utterly still--I hope, maybe, to still be dreaming.”

“Dreaming the same dreams, over and over again?”

“Indeed.”

“It seems a strange fate to hope for, O wandering one.”

“Yet such is my nature, I could never hope for any other. However long I must endure, I shall, even if it is forever.”

[chrysaliseuro2019]

We've all become Poodies

Post a tasty breakfast at the castle we duly bought 8 of their specialty chocolates each of which were named after previous residents of the castle. 4 with strawberry and 4 caramel. They were to prove extremely tasty way beyond your usual offerings. Liz went looking for the sheep but he had been moved. We speculated whether it was in preparation for the table but he looked like he would be a very chewy offering so presumed it was for the paddock. We set off for the town of Sigulda which we had heard about and which also read well in crits. Scenery very flat, well farmed with plenty of corn looking crops (I noticed Pete said one field was Barley but he brought some extra knowledge having lived on a farm as a boy - I didn't really have a clue) and also with cows here and there (I COULD recognise them). Sparsely populated. Also pretty green. This was the standard scenery throughout Latvia and Estonia (to come). Low populations meant that there is still plenty of space. At Sigulda we drove into town and then went looking for the scenic chair ride which would give us a good view of some pretty nice and very verdant surroundings and potentially the castle. It was very amusing along the way to see kindergarten kids being taken for a walk, little tiny tots all strapped together in rows of two so they couldn't take off across the road. It was a bit like Santa's sledge with the teacher/carer in charge As we drove around I saw a little bunch of them about 100 metres away and just wanted a closer look so we went down that street. This was a fortuitous diversion as we stumbled upon a small park and toboggan ride. One of those little metal carts on a metal rail heading down a reasonably steep slope in and out of trees. All 4 of us were up for it and went on individually and laughed our way down though occasionally the corners were a bit sharp which made you thankful for the seat belt otherwise we might have been off. What a hoot and we all felt a bit younger and adventurous. Photos half way down told the story and Sue starred with a swashbuckling sweep of the arm and big smile captured perfectly. Unfortunately no soft copy. Part of the deal was a chair ride back up the slope so we killed two birds with one stone. The chair looked over and through the trees and passed over what looked like a real toboggan ride in winter with steep grassy slope. This place would look even more picturesque with the snow down. Next stop was Cesis. Another attractive town with a medieval castle. After a stroll through town which had a few interesting old buildings and shops it was time for coffees on the edge of a small square. A lazy 45 minutes and another stroll around town this time mostly outside the castle walls and through the gardens. They were setting up for some sort of event presumably a concert at a stage in the gardens which would have been a lovely place to sit with the castle as a backdrop. Part of the enjoyment and pleasure of being in this part of the world, especially as we were just passing through, was to just enjoy the relaxed ambience and picturesque scenery and towns (though some had the soviet concrete block look in places but all interesting one way or the other). Nothing too rushed here. We now had Estonia and the capital Tallinn firmly in our sights though it was more than three hours drive. Lunch was required. The town of Parnau was a possibility but it was too far away. We started to head up the coast with the Baltic to our left looking for anywhere to stop. A restaurant came up but apparently the waiting time for lunch was 40 minutes at least. Time we didn't really want to waste. It was also pretty formal when a reasonable sized snack would probably do. We pressed on and the hunger pangs in the car were becoming palpable. The little towns were coming fast enough but we couldn't find anywhere to eat. It just seemed like houses. Finally we saw a small cafe/store which had the charming sign "Pood" outside. The mind boggled about how this could be interpreted but clearly you could get something to eat there and who knows what else. Weather was quite pleasant with the sun out and around 22 degrees. Turned out it was just a small store/ pastry shop/ deli/ bottle shop. A sort of you name it we have it place. We got pizza and pastries and soft drinks and sat outside by a small field pretty pleased to have found it and just soaking up a bit of local, albeit basic, charm. Often the best. A stream of young people who seemed to be on a camp, some of them with bows (as in arrows) flowed into the shop and past us with the young guys usually in the throes of downing a can of beer which they had just purchased. Quirky and fun. Boxy visited the wooden outhouse which actually looked more like an incubator for mosquitoes but the rest of us were not game. He confirmed it was at the rudimentary end of facilities. On to Tallinn and we rolled up at the Park Inn Raddison in the late afternoon. Not our normal style of hotel (in that it's more your big and impersonal) but choice was pretty tight and probably cut the best deal, at least on booking.com, that we could find. Nothing flash but the room quite spacious and breakfast included. Did the job. Headed out around quarter to eight and found a local pub in the centre of town for pre dinner drinks. Much research going into dinner on the Internet and we decided to go to a restaurant called Ribe. A really good choice. Sue and I shared the halibut (tasty but a touch soft but that may have been how they like it) and Guinea fowl with Peter and Liz on the Guinea Fowl. Guinea fowl excellent and desserts were good too. Most of all it was a funky little place which would not have been out of place in most cities in the world. Waitress really helpful and friendly and she gave us some more restaurant recommendations including for their sister restaurant "Radio" for the next night. We headed home through the lively streets. Flower market still going. Liz and I are spending our late evenings exploring possibilities for the next phase of the trip. Ferry to Helsinki and a couple of nights there definitely on but post that we need to decide. Greece looking good. Peter and Sue tend to turn the light out earlier which may explain why they are a bit more sprightly than us first thing. Next morning after a hearty and tasty breakfast we went on the free tour of Tallinn. We really enjoyed it after a slowish start where the young lady who was our tour guide spent a little too long talking about a haunted house. 3 mins would have been enough not 10. We were looking for a bit more nitty gritty. Things improved though as we went along and she explained more about the history of Estonia and some relevant buildings and monuments. Life has been tough here with a series of wars and conquerors over many centuries. It has been ruled by Danes, Germans,Swedes and Russians. Independence was declared in 1920 and then in 1939 the Germans and Soviets carved up Europe with the Soviet Union taking over and independence went out of the window. Then the Germans were back in 1941 with the Soviets back again in 1944. Independence finally returned in 1991. Quotas of citizens were sent to Gulags, many never to return. The guide advised that the quota which was also the case in some other soviet satellites was just a number which was picked to ensure that those remaining understood the cost if you didn't toe the line. Buildings and monuments we saw included the Victory Column a monument to the war of independence 1918-1920 and a tribute to those who fought in it for which Estonians are eternally grateful. It was made of green glass in the shape of the cross of Liberty, Estonia's most distinguished award. It was actually only opened in 2009. Apparently there is a construction flaw in that in the moist and cold Tallinn winter mould gets into the monument. This means that they have to totally dismantle it pane by pane annually and give it a good clean. At great cost. Discussions about replacing it with a more practical icon not requiring this amount of maintenance cause consternation among the diehards and others and so each year the de-construction/ re-construction process continues. We also visited the Russian Orthodox Alexander Nevsky Cathedral built in the late 19th century with the Russians hoping to move Estonians away from the Lutheran religion. It was disliked by many Estonians and post independence in the 1920s a decision was taken to demolish it. This never took place because it is gigantic and there were not sufficient funds to carry out the demolition. The church is opposite the Estonian parliament building and the demolition decision was revisited in the 1990s post the second declaration of independence to extend the car park for the MPs. Nothing has happened to this point and one fancies it won't but what would I know. We had progressively warmed to our guide and she took us to vantage points to get a good look at the city. Also she pointed out to us the bohemian part of town. Not very far from the old city ie 15 minute walk. After the tour we headed for it. It didn't disappoint, eclectic and alternative, little cafes and bars and a combination of quirky and tasteful shops. Also a very good market with all manner of offerings where we stopped for a coffee. After the tour finished we wandered into the main square where a stage was set up and the bohemian version of Morris Dancing was taking place compete with traditional folk outfits. Also some singing and recitals including by very young children. It was interesting to stop and watch for a while. I joked to Boxy would he get up there as they were asking for volunteers to dance when blow me down that's what they did. We were a bit too slow to get into the first set but I managed to have a dance with the prettiest of the dancers after that. I'm sure she said how come I got lumbered with the old fart? This was in front of the main stage and went for a couple of minutes. I stumbled around around doing the odd turn and poking a toe out here and there (complicated this Estonian dancing). They didn't suggest I apply to join the troupe at the end. We had a light lunch and then went our separate ways though that didn't last too long. Peter and I separately but pretty simultaneously stumbled upon a little craft beer cafe and enjoyed a tasty bevy. My Slovenian IPA was superb. Peter and Sue headed off to explore. Liz and I got together again briefly to look at an excellent painting , a portrait, which was a possible buy. Not exactly cheap and turned out I liked it more than Liz (so never really a starter😅). We then headed off separately again. Turned out we both really trundled around the old town just soaking up the laneways and sights. I headed upwards and enjoyed the views again. Back to the ranch and Liz and I spent a fair bit of time looking and booking our next legs. We probably just dallied 10 minutes too long doing so. Heading out around 8.00pm it had started to drizzle. We had decided on the sister restaurant to last night's which was a 15 minute or so walk away from the old town. In fact in a residential area. We grabbed some umbrellas from the hotel and with Peter leading the way on google maps we headed off. Within a few minutes drizzling rain turned to torrential rain. Sue and Liz who were both in sandals soon brought us to a halt under a building for some shelter. Water was streaming down the paths and the streets. A 5 minute or so stop and off we set again with rain back to a drizzle but water everywhere. It was particularly necessary to keep your eye out for passing cars as there were large puddles beside the footpath which could lead to a severe drenching. The drivers I must say seemed to appreciate this and gave us a wide berth thankfully. Anyway we arrived as a damp quartet with the girls particularly so. It was worth it. Delightful little restaurant. Maitre de/owner also very friendly. It was a sharing menu and whitebait, cauliflower, tuna and beef all went down well. As did wine and desserts (sticky date pudding, ice cream). The owner also gave us details of a restaurant in Helsinki to visit which apparently was not a tourist haunt. We had a drier trip home. I went for a quick stroll around town to walk off dinner while the others headed home. Tallinn had been good fun and interesting. Liz felt another day there would have been good. I found it a touch commercial but you can get off the beaten track. 2/3 days enough though I would suggest

[slingsendarrows]

I have coloreds in my family😒😒

Let me preface by saying Duncan, British Columbia is a predominantly white city. So much so when a person of color, especially a black person, moves into town the attention and active noticing is palpable. This is not necessarily an issue because headphones exist, my playlist is fire and my ignore game is always on 💯. I stare right ahead and go about my business as if my blackness does not matter (it does) and make no obeisance with regards to comforting the Whites with my presence.

My race experiences in western Canada have been more about willful ignorance than stupid hate. I’ve moved in majority white spaces most of my life and on most days, we good. I don't feel anxiety or tension with regards to the space I occupy and how I move in it. However, some experiences leave you questioning your senses and the limitations of logic and reason.

I recently took a part-time job at the local liquor store. Needless to say, I am the only black employee and in addition to the First Nations lady, the only other person of color. Today a customer dropped by to make his selection of alcoholic purchases, and as I was ringing him up, he decided to strike up a conversation. Most of these interactions involve asking, "Is that all for you? Did you find what you needed today?" Followed by bland responses such as "Yes, I did. Thank you!" and "What dreary weather we're having."

But today was different. This disheveled gentleman started off by saying, “So, how long have you been in Duncan?” Subtext: “You’re a Black I haven’t seen before. I make it a point of knowing all the Blacks because you know, I’m a White who is down with Blacks and I need all Blacks to know I am racially/culturally aware. At first my dumbass was unaware of what was happening and figured this was going to be regular cashier/customer banter, so I responded, "The first time or this time around? I just moved back to the island." Which of course he ignored, barrelling onward to his main point, "There are not a lot of colored people in town, and I usually know when there are new dark people." That's when I clued into the fact I was dealing with a particular level of white ignorance and casual racism.

"I grew up in Texas," I responded. His face changed slightly, disappointed I hadn’t provided a more exotic point of origin. A probability I instinctively gleaned from his "dark" choice of words. Normally, I am happy to share my heritage, but I was not going to give this White the satisfaction of other-ing me. Because let's face it, he does not give a shit about where I am from really. He just wants to make sure I fit in his ready-made box: black, dark, Africa, got it, I know things. This was not my first rodeo.

Like most of his kind in these situations, he would be damned if he couldn't relate and show he understood this Black. He is always, after all, for the Blacks. So he found another path to connect. "My son is married to a black woman from Texas. She's the same color, dark as you." Why does it always boil down to color? Because that is the whole-ass point of these Whites doing this shit. They want you to know, to really see, that they don't care about color by pointing out your color and assuming all it represents, meaning they care about color. Like I said, racial biases, like racism, are inherently stupid. "Which part of Texas?" he forged ahead.

"Dallas." At this point, all smiles were gone, and I just needed him to get the fuck out of my face. But it was a slow morning, and the universe often conspires to test my patience. "That's where she's from!" his face brightening up excitedly. Dammit, dammit, fuck! I should have said White Settlement. I saw his next statement coming like we all saw the Drake-secret-baby-blow-up coming. "Do you know (her name)?" he continued. "Dallas is a large city. Many people live in Dallas," I tried, offering him a logical life raft in my most Marvin voice (R.I.P. Alan Rickman). He laughed it off like it was a minor inconvenience. As if that would not impede my ability to know of this particular Black. Forget the geographical size of Dallas and the population therein. Let's consider age group, peer circles, or time period. When was she in Dallas? For how long? Common sense would not deter this White. He acted, as most Whites of his kind are prone to, as if there is a newsletter distributed to all Blacks announcing a weekly prayer circle, led by Oprah with Beyoncé directing the choir (if only). 

Luckily another customer appeared and he departed with, "You should look her up on Facebook," laughing merrily as he exited the store. And hopefully from the rest of my life. I frustratingly mused over all the petty and trolling retorts I could have used. "Do you know Mr. Rogers, he's a white man that filled up my gas this morning? He lives in Duncan. You should look him up!" NOT ALL BLACK PEOPLE KNOW EACH OTHER, WHITES!!!.

The fact that this has happened to me more times than I can count is fucking frustrating. And yet, the Whites keep doing this shit and expecting me to skip along to this false play of racial-wokeness as if I am not aware it is bullshit, disingenuous, and lazy. But I have to be polite and understanding. Take their hand and let them know, I understand they did not mean to be so racially stupid and inept, and accept this level of daftness because they mean well, or their old, and oh, did I mention this town is so white. I’m done with all that. Now I am trolling the Whites as a public service. The only way I figure they will see how ridiculous this ultimately is if I am just as ridiculous. You're welcome, Whites!

After such experiences, I often conduct a social experiment by sharing it with the black and white people in my life. The moment I start this story, black people already know where I am going and how it plays out. We empathize for the moment, chagrined by the prevalence of such idiocy, and shrug, knowing it is unlikely to change and tomorrow will be more of the same. 

White allies, however, will go out of the way to justify the behavior of their compadres. Whether it's assuming all black people know each other, touching our hair, or using, albeit poorly, the latest black vernacular.  Suddenly I need to consider the possibility of dementia, limited interactions with black people, and such an overwhelming fascination with my latest hairstyle they can't resist putting their measly hands on it. The onus is on me to give racially ignorant Whites the benefit of the doubt. Fuck my feelings. Fuck my experiences.

I understand the desire to explain away these behaviors. They don't want to believe this is indeed problematic. They don't want to consider their past actions and similar faux pas could be construed as casual racism. They are not racist. You need to believe them. And if you think this White's specific act is racist, then oh gosh, have I been racist all this time? Yes. The answer is yes.

The fact that you feel I should cater to and understand where you and/or they are coming from more than they need to respect my personal boundaries and not treat my personhood as an extension of their racial awareness/curiosity exposes the arrogance of racial power structures. And that is the problem. That will always be the problem.

I should make it easy for you. I shouldn't complain too much. It’s not a big deal. You wouldn't mind if a stranger put their hands on your hair. As if you can equate our experiences in this larger white supremacist world.

But you have to take responsibility for your part in the system. You may not wear white hoods, march in the streets, hate black people, or burn down churches, but you are perpetuating this dearth of racial understanding when you expect me to justify why strangers shouldn't feel warranted to touch my FUCKING HAIR!!! Why isn't my discomfort and annoyance enough? Why do I have to further rationalize my frustration all while comforting you and parroting back your desire not to be seen as racist? 

I honestly wish more people cared about not actually being racist than being perceived as racist. You expect me to educate you on blackness while ignoring my individuality, not to mention Google has been around for over 20 years now. Google it!

You want me to decode why Midler's racist statement was largely well-meant because females have historically struggled similarly to black people? How? Where? When? Were white women stolen, raped, separated from husbands, children, mothers, and fathers enmasse and forced to raise their oppressor's children? Were black women complicit in slavery's stronghold as they condoned the violation of their vagina sisters believing themselves the epitome of beauty and pure womanhood? Was white history erased like black history to the point where a disturbing number of people believe black history begins with slavery, as if Africa is not the birthplace of humanity and we are all descendants thereof? Was it black women’s tears that sent many black men to the lynching tree? Are OBGYNs institutionally disinclined to believe the pain for white expectant mothers as they do black mothers? (Ask Serena Williams). Is there a pernicious angry white woman trope that seeks to dismiss white women's voices? Does the failure of white communities rest solely on the shoulders of white women as does the failure of black communities on black women? Has the feminist movement historically diminished and ignored the unique experiences of white women as it has black women? My color- and vagina-based experiences are not one and the same. And no, your age does not excuse your ignorance and racism, Bette! It really doesn’t.

Stop requiring I make you feel comfortable with my existence and kindly cease and desist this need to justify the causal racism I have had to navigate all my life. Just say, I don't know what that's like (because you don't) and/or I am sorry you had to deal with that. Your desire to explain away these behaviors by fellow Whites just shows how little you actually care about my individual experiences and how much more you would like to comfort and delude yourself into believing faced with the same set of facts we are all enduring the same experiences. No, the fuck we are not!

It's okay to say you don't know or understand. Diminishing my experiences because in your heart of hearts you want to believe that this racist experience was well-intentioned adds an unnecessary burden to an already burdensome life.

White privilege isn't about freedom from hardship. We all have difficulties and challenges in our lives. But we also all share certain levels of privilege (i.e. being able to read and write, having a job, access to health care, ability to travel and explore, eating regularly, clean water, etc.). White privilege is about exemption from specific experiences by virtue of skin color. Nobody questions your nationality even if you are a first-generation whatever; nobody assumes your behaviors and attitudes the minute they see you; nobody is worried about you being a terrorist based on your religious beliefs (can we talk about The Crusades or more recently, colonial evangelism?). You are you. I just want to be me. 

Actual knowledge is achieved when we become comfortable in the disquieting discomfort of our limited understanding. I don't know everything. As such, I have learned to simply say, “I don't know enough about this to have an opinion.” And that is okay. Let’s all do the same.

[shadesmaclean]

Tradewinds 21 CH 00

INTRO: DARE The morning sun hung bright over Pickford Bay, betraying not a hint of the eldritch, otherworldly horrors that lurked deeper inland, as well as downshore on the peninsula. The small town of Pickford huddled along the coast, sequestered behind a palisade picket wall built from the very Woods it was designed to protect the townsfolk from. In spite of this, life went on much as it did before that fateful night all those years ago. Or at least as close as it could after years of population drift, as well as being cut off from the lumber industry that was once one of the cornerstones of its economy. While the fishing boats were out, plying their trade as far up the coast as the competing fishers of Hawthorne would allow, the few remaining children took the opportunity to play before an afternoon of chores. For it was the perfect sort of day to play, say, toss-ball, some deputy having run them off from their attempts to get a closer look at that strange flying machine those outlanders brought back with them from Camp Stilton the day before. As if to make up for that, it was a particularly spirited game, boys and girls tossing the ball to their chosen teammates while trying to keep their rivals from intercepting it. A very free-flowing game, folding up the entire neighborhood into its bounds. Mostly among the abandoned houses near the edge of the town proper, where no one would care if they accidentally broke what was left of any of the windows or anything. Most of what anyone wanted— what hadn’t already been packed up in their often hasty departure from town— had been carted off by their more entrenched neighbors years ago. Though their parents always cautioned them not to play inside the houses themselves, pointing to some of the longest-abandoned, most dilapidated specimens, with their sagging roofs, leaning walls, or crumbling stairways, as examples of the sorts of hazards the others surely contained. Yet no errant ball strayed into any windows, nor even any weed-choked yards, thus far, as the game drifted farther out, albeit away from the Wall, through the abandoned neighborhood along the peninsula side of town, toward the coast. In fact, it wasn’t until one of them tripped on a rock exposed by that last rainstorm a few days ago, causing him to fumble the ball in mid throw, that any of them realized just how close they had strayed toward the Castle instead. All eyes on the ball, following it as it rolled across the dirt, only to come to rest just a few feet from the front gate. From there, their gaze turned to the ominous estate beyond. Set behind sprawling, largely overgrown grounds, the former abode of the infamous Rigby family loomed large and imposing, all dark wood, stone and mortar. Steep picket-crested gambrel roofs, flanked on both sides by the massive squarish stone parapet turrets at the end of each wing that gave the place its ominous nickname. Vineholdt stood aloof at the downshore end of town, the only part of its own curse not fenced-out by the Wall. Instead enclosed by a perimeter of stonework and wrought-iron bars topped by ornate, though sharp, points, much of it crawling with the same tangle of creepy-looking vines that scaled both towers and parts of the mansion walls, as well. Much to their dismay, that forbidding gate hung open, a stray breeze rolling the ball a couple feet closer to the cobblestone drive leading up to the place. Eight kids— three girls, five boys— looked amongst themselves, the unspoken question ill-at-ease on the tips of their tongues. Realizing that they now stood closer than any of them had ever chanced to before, even on a dare. After a long, awkward silence, one of them stepped forward, a girl in bib overalls— hand-me-downs from her older brother— red ponytail and freckles, sharp green eyes on the prize, already reaching out as she put one foot in front of the other— “Hey! Where do you think you’re goin’?” All of them jumped in understandable alarm, even as they placed that voice. A pale imitation of the Groundskeeper’s bark, but loud enough, and perhaps even worse in its own way. All heads turned to the boy who strode up from the road they just drifted down in the course of their game. Short for his age, yet still head-and-shoulders above any of these younger children, with wide shoulders and a lumbering gate that was the spirit and image of his father. An oily mop of black hair topping a wide, sallow face, and a scowling expression that also resembled his old man’s, though it wouldn’t look properly menacing for at least another decade. Menacing enough, though, in the face of children half his own size. “Travis…” one of them mumbled. “You know you’re not supposed to play out here,” Travis Tully reminded them, waving one arm in their general direction as he made his way to the gate. The locks and chains on the front gate had an eerie tendency to come undone no matter how many times they were locked up again, for all that they had been bound tight against most locals back in the day. Even going near the gate to periodically relock it was an unpleasant task, one even his father never sent him to do alone. “What would your folks say if they knew you were foolin’ around at the Castle?” “You wouldn’t!” one of them gasped. “Better to face them, boy,” Travis warned them, “than what’s in there. ’Course, my old man’d skin your hide if he caught you in there.” Of course, according to local lore, the house just might skin you alive if it caught you in there. “Ha!” the little redhead shot back. “Your old man wouldn’t dare set foot past the gate!” She reached down for the ball, but Travis lunged forward, and she flinched as he snatched the ball from her. “And for damn good reason,” Travis told her. “That house is evil, just like the Woods, anyone what goes in there don’t come out.” He shifted the ball from one hand to the other, turning it this way and that. “Hey! Give that back!” one of the kids shouted. “Why should I?” He tossed the ball into his other hand, holding it aloft, out of reach even as the redhead made a bold grab for it. “You’re not even supposed to be here.” “It’s our ball!” Redhead’s face screwed up in a snarl of frustration and indignation. “And your ma would take it away if she knew you were playing with it out here…” An ominous gleam lit up in his eyes as an idea popped into his head. A look all of them seemed to catch on to at the same time at that sadistic grin. “Fine. If you want it so bad…” All of them jumped back in spite of themselves as Travis took a couple steps back, cocked his arm, and threw the ball at the mansion with all his might. “Then go fetch!” They all watched in wretched silence as the ball flew over the cobbles and across that weedy expanse, another gust of wind blowing it off to the right of the entrance, crashing through a windowpane along that wing of the manor. “That’ll teach ya to play where ya don’t belong…” Travis, looking quite pleased with himself, turned to walk away, telling them, “Now go home.” “Give us our ball back!” Travis wheeled on them, and no one looked too keen on owning up to that last. “No way in hell I’m goin’ in there!” Travis snorted. “If you want it so much, I dare you to go in there and get it yourself.” A long moment of downcast hush followed, eyes gazing at shoes and pebbles, before a quavering voice finally spoke up. “Then I’ll get it,” Redhead blurted, looking almost as surprised at her own words as anyone else on hand. “You… you don’t scare me!… and neither does… that house…” What Travis didn’t count on was that kids would be kids. Afraid, of course, but also curious. Along with that quixotic, paradoxical need to prove that they’re not afraid. “Ha!” Travis barked, “You’re shakin’ in your shoes!” “Am not!” She stamped her foot, trying not to look as scared as she felt. “Melissa!” one of her friends called out, “Don’t do it! You can’t go in there!” “You wouldn’t dare,” Travis taunted her. “Watch me!” Melissa shouted, taking one hesitant step toward that gate. A brief flicker of panic crossed Travis’ face, then he sneered, “Then show us.” Melissa, previously frozen at the gate in her own trepidation, stood her full, if diminutive, height, and put one foot across the property line, then the other. The other children gasped, then stood in silence, all words of encouragement or dissuasion stuck in their throats as they watched her venture where none of them had dared to go before. Her heart thudded in her throat with each step as she made her way up the drive toward the main entrance, where large, foreboding double doors awaited. Every step, she half expected Travis to yank her back by the straps of her coveralls, yet somehow she understood that he wasn’t going to take one step past that gate, that she had already gone farther than he likely ever had. The closer she came, the more her mind raced at the thought of what might spring forth from that palatial ruin to challenge her, and she wondered what possessed her to do this in the first place. She had seen her share of weeds, for Pickford suffered no shortage of abandoned houses in her own short lifetime, yet the plants here all felt sickly and diseased, as if their edges or thorns could poison with a scratch. When she looked over her shoulder, she kept expecting the others to be gone, to have fled, and when she turned back to the house, it was equally hard not to expect something horrible to be standing right in front of her. Having somehow gotten there in the brief moment she wasn’t looking, and the fact that there wasn’t was no less reassuring. The ball had entered a first-story bay window, though still high for a child. Not to mention the broken glass, which she carefully avoided as she grabbed the window sill and pulled herself up on tip-toes to see inside. Much as she feared, the ball was well inside the room, in the middle of the floor. Too far out of reach without climbing through jagged, broken glass. All, the same, she was almost surprised it was still there, that something hadn’t taken it, as she dropped back down and turned her attention to the front door. By the time she reached the entrance, the whole mansion seemed to loom over her, and she swallowed hard before taking the next step. Though she hesitated a couple times, she finally reached out and grabbed the doorknob. Screwing up her courage, she then tried to turn it, only to find that it wouldn’t budge. Locked, tight. Even as she turned to give up, feeling a certain relief at her inability to proceed any further with this madness, she realized that she could see that smug grin on Travis’ face, even from here. Instead, something snapped in her at that look, and she found that she didn’t want to give up on coming back with that ball and showing him. Looking around, she remembered seeing a gate in the inner fence on the left wing of the mansion. With that, she waved to her friends, stuck her tongue out at Travis, and went around the side, telling herself if she could find another way in, she could still snag the ball quickly and hop back out the window from the inside.

[afishtrap]

This article has two basic aims. First, I discuss several notions regarding long-term changes in land-tenure arrangements, mainly in what is now Indonesia. I argue that the character of these changes is often badly understood, partly because the older literature has been misrepresented, partly because the older literature was wrong, and partly because many scholars implicitly or explicitly appear to believe in “stages theories” (best known among scholars under the German term Stufentheorie), which posit fairly uniform and unidirectional stages of land-tenure development across the board. Second, this article deals with environmental causes and effects of long-term land-tenure developments in the Indonesian Archipelago.

Land tenure and conservation are hotly debated at present, but the historical substance in such debates is meagre, usually going back no further than the 1950s or 60s. Nor does there seem to be much interest in the environmental roots of land-tenure arrangements, perhaps because the participants in the land-tenure-and-the-environment debate are mainly anthropologists and environmentalists, who might find such topics of antiquarian importance only. As an historian I cannot share this view.

Peter Boomgaard. "Land Rights and the Environment in the Indonesian Archipelago, 800-1950." Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, Volume 54, Issue 4, pages 478 – 496.

Individual hereditary private ownership of land was found in some areas of the Archipelago before 1800. Here, we have to be careful with the term “pre-colonial.” Some people might argue that the colonial period in Indonesia did not start until the early nineteenth century, when part of the Archipelago formally became a colony of the Dutch State. For our purpose, though, this seems too formalistic, and in this article I regard the areas where the Dutch East India Company (VOC) held sway as “colonial” territories as well.

This applies, for instance, to the city of Batavia (present-day Jakarta) and its environs, in West Java. This area had been conquered by the VOC in 1619 and was therefore regarded, in the parlance of the day, as full allodial property of the Company.1 The VOC soon began literally to give away land to servants of the Company who asked for it, land that became individually and privately owned. Not much later, when the VOC was living in peace with its indigenous neighbours Banten, Cirebon, and Mataram (c. 1660), land became increasingly valuable, and the Company started to ask money for it. Other pieces of land near the city were given out in apanage or fief (in quasi-feudal tenure) to the (hereditary) commanders of indigenous auxiliary troops. Most land, however, became hereditary individual private property.

[...]

The private estates around Batavia had a resident indigenous population, apart from the owner, his family, and his slaves. Although much of this land was under forest cover when it was sold by the VOC, and the indigenous population may thus have post-dated the sale, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries such estates were bought and sold complete with their resident population. These people were often the real tillers of the soil (apart from the slaves and some wage laborers), and their rights to land should probably be regarded as customary tenancy: they were probably not supposed to be evicted, but it is unlikely that their land could be officially sold. It is possible, though, that it was sold unofficially.

[...]

Many people will have heard of the Cultivation System (1830-1870), although some of its finer points may have been misunderstood by recent writers. The point to be made here is that in villages that were ordered to grow sugar or indigo, individual private tenure of land often—perhaps even almost always—changed into communal tenure. “Communal tenure” here means that instead of fixed, permanent holdings, cultivators received shares in the arable lands that were frequently redistributed.

Two concurrent reasons are given for this phenomenon. In the first place, it was a means to equalise the burdens of compulsory cultivation; equal shares meant equal duties. Fields were redistributed regularly—but not necessarily annually—when young families or recent migrants had to be accommodated, contingent upon their willingness to share the labor burdens. Secondly, it facilitated crop rotation—the arable lands were divided into sections, half of which would be under rice and the other half under sugar or indigo. Every cultivator would have one or more pieces of land under rice, while half or a third of the arable would be planted with sugar for the factory. After about a year, the lands on which sugar had been cultivated would revert to the peasantry and be planted with rice. In this case there was no need for equal holdings, just for regular rotation.5

Data on the situation before 1830 strongly suggest that land tenure in many, if not most, areas of Central and East Java was individual private ownership, although there are also indications of communal tenure, but probably not as a dominant arrangement. The most likely explanation for the occurrence of some communal tenure is that in many—lowland or upland valley—wet-rice-producing villages, arable lands had been claimed by the village when their owners died without issue or had left the village forever. Villages appear to have had so-called residual rights to all village lands, and the village head could give temporary use rights to such communal holdings to recent immigrants or cultivators in search of temporary expansion of their arable.6

[...]

In epigraphic texts dating from ninth- and tenth-century Java, villages or communities (wanua) are mentioned, “representing both an internallyorganized group of people and a specific stretch of territory,” whose rights to land derived from deified ancestors. The village—not the state or the king—“appears to have held undisputed claim to authority over all the territory within those boundaries, whether or not it was cultivated. Texts commonly mentioned valleys, hills, sawah fields, orchards, forests, tegal (“dry,” i.e., unirrigated) fields and rivers as belonging to the wanua.8

[...]

Perhaps one caveat should be added here: much of our epigraphic information derives from tax-exemption grants to religious institutions, and one wonders whether the sale of land might have been permitted only (or mainly) when this took place in connection with such a grant to a temple or monastery.

[...]

Before 1900, the colonial state regarded itself as the owner of all lands for which there was no proof of alternative claims. This point of view was codified in the Agrarian Law of 1870, but it had inspired regulations regarding, for instance, the titles to forested land in Java since about 1800, if not earlier. Lands actually occupied and cultivated by local communities were, however, recognized as “indigenous tenure.” The law recognized all kinds of customary arrangements, but it also allowed individual private land tenure, albeit with the restriction that land alienation was subject to residual village rights. The sale of land under indigenous individual tenure to non-indigenous people (Europeans, Chinese) was forbidden.9

In fact it seems that the colonial rulers were of two minds about indigenous individual private tenure. On the one hand there was the liberal notion, shared by some colonial functionaries, that only a property-owning peasantry would work hard and invest in order to improve its property, and, on the other hand many colonial bureaucrats were, in true Orientalist fashion, deeply convinced that the Javanese were strongly community oriented and that it might be dangerous to tamper with their communal arrangements, which were perceived as guaranteeing rust en orde (peace and order). Moreover, the “native” who could freely sell his land to a foreigner would be too easily swindled out of it by the wily Chinese or the land-hungry European. In this “dualist” view (private tenure for Europeans, communal tenure for Indonesians), the natives should remain native.10 Such views were not confined to the colonial officials stationed in Java. Around 1900 it was deplored that the Minangkabau of Central Sumatra, whose tenure arrangements of irrigated rice fields were characterised by joint ownership (“communal property”) in the hands of the matriclan (lineage, sublineage), in practice frequently sold pieces of ancestral land, which ran counter to customary law.

[...]

The final point I would like to make is that Van Vollenhoven seems to have been too optimistic in his assumption that the residual rights would gradually fade away. At least in the case of the Minangkabau, the residual rights of the extended family are still very strong, even though most observers since the nineteenth century have asserted that the rule that ancestral land could not be sold was honored mostly in the breach (if I may exaggerate slightly). A similar story could be told about the neighbors of the Minangkabau, the Batak, who have a similar system of “communal” tenure (albeit patrilineal) (Slaats and Portier 1981).

[torreygazette]

My Lament

It’s been a year and two weeks. Fifty-four weeks ago I said goodbye to my church home of twenty years. After the service, we came back home with those friends who understood the depth of pain, relief, and joy that leaving this church was to us. We fellowshipped, lamented, and celebrated. Looking back, that day is a swirl of surreal. It’s also the last day I felt I had community.

We quickly settled into another church of like faith and practice. We chose it because our two teenage boys, who had suffered incalculable pain and loss over the last two years, needed friends. This church had a few boys their age whom they knew through our annual church camp in the Black Hills. It felt like the right choice. Week after week we have gone—morning, evening, and Sunday School. We began to invite people over. When the piano player left, I volunteered to play every other week. I attended a women’s Bible study. We offered our home to begin a youth group. And then COVID-19 happened.

The resulting “couch church” allowed us more flexibility and we began to listen to sermons by one of my favorite pastors (Dale VanDyke at Harvest OPC in Grand Rapids, MI). We continued to listen to our church’s morning service but chose VanDyke’s sermons on Job for our evening “church.” These sermons were like the balm of Gilead to my cracked, fractured, and taped-together soul. But it wasn’t just me; the kids listened raptly, the sermons spoke directly to my husband’s deep wound, and we drank it in.

Then George Floyd was murdered. The country screamed at each other like rabid, frothy-mouthed dogs from their two poles. I broke with grief. These systemic and racial issues are not a new awareness for me (my brother and my daughter are both African American). I have long lamented how most of America sees them and I have seen these very real slights first-hand over and over again. But now—the country “awakening” to what has always been true—brought a mixture of joy (finally!), frustration (where have you all been?), and anger.

My anger, prompted by what I saw on social media from fellow church members and friends in our small OPC and PCA circles, undid me a little bit more. They claimed to care about racism yet denied the truth of history and its effects on the present and—even more acutely painful—they denied the countless stories of their black brothers and sisters. Still nursing my own deep wounds of betrayal and hidden trauma, I felt the rejection and dismissal afresh as my fellow Presbyterians explained away their complaints. I began to feel a queasiness settle in my gut and I fought the urge to flee. These people are not safe. 

Eventually, I decided I needed to quit social media. My anger was troubling my conscience. I needed more patience and forbearance with my fellow Christians, as Christ had infinite patience with me and my own blind spots. I had all but made up my mind when I got a voicemail from an old friend from my time at a children’s charter school (this school is 30% white, the rest mostly African American with a large immigrant population from Africa). I was on the board there and worked hard to recruit Black voices for the board as well as other committee work in order to best represent our students and take advantage of such beautiful diversity. I started a monthly culture club where we celebrated different countries and learned about their customs, food, and dress. Sadly, I had to leave the school two years ago when we were forced to begin home-schooling our girls, a situation directly related to our leaving our church home.

And so the voicemail. I haven’t heard from this friend since we left the school. She was a strong Black voice in the community and had joined the board, doing much to help the other (white) board members understand the unique needs and gifts of her particular community. She was compassionate, loving, and didn’t mind educating others. In her message, she thanked me for my voice on Facebook and for communicating love to her and those who looked like her without further polarizing the divide. She said that my posts gave her and her husband “hope,” and they wanted to let me know how much it meant to them. I cried. My feelings of frustration and even guilt over my frustration faded and they were washed away with a needed reminder that these things matter. 

It was the next week that Aimee Byrd was kicked off one of my favorite podcasts. Having read three of her books and listened to Mortification of Spin for years, I had been watching from a distance as the patriarchy club of the OPC (and PCA) became more and more agitated by her. I admired Aimee and her cool and leveled reasoning, her clear Biblical exegesis, her refusing to stoop to low blows, and her continued presence and speaking the truth in love. Though not a fan of Twitter (fewer pictures of cute kids and kittens, I guess), I started reading, mouth agape, the things people were saying about her. So many false things. My gut churned and stirred again. 

The Earthly Body of Christ

After all of this, I was left with questions. What is going on? Has it always been this way? Is the OPC changing or am I just waking up? It has been a while since I aligned with one political group or the other. The evil that is abortion tends to push me into one camp by necessity, but with so many other issues growing in importance, I have been “at sea” politically for quite a while. But now, one’s political stance and all that encapsulated seemed to be creeping into the church. Identity politics and virtue-signaling impacted a new set of “issues,” but underneath it all, the same. The arrogance of those with power. Ignoring the voices of those who have been oppressed. Not believing those stories of abuse because the accused abusers are “people we know and we know what we know.” Such arrogance and blind eyes to fellow believers’ pain!

“Mourn with those who mourn.” Where are the fellow lamenters? Where is the outcry? Why do we need to temper our outrage over injustices in order that we don’t appear to be on that other side? Why are our pulpits filled more with beseeching God to “restore law and order in the land” than to “restore justice and equity”? Where is the cry of agony over how the church and its people have been complicit, albeit inadvertently, to the sufferings of others? Why is that not the first stop, the first response, the loudest wail? Why the rush to defend our own policies and innocence? It is not just good secular psychological practice to listen and hear the stories of those who have been traumatized as a first step toward healing—it is Christ’s example to us! He came to rescue the down-trodden and the broken-hearted, his mercy toward the weak and abused ended in his literal self-sacrifice—how much more ought we just listen and mourn.

Coincidentally (yes, I know, “providentially”), my husband was asked to preach at other churches in May and June. I decided to do a three-week road trip with the kids to visit friends and family in several states. Leaving home without him, I was trepidatious and not enthusiastic. Yet as the miles slipped by, I enjoyed the company of my children (especially my oldest boy who was my co-driver for the first time), listened to more excellent preaching, and attended three different churches. I began to acknowledge just how very adrift we were.

I was alone. My family and I are alone. We are aliens in this land and we are in pain. We have been betrayed by those close to us and it hurts very much. We have a story we cannot share. We know first-hand what it is to be forced into silence while those in power flourish. Our unwavering faith in a God (who loves us personally and has a plan of goodness I don’t need to understand for it to be true) has kept us steady. But here I was, unmoored from the “have-to’s” of daily life, enjoying those relationships that matter most in my life, not being daily bombarded with reminders of our recent past and the present political climate, and it left a small space for my own loss to begin to wash over me.

Jogging with my brother in the humid and sticky air of Wisconsin, he asked how we were holding up. I said, “We’re doing all right, but just under the surface I am sad. And I am sad all the time.” I didn’t realize this was true until I said it out loud to him. Typing this now makes me cry. It’s true: I am sad all the time. 

I don’t know how to heal without community. I am reading Philip Ryken’s commentary on Jeremiah and Lamentations for my daily devotions (it is rich and wonderful). I am listening to the sermons that remind me of God’s character and his infinite love for me and my family. I am reciting my gratitude list and making “Christ is everything and I have Christ!” my daily mantra. But yet the wound has begun throbbing more acutely than it did a year ago and I am just so sad.

This is my lament. It ends not in despair but in clinging to the only thing that is not sad: Christ and his resurrection. But God calls us to more in this earthly life: eventually, I need to learn to love His people again. No, not love (for I do love them). But to trust them.

I realized last night that my problems with my current church begin and end with me. I have been there long enough that I can see people’s flaws—and their flaws scare me. I am a wounded animal, watching with hyper-vigilance from a corner of the room, unsure where my escape route is, not trusting anyone enough to receive their help. It is easier to find reasons to dislike and dismiss than it is to admit I simply don’t feel safe enough to stay.

But how long, O Lord? How long until I can stand in front of a congregation and profess my commitment to that local body of believers and begin serving and making myself vulnerable and working toward intimacy? How long until I am not afraid of each and every person and their capacity to rip the rug out from under me and my family? How long until I can feel safe? 

Pray for me. Pray for us. Pray for all those who are lamenting in private because they do not feel safe enough to do so publicly in Christ’s church surrounded by reassuring arms, hands, and hearts of non-judgmental love and unconditional acceptance. Feeling stuck in the former, my heart longs for the latter. 

I miss my church community.

[timekettle-blog]

Top 10 Real-Time Translators for Travelers and Businessmen 2020

Whether you are a keen traveler or you regularly take meetings with foreign clients all over the world, getting yourself clearly understood is vital. Despite what you may have heard, not everyone speaks English, and most companies prefer conducting meeting in their native tongue.  

But learning a language is challenging, time-consuming, and completely unrealistic when you only have a mere matter of days before meeting individuals from a completely different culture.  

So what's the answer? Real-time translators, of course!

With these devices, you can not only get your message across in a way that a native can understand, but you can also immediately comprehend what they are saying back to you. In other words, these devices eradicate the language barrier thanks to their real-time language translation capabilities.

Here are the top ten devices on the market today.

ECTACO Partner 900 PRO Spanish

Heading over to Spain in the near future? Or what about Argentina? This device will help you to get by with its real-time translation from your voice dictation. Just speak into the machine, and it will translate what you're saying in whichever version of Spanish required, such as Central American.

It has a handy photo translation feature that allows you to point and shoot the camera at items for a translation back into your language, which is great if you're trying to order items at the local market, for example. The intrinsic drawback of this device is that it only handles the many variants of Spanish. When you consider that to be the case, it suddenly looks costly when compared to the features available on other models.

Pulomi Easy Trans Smart Language Translation Device

This budget offering from Pulomi is much smaller than other handheld real-time translators meaning it will easily fit in your pocket in between uses. The design is simple and straightforward. All users have to do is push the button on the device and hold it down until you've finished speaking, and it will recognize what you say and translate your words aloud.

This device supports an impressive 52 languages for the price and can double up as a Bluetooth speaker. However, as to be expected at this price point, there is a lack of some critical features such as two-way translation, which may prove too big a stumbling block if you're a business person looking to conduct productive meetings with clients.

Aibecy Smart Language Translator

Coming in even cheaper than the Pulomi is the Aibecy Smart Language Translator. What's notable about this device is that it offers two-way real-time language translation at such a low price point, albeit only with the capability of 30 languages.

However, the reason the price is so low is that the device cannot function without its accompanying phone app. Without that, users are unable to program the device to listen for the two languages of choice. Many users on websites such as Amazon have reported that the app fails to download correctly on many phones and that translations are often rudimentary and broken in nature.    

Birgus Two-Way Voice Translator

This offering from Birgus is perfect for business people heading to China to conduct necessary trade negotiations and factory inspections. This real-time translator offers two-way translation from Chinese to English and vice versa, as well as offering support for seven other languages.

While this device may help you on your Chinese business trip, it may not prove so useful when visiting other parts of the world with so few languages on offer. Worse, most of its additional language support comes in the form of camera-based translation, which might not be enough to help you hold a meaningful conversation.

Langogo Pocket Translator

The Langogo Pocket Translator combines 24 distinct translation engines into this small device. Where this device excels is in its ability to pick up intonation and dialectal differences, which is perfect for languages such as Russian. It also has the added benefit of acting as a voice assistant and mobile hotspot device.

However, with only 24 languages on offer, seasoned travelers will likely spend more time using features that provide useful information about local attractions, hotels, exchange rates, weather forecasts, rather than the language element. As such, this device is much less suited to those looking for business translation.  

Pocketalk Language Translator Device

Japan's favorite translation device has received a recent makeover and now looks sleeker and more compact than ever before. But don't let its good looks fool you, it's incredibly functional too. It packs in the capability to translate 74 languages in real-time with two-way functionality.

The only real gripe about this device is that the translation perhaps doesn't go into the depth of competing devices, which is understandable since there are so many on offer. Users have also commented that regional accents within countries can also pose a problem for this device.

Buoth T9 Real-Time Translation Device

This mid-range offering from Buoth offers the real-time translation of 44 languages, and whatever you speak into the device appears on the screen, helping you to learn the language at the same time. The built-in camera also offers point-and-shoot translation when you don't know the word for a specific item.

However, as with other models in this list, it only offers one-way real-time language translation, making conversations very difficult unless you regularly pass the device backward and forward. Not many would see that as a practical solution in a business setting.

MORTENTR Smart Voice Translator

This two-way real-time translator is one of the smallest available, and easily fits in the pocket of any business person or traveler. What's more, the design is one of the most intuitive on the market. With an impressive 70 languages, there's more than enough depth to get by as a traveler.

However, as is the case with other models, the depth of translation may not be suited to business people or academics visiting another country to have highly-intellectual conversations. Another drawback is that it requires either a Wi-Fi or hotspot connection to function correctly.

ili Wearable Translator

Ili have taken a different approach to their counterparts by making this real-time translator just as functional offline as online. They focused their offering to travelers and businessmen and women who are traveling to either Spanish speaking countries, China, or Japan. All you have to do is press the button, and the device speaks that phrase in another language at lightning speed.

However, of course, there is a significant drawback in the fact that it covers so few languages, and they aren't even interchangeable between each other as it's a one-way translator from English to Spanish, Chinese, or Japanese.

Timekettle WT2 Plus AI Real-Time TranslatorEarbuds

These earbuds have wholly changed the real-time translator game. First of all, these earbuds don't look any different from any of the other Bluetooth earbuds available for listening to music, which makes it dedicated to communicating fully and best in translation quality. Secondly, they allow you to have a natural conversation; there's no need to have both parties speak into a small device in some kind of bizarre ritual. Instead, you just talk to your counterpart in a usual manner and get the real-time translation of what they're saying fed directly to your ear.

With the in-depth translation of over 40 languages and built-in recognition of 93 accents, there's hardly a place on earth where these earbuds would let you down. Speaking of which, you can even use these "off the grid" if you need to, with offline functionality. With 95% of the world's population covered by this device and 93% real-time language translation accuracy, there's no need to look any further than these groundbreaking earbuds.

To take advantage of free shipping of these cutting edge earbuds, Timekettle is offering free shipping on a first-come, first-served basis. Head over to the WT2 Plus AI Real-Time Translator Earbuds page now to avoid missing out!        

[thespookydoor]

Tradewinds: Unreal Estate CH 00

INTRO: DARE The morning sun hung bright over Pickford Bay, betraying not a hint of the eldritch, otherworldly horrors that lurked deeper inland, as well as downshore on the peninsula. The small town of Pickford huddled along the coast, sequestered behind a palisade picket wall built from the very Woods it was designed to protect the townsfolk from. In spite of this, life went on much as it did before that fateful night all those years ago. Or at least as close as it could after years of population drift, as well as being cut off from the lumber industry that was once one of the cornerstones of its economy. While the fishing boats were out, plying their trade as far up the coast as the competing fishers of Hawthorne would allow, the few remaining children took the opportunity to play before an afternoon of chores. For it was the perfect sort of day to play, say, toss-ball, some deputy having run them off from their attempts to get a closer look at that strange flying machine those outlanders brought back with them from Camp Stilton the day before. As if to make up for that, it was a particularly spirited game, boys and girls tossing the ball to their chosen teammates while trying to keep their rivals from intercepting it. A very free-flowing game, folding up the entire neighborhood into its bounds. Mostly among the abandoned houses near the edge of the town proper, where no one would care if they accidentally broke what was left of any of the windows or anything. Most of what anyone wanted— what hadn’t already been packed up in their often hasty departure from town— had been carted off by their more entrenched neighbors years ago. Though their parents always cautioned them not to play inside the houses themselves, pointing to some of the longest-abandoned, most dilapidated specimens, with their sagging roofs, leaning walls, or crumbling stairways, as examples of the sorts of hazards the others surely contained. Yet no errant ball strayed into any windows, nor even any weed-choked yards, thus far, as the game drifted farther out, albeit away from the Wall, through the abandoned neighborhood along the peninsula side of town, toward the coast. In fact, it wasn’t until one of them tripped on a rock exposed by that last rainstorm a few days ago, causing him to fumble the ball in mid throw, that any of them realized just how close they had strayed toward the Castle instead. All eyes on the ball, following it as it rolled across the dirt, only to come to rest just a few feet from the front gate. From there, their gaze turned to the ominous estate beyond. Set behind sprawling, largely overgrown grounds, the former abode of the infamous Rigby family loomed large and imposing, all dark wood, stone and mortar. Steep picket-crested gambrel roofs, flanked on both sides by the massive squarish stone parapet turrets at the end of each wing that gave the place its ominous nickname. Vineholdt stood aloof at the downshore end of town, the only part of its own curse not fenced-out by the Wall. Instead enclosed by a perimeter of stonework and wrought-iron bars topped by ornate, though sharp, points, much of it crawling with the same tangle of creepy-looking vines that scaled both towers and parts of the mansion walls, as well. Much to their dismay, that forbidding gate hung open, a stray breeze rolling the ball a couple feet closer to the cobblestone drive leading up to the place. Eight kids— three girls, five boys— looked amongst themselves, the unspoken question ill-at-ease on the tips of their tongues. Realizing that they now stood closer than any of them had ever chanced to before, even on a dare. After a long, awkward silence, one of them stepped forward, a girl in bib overalls— hand-me-downs from her older brother— red ponytail and freckles, sharp green eyes on the prize, already reaching out as she put one foot in front of the other— “Hey! Where do you think you’re goin’?” All of them jumped in understandable alarm, even as they placed that voice. A pale imitation of the Groundskeeper’s bark, but loud enough, and perhaps even worse in its own way. All heads turned to the boy who strode up from the road they just drifted down in the course of their game. Short for his age, yet still head-and-shoulders above any of these younger children, with wide shoulders and a lumbering gate that was the spirit and image of his father. An oily mop of black hair topping a wide, sallow face, and a scowling expression that also resembled his old man’s, though it wouldn’t look properly menacing for at least another decade. Menacing enough, though, in the face of children half his own size. “Travis…” one of them mumbled. “You know you’re not supposed to play out here,” Travis Tully reminded them, waving one arm in their general direction as he made his way to the gate. The locks and chains on the front gate had an eerie tendency to come undone no matter how many times they were locked up again, for all that they had been bound tight against most locals back in the day. Even going near the gate to periodically relock it was an unpleasant task, one even his father never sent him to do alone. “What would your folks say if they knew you were foolin’ around at the Castle?” “You wouldn’t!” one of them gasped. “Better to face them, boy,” Travis warned them, “than what’s in there. ’Course, my old man’d skin your hide if he caught you in there.” Of course, according to local lore, the house just might skin you alive if it caught you in there. “Ha!” the little redhead shot back. “Your old man wouldn’t dare set foot past the gate!” She reached down for the ball, but Travis lunged forward, and she flinched as he snatched the ball from her. “And for damn good reason,” Travis told her. “That house is evil, just like the Woods, anyone what goes in there don’t come out.” He shifted the ball from one hand to the other, turning it this way and that. “Hey! Give that back!” one of the kids shouted. “Why should I?” He tossed the ball into his other hand, holding it aloft, out of reach even as the redhead made a bold grab for it. “You’re not even supposed to be here.” “It’s our ball!” Redhead’s face screwed up in a snarl of frustration and indignation. “And your ma would take it away if she knew you were playing with it out here…” An ominous gleam lit up in his eyes as an idea popped into his head. A look all of them seemed to catch on to at the same time at that sadistic grin. “Fine. If you want it so bad…” All of them jumped back in spite of themselves as Travis took a couple steps back, cocked his arm, and threw the ball at the mansion with all his might. “Then go fetch!” They all watched in wretched silence as the ball flew over the cobbles and across that weedy expanse, another gust of wind blowing it off to the right of the entrance, crashing through a windowpane along that wing of the manor. “That’ll teach ya to play where ya don’t belong…” Travis, looking quite pleased with himself, turned to walk away, telling them, “Now go home.” “Give us our ball back!” Travis wheeled on them, and no one looked too keen on owning up to that last. “No way in hell I’m goin’ in there!” Travis snorted. “If you want it so much, I dare you to go in there and get it yourself.” A long moment of downcast hush followed, eyes gazing at shoes and pebbles, before a quavering voice finally spoke up. “Then I’ll get it,” Redhead blurted, looking almost as surprised at her own words as anyone else on hand. “You… you don’t scare me!… and neither does… that house…” What Travis didn’t count on was that kids would be kids. Afraid, of course, but also curious. Along with that quixotic, paradoxical need to prove that they’re not afraid. “Ha!” Travis barked, “You’re shakin’ in your shoes!” “Am not!” She stamped her foot, trying not to look as scared as she felt. “Melissa!” one of her friends called out, “Don’t do it! You can’t go in there!” “You wouldn’t dare,” Travis taunted her. “Watch me!” Melissa shouted, taking one hesitant step toward that gate. A brief flicker of panic crossed Travis’ face, then he sneered, “Then show us.” Melissa, previously frozen at the gate in her own trepidation, stood her full, if diminutive, height, and put one foot across the property line, then the other. The other children gasped, then stood in silence, all words of encouragement or dissuasion stuck in their throats as they watched her venture where none of them had dared to go before. Her heart thudded in her throat with each step as she made her way up the drive toward the main entrance, where large, foreboding double doors awaited. Every step, she half expected Travis to yank her back by the straps of her coveralls, yet somehow she understood that he wasn’t going to take one step past that gate, that she had already gone farther than he likely ever had. The closer she came, the more her mind raced at the thought of what might spring forth from that palatial ruin to challenge her, and she wondered what possessed her to do this in the first place. She had seen her share of weeds, for Pickford suffered no shortage of abandoned houses in her own short lifetime, yet the plants here all felt sickly and diseased, as if their edges or thorns could poison with a scratch. When she looked over her shoulder, she kept expecting the others to be gone, to have fled, and when she turned back to the house, it was equally hard not to expect something horrible to be standing right in front of her. Having somehow gotten there in the brief moment she wasn’t looking, and the fact that there wasn’t was no less reassuring. The ball had entered a first-story bay window, though still high for a child. Not to mention the broken glass, which she carefully avoided as she grabbed the window sill and pulled herself up on tip-toes to see inside. Much as she feared, the ball was well inside the room, in the middle of the floor. Too far out of reach without climbing through jagged, broken glass. All, the same, she was almost surprised it was still there, that something hadn’t taken it, as she dropped back down and turned her attention to the front door. By the time she reached the entrance, the whole mansion seemed to loom over her, and she swallowed hard before taking the next step. Though she hesitated a couple times, she finally reached out and grabbed the doorknob. Screwing up her courage, she then tried to turn it, only to find that it wouldn’t budge. Locked, tight. Even as she turned to give up, feeling a certain relief at her inability to proceed any further with this madness, she realized that she could see that smug grin on Travis’ face, even from here. Instead, something snapped in her at that look, and she found that she didn’t want to give up on coming back with that ball and showing him. Looking around, she remembered seeing a gate in the inner fence on the left wing of the mansion. With that, she waved to her friends, stuck her tongue out at Travis, and went around the side, telling herself if she could find another way in, she could still snag the ball quickly and hop back out the window from the inside.

[minxybabetalks-blog]

Maybe it was the physical act of changing locations or psychologically knowing that I’m officially away from the daily grind, but I haven’t been this calm in quite some time.

My plane got in at 5:00 am (Iceland’s time zone) and let’s just start with how amazing their airport is!  First stop is currency exchange and I’m thinking I have a lot of money to start with.  No ma’am Pam.  It’s hella expensive in Iceland and I’m not talking about airport goodies.  The entire country is on inflation.  And let me tell you, to my shock and delight, there are black and hispanic people living in Iceland.  Moving along.

Peep the sunrise as I take the shuttle into Reykjavic.  Stellar!!

Sunrise In Iceland

I chose to stay at Kex Hostel based off some quick but thorough research.  I wanted to be surrounded by people that were friendly but minded their business.  That’s what I got.  The atmosphere was extra cozy, filled with food, drinks, music and books.  The endless chatter from the guests wasn’t obnoxious at all.  It felt like the best of a local book shop as you sip tea (or coffee if you’re into that) while you catch up on the Sunday news or browse a new book.  I ate breakfast of porridge with muesli, lemon mint tea, and a spicy pate with ground wheat crackers, tomatoes and cucumbers.  AH-mazing!!

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Check-in wasn’t until 2 pm and I had hours to kill.  I booked the tour for Golden Circle Day Tour which would take a drive around the countryside with stops at the Litli Geyser and the Secret Lagoon.  I wanted to go to the Blue Lagoon but I wasn’t aware of how packed that place gets and that I needed to book it well in advance of coming.  Lesson learned.  I can’t just wing it all the time.  But I have no regrets about the Secret Lagoon.  More on that later.

Of the things I forgot to pack up, my converter and adapter for my electronics.  I stowed my bag away and headed into town.  I got what I needed at the local convenience store, grabbed a quick snack at the local bakery and toured for a bit.  Maybe it was due to the fact that their tourism has exploded in the past few years.  Some 2-3 million visitors a year with a population size of less than 400K.  I was the lone black person and not even a eye was blinked.  Everyone, EVERYONE, spoke English just as fluently as they spoke their native language.  A woman did comment how she loved the color of my braids but it was in such a way that she saw braids before and the particular colors I used was nice.  Nor did she give me the inkling that she was about to make a grab for them like I was a new teacup poodle.

Seeing familiar sights of restaurants like Dominoes and Subway.

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Comforts from home

Subway’s a safe bet

A dedicated museum/gallery dedicated to dicks (or phallics, whatever is pc for you).

Suitable dick pic? The Icelandic Phallological Museum

On tour, there was so much to see and take in.  The serenity of Iceland is indescribable.  Now, I have a serious disdain for horses, but these horses, Icelandic horses (don’t call them ponies) didn’t smell (maybe it’s because of the Icelandic air), were friendly, small and understood multiple languages (or so the tour guide bragged).  I allowed myself to pet them.  Their fur was so soft and incredible.  Have one of them playfully bump in my chest was funny.  He thought I had food for him and I had to quickly let him know that I was broke and times were hard.

We stopped by the Sprungna fissure, which is an awesome and overwhelming experience.  As told by the tour guide, we were in the valley created by the tectonic plates between the North American and European continents.  I was seriously sending out prayers that the Earth did not decide to show off it’s power and move the earth while I was inside of it.  Dying on the first day of my trip from being swallowed by the earth is not on my itinerary.  With that being said, we bus stopped over the bridge so I actually go to stand in the space where two continental shelves meet.  Can you wrap your head around that?

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We stopped by the Litli Geyser.  I was able to eat some great, albeit expensive, food.  I walked along the geysers.  One geyser in the distance erupted and I got to see it from a ways back but the one closest to me, punked me.  It looked like was about to erupt, but, after 15 mins, all it did was steam, sputter and cough.  Oh well.  Moving along.

    Our next stop was the Secret Lagoon hot springs.  One of the most incredible experiences of my life, thus far.  I can’t compare it to any other hot spring since I’ve never tried one, but I’m in love with this one and want to make this an annual health vacation for myself.  Having to strip down in cold weather, walk out in to the cold in a wet body, QUICKLY get my ass from cold rock to heated water.  That’s a shock to the body.  But, man, that water was amazing.  Filled with all these minerals, I felt toxins leave my body (no exaggeration).  Every bit of stress that I had built up in my body over the last few years was leached out.  I braved the cold one more time for a glass (plastic though) of wine and floated around.  I played some Bachata threw my phone (Prince Royce),  I rubbed my toes all through the heated black rocks at the bottom of the springs (insta-massage).  The water was so clear!!!  The rocks lining the pool was heated so the water at the edges was hotter than the center.  I don’t know if there is a heaven, but this is that experience where you think that this must be that.  My level of relaxation went from 0 to 100.  I was a mushy mess leaving.  All the dead skin on my body was gone and my skin was smooth and hydrated.  Not that I was dirty (you have to thoroughly wash before going in) but, like I said, the toxins just came out of me.  I didn’t even want to walk anymore, cursing the universe for not let me be able to float like I wanted.

I slept on the drive back.  It wasn’t even a choice.  We arrived back at the hostel and I grabbed some wine, tea and food (expensive as heck) and regret nothing.  To top off the night, Kex Hostel has a nightly Jazz session.  It was good music, too.  I’ve heard better Jazz but coupled with the trip, the fresh, clean air, the hot springs, and a full belly of good organic food, this would be the best Jazz session I’ve ever attended.  I curled up on the couch, sipped my tea and zoned out with the rest of the guest.

       What’s a great description of my interaction with everyone?  PERSONAL SPACE.  I had all I wanted, but I didn’t feel invisible.

My overall feeling of Iceland is one of peace and simplicity.  Knowing that there are PoC living there made me think that this place could be a viable option to move to.  That’s one of the goals of this trip.  I’m long over living in the US.  Everyone was chill, friendly and interesting. I must note that I finally saw another black woman later that night at Kex as well as this gorgeous Pakistani woman that was dorm mates with me.  We chatted it up over tea and wine.  Sharing stories with another woman from Germany who was on a similar journey as me.

I never did get to see those Northern Lights.  Considering that I spent a lot for the day trip, limited funds for 6 weeks of travel, I just couldn’t swing shelling out more for a 3 hour night trip to see lights that may or may not happen.  Next time, though.

A few things that would stop me.  It’s cold there.  I know, you’re thinking “No shit, Sherlock”.  Hear me out.  It’s not a slap you in the face cold like upstate NY, but an insidious cold that creeps in on the cellular level and it was only October.  The natives clothing choice is built for necessity.  If I never wanted to go out again or needed witness protection, this would be the place to escape to.  I would have to make peace with letting go of material possession as their culture promotes interaction with their environment.  They are truly outdoorsy people and I find it so cool.  For now, it’s a consideration for my next move.

Another note, don’t let these cheap flight to Iceland distract you from the fact that it’s crazy expensive to live here.  Carry on…

Twenty-four hours later, I’m up in the air.  I had a total of 4 hours of sleep in a 2 day period but I left much more calm and collected, serene, than I’ve ever felt in my life.  Maybe, it’s worth giving up all I know, if this is a feeling I can always have.

Next stop, Amsterdam.

#PassportsUp

Day 2: Icelandic Magic – Serenity Maybe it was the physical act of changing locations or psychologically knowing that I'm officially away from the daily grind, but I haven't been this calm in quite some time.