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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years

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Friday 25 May 1838

11 ¼

fine morning and F52° at 5 10 am breakfast at 6 ¼ and off from the cheval Blanc at Rocory [Rocroi] at 7 7 – rain in the night and early this morning but fair tho’ dulling at setting off drizzling rain at 7 ½ - indifferent coffee but good milk and bread and butter and very fairly comfortable – no bill but paid as agreed 17fr. pour tout compris – Rocroy [Rocroi] a nice enough – with little grande place in which the cheval blanc – strong little fortified town – 2 or 3 drawbridge and one other gate in coming out and new works going on – cool air this morning – It was the dome-like church steeple (small church) we saw in the distance last night – no trace of famous battle-field – the prince de Condé against the Spaniards – 1549 near Rocroy [Rocroi] cottage with tent-like door-porch, each side-post leaning against the house side, and thatched down in a point from the ewes - the bottom part projecting perhaps 5 or 6 feet – open country – some enclosures and thorn hedges – the picturesque of yesterday quite gone – no beauty now – wood at a little distance before us which we soon pass thro’ – at 7 50 turn left at 1 (at right angles) – at 8 20 change horses at little village of Lonny – fine open country – we feel the better for the fine fresh air – at 9 ¼ 1st peep down upon Mézières and its cathedral and the Meuse – leave Charleville, apparently a good town about ¼ mile left (had we come forwards last night we should have turned in to Charleville hotel du commerce instead of pothering to get the gates opened at Mézières – then the river? and pass gate and drawbridge into the fortified ville at 9 35 and stop at la poste at 9 37 – off again at 9 52 = ¼ hour in changing horses, in a back street near to a bridge over something the river? which bridge however we did not pass but turned the carriage and went thro’ the old narrow not good but picturesque streets – pass old gateway and the Meuse? into the suburb – then 2 more gates and drawbridges and moats, and get out of the ville – nobody asked for our passport – Mézières an old narrow streeted ill built town – rather reddish yellowish marby soil – the red is on the other side, i.e. behind us – lower down the diver which now flows between low marby current-washed bare banks – fine open good country – no particular beauty – by and by slept ½ hour – A- awoke me by calling out the hat was gone – 2 or 3 times to call to the postillon and in taking off my velvet travelling cap 2 combs flew out – George had to run back – A- laughed much and long – more wooded towards the good village of Launoy - 13 minutes inc hanging horses and off again at 11 39 – pretty well wooded about Launoy on both sides of us – all along (all today) rather hilly road – at 12 a little rain and in 5 minutes loudish peal of thunder (1st we have heard since landing) and thunder shower – Avenue (chiefly elms) from Launoy – reddish soil again – all along fine open extensive country – raining till at 12 40 (but fair before one) at la poste at Vauxelles [Vauxcelles] – off from here in 6 minutes at 12 43 – V- a neat little village la poste good house at the far end of the village - a little from which ‘on traverse la grande chaîne primitive de montagnes en passant devant un cabaret, situé au point de partage des eaux’ – looked for it – hardly observable; and the descent afterwards not so great as many preceding descents – still elm avenue (began at Launoy) as far as I can see in a long straight line before us – asleep till 1 ½ - all in the chalk descending upon Rethel (now chalck from here to Paris) and drive thro’ the old town on the Aisne river and said to have been built by the Romans in Julies Caesars’ time – pass over 3 bridges (all wood I think) and lastly the canal of the Ardennes which beings here, and then at the end of the town La poste just opposite another wood bridge largeish old town partly built on the hill side – not many good buildings – 5700 inhabitants – off in 9 minutes at 1 58 – at 2 ¼ pass 2 large waggons of coal the 1st we have seen in France – add up accounts – calculate expense etc. as we drove along now that there is no beauty of scenery to call attention – chalk hills – at Isle at 3 38 one long street village – off again in 10 minutes – there has been a great deal of rain here and all our last stage – asleep again till 4 ¾ and then 1st sight of Rheims cathedral an enormous squarry lumping looking pile enough to swallow up all the town – two towers and sharp-pointed spire sun between them – long flat approach – range of hill along the horizon backing the town and stretching in the distance right – shabby streets, or not good streets but place royale handsome and stopped au Lion d’or opposite the richly sculpture cathedral at 3 10 – the landlord came up to the carriage to say he had no rooms – he had but one chamber – I got out to see it – rez de chaussée – largeish double-bedded room – then recollected he had one small double bedded room upstairs – saw and took it – asked his price – found it useless but servants to be 4/50 per day each and our dinner 4/. each of us, mine not included – made no inquiry as to beds - he would be dear enough – thought we were not going to stay long, and it would not signify much – got ourselves stowed into the little chambre – and Oddy well placed at no great distance on the same floor and George somewhere and ordered dinner at 7 – about ¾ hour arranging our effects then A- and I went out – in the cathedral 25 minutes – interior magnificent double aisles – windows of nef and chori all of finely and very anciently painted glass – the windows of the apses behind the high altar modern painted glass with much pink and orange colour throwing a peculiarly rich warm tint against the altar - never more pleased with a church – worth coming to Rheims to see this cathedral – certainly one of the most beautiful interiors I ever saw – not so fine as York minster – but a painted glass – the blue ceiling with white fleurs de lis, the yellow painted capitals of all the pillars clustered – colours and cornices (looking like gilding) have altogether a charming effect – the marigold window over the great west door, is magnificent – no organ in sight to break the unity of the whole – put out of sight in the north transept – the transepts very small – dinner at 6 20 – and went out about 8 ¼ for ½ hour – into the Place Royale – handsome pedestrian bronze statue of Louis 15 – went to the booksellers’ Luton in the Place Royal – bought for A- letters on the histoire by M. de Thierry and an account of the cathedral for myself – fine evening and night – after the rain and thunder this afternoon (vid. line 4 from the bottom of the last p. ) – F61° at 10 pm a garçon here – the 1st house we have been at this time, where there is no femme de chambre – gave him A-‘s and my things to get washed of mine two shifts one napkin and ditto cravat dimity waist and broad hemmed muslin handkerchief –

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alessandrxs-a · 4 years

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* ❪ ✏️ ❫ ◞ #𝘩𝘴𝘩𝘲𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬𝟢𝟣𝟥 ⤿ 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 .

𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑦𝑎 . @kscniya .

𝐢 . 𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼 — PARTYNEXTDOOR .

don’t hold your breath don’t wait on my love don’t hold your breath don’t wait on my love

𝐢𝐢 . 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 ( 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙸.𝙴. ) — GRAACE .

you know it's been a couple years i ain't been facing none of my fears but still i'm not dealing with you not here

𝐢𝐢𝐢 . 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 — SAINt JHN .

i wish we were both somebody else so you wouldn't be somebody else's i don't wanna lay here by myself ain't afraid to say i'm selfish

𝐢𝐯 . 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 ( 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙰 ) — black atlass .

'cause i don't see myself without you by my side so i'm not wastin' any time and you know that i'll always need you in my life 'til we see the other side

𝐯 . 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 — lauv .

i'm chasing fire when i'm running after you , you you got that something that i never wanna lose , lose , yeah it's like dancing when the song's already over moving without getting any closer , oh oh oh oh i'm chasing fire when i'm running after you

𝐯𝐢 . 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚠 — MAX .

can i stop the flow of time ? can i swim in your divine ? cause i don't think i'd ever leave this place

𝐯𝐢𝐢 . 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 — PARTYNEXTDOOR .

i need you to see my eyes so now that i can tell you different i need you to see my side so you can see what it is and what it isn't

𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢 . 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 — saen. , shiloh dynasty .

i know you so well , so well i mean , i can do anything that he can i've been pretty patient come on , pretty baby , oooh

𝐢𝐱 . 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 — lauv .

do you remember the last time you felt something like this ? the way that it felt when we were kids

𝐱 . 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝟿𝟸𝟶𝟶 , 𝚙𝚝. 𝚒𝚒 — snoh aalegra .

say , do you remember ? back when shit was good ? two kids in the night we were so alive

𝐱𝐢 . 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 — you me at six .

just crash , fall down i'll wrap my arms around you now just crash , it's our time now to make this work second time around

𝐱𝐢𝐢 . 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙 ( 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍 ) — julia michaels .

'cause all i do is jump right into your arms every time i see you , i just wrap myself around you , yeah jump , into something real even though i'm cautious , i just like the way it feels when it's us baby , when it's us you make me forget that i'm not ready for love , i jump oh , i jump

𝐱𝐢𝐢𝐢 . 𝚒 𝚍𝚘 — astrid s , brett young .

am i lonely ? is it really you i'm missing or just somebody ? i think i've got mixed feelings with bacardi somehow i just can't explain 'cause i don't want me to want you

𝐱𝐢𝐯 . 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 — gavin james .

i see those tears in your eyes and i feel so helpless inside oh love , there's no need to hide just let me love you when your heart is tired

#hshqtask013 #we had a lot of feelings ok #* ☁️ ⁺ ◞ 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐝𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐚 ∶ task .#kscniya .

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thesilverhunt3r · 4 years

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Title: Ace-in-the-Hole

Summary: Dazai had spent time searching for Chuuya once he hadn't found his partner with the Sheep. Nothing was different in this timeline, except for Chuuya not being in Japan-everyone else was where they should be. Dazai-centric, Book!Dazai, AU.

Link to story on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651634

Warning-typical Dazai mentions of suicide

"Thinkin' that they've won

It's only just begun

When I go into that ground

I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown

And when I go into that ground

Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down."

-Bury me facedown, Grandson

The Book always existed in some form, or another. It went from being slate to papyrus, papyrus to wood pulp. It changed from one single scene to one page half-full of writing to one book of mostly empty pages.

A powerful object having existed for so long, would it be all that odd if it became sentient? If it became human. . . yet not? It took centuries for it to learn how to. Seven years ago, wood pulp, the white pages still in the Book, turned to skin, to flesh, blood, to muscle, to bone. It, he, took the name Osamu Dazai.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai tugged on the man's sleeve.

Mori peered down at his young patient, curious. "Dazai-kun?"

"You're not a normal doctor, are you."

An indulgent smile spread on Mori's face. This was not his first time getting barraged with observations by the child. He hummmed. "I guess it depends what you mean by 'normal'."

"I'm not normal either," Dazai bluntly revealed.

"No, you're not," Mori agreed. "But it's better for no one to know about that. It's safer. Okay?"

"Okay," Dazai agreed. Somehow, he knew Mori was right. That he had tried to be open about not being normal. . . and it never worked out.

XXX

Dazai liked his dreams.

He dreamt of many people.

Mori was the only one he had met yet. But he would meet the rest, he knew it. There was Ane-san, Ango-kun, Odasaku, and Chuuya who usually were in the Port Mafia. And then there was Kunikida-kun, Atsushi-kun, Yosano-san, Ranpo-kun, Fukuzawa-san, Kenji-kun, and Kyouka-chan in the Armed Detective Agency.

Dazai will go the usual route for this world, the most common one. He doesn't see why not to? Odasaku is a good friend, even if Dazai hadn't met him yet, and his advice always helps.

XXX

Two years later

"Dazai-kun. No," Mori ordered as he pulled the rope away.

Dazai whined. "But I want it."

"For?"

Dazai looked at the ground as he admitted, "I wanted to try hanging myself."

Mori cuffed Dazai on the head. "No," he sternly insisted.

"Okay."

Mori sighed, crouching down so that he could look his ward straight in the eye.

"You are not allowed to try to kill yourself, Dazai-kun."

"Yes, Mori-san," Dazai murmured. He didn't want to live, he had no reason to.

XXX

Six years later

Suribachigai City, Yokohama, Japan

Dazai was the Boss's, Mori's, witness to the former Boss's death. Being in the Port Mafia, he noticed Randou, or Rimbaud, was missing first. Then a year passed, there were no sightings of the old Boss nor Chuuya. It wasn't the normal timeline, that was for sure.

"Who are you?"

Dazai looked meaningfully at the boy's blue bracelet. His brown hair shifted with him, covering one of his eyes. "You're part of the Sheep, right?"

The boy bristled defensively. "Yeah, so what?"

Dazai pressed closer, grabbing hold of the other boy's collar. "Do you know a guy named Chuuya? Red hair, angry, short?"

"No?" The boy went stiff. His hand strayed towards his knife. He was ready to attack Dazai, but he wasn't lying.

Dazai sighed. He forced a grin on his face and let go. He waved goodbye as he walked away. "Thanks for the help."

XXX

Unknown City, France

Chuuya, a young teenager with red hair, put his hands in his pockets. He looked like a thug, albeit a thug with good fashion sense.

"What do you want to eat?" A man stood next to him, Rimbaud. He had long black hair.

Chuuya cast a look at his guardian. "How about something warm?"

Rimbaud huffed a laugh. "Alright. That sounds good." Despite the warmth of the summer day, he was bundled up in a coat, scarf, and earmuffs. He was always cold.

The two bought some soup from a street vendor. It was hearty and rich, full of vegetables.

Rimbaud blew on a spoonful of his soup.

Chuuya tapped Rimbaud's shoulder, having to stand on his tiptoes slightly because of the height difference. "I think those guys over there want to 'talk' to us."

"Well, they shall have to wait until we are finished," Rimbaud calmly responded.

Chuuya sighed. "Let's hope they're not stupid enough to interrupt us, I guess," he grumbled.

They were.

Chuuya had his hand up. A bullet hovered in front of his hand, encased in a red glow.

Rimbaud tilted the bowl up and drank the leftover broth. He finished and turned to the men in black suits. "Would you like to explain why you attacked us? Or shall we return in kind?"

XXX

Three years later

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai sprawled himself out on the bench. He let a leg dangle over the edge. He shifted, trying to find a position where the wooden slates didn't dig into his back.

He had just left the Port Mafia, so he had two years to kill before joining the Armed Detective Agency.

Dazai had spent time searching for Chuuya once he hadn't found his partner with the Sheep. Nothing was different in this timeline, except for Chuuya not being in Japan-everyone else was where they should be. And now that Dazai had crossed off Japan as a possibility and was free to travel to other countries, where should he start?

Dazai hummed. He always enjoyed choosing where to travel. There wasn't much to worry about, he had time to explore. He brushed away the tangent thought. That wasn't what he should be doing right now.

Of course, there was the distinct possibility of Chuuya not being alive, not existing in this world. But Suribachigai City had been created, so Chuuya had been in Japan, he did exist. Just as unusual, Rimbaud had never become part of the Port Mafia, nor had Dazai seen Verlaine. Both of the men were from France. Dazai grinned, lazily put his hands behind his head. Looked like he had his first lead.

XXX

Charleville-Mézières, France

Dazai smiled as he propped an elbow on the bar, leaning closer. He gave off a warm, amiable air. "What's so dangerous about a shrimp?"

The man harrumphed. "He may be small, but he could beat anyone in this place with a hand behind his back and a glass of wine in the other hand." He gestured with his own glass, emphasizing his confidence with the loudness of a drunk.

Dazai laughed slightly. He perched his chin on his hand. "He does sound dangerous," he admitted. His lips curled up, "Despite his size."

The man's friend interjected. "I almost wish Chuuya was here to see you poking fun at him. You'd find yourself in hell before you could blink."

Dazai let his grin turn into a slight smirk. He couldn't help it, with success so close. "Chuuya, huh?"

The man's friend swore. He had a yellow scarf around his neck that he tugged at nervously. "Just forget I said that."

"What, he doesn't like people knowing his name?"

The two men shifted uneasily.

Dazai almost sighed. "How about this, tell me his last name so that I know who he is. I'll avoid him wholeheartedly," he promised. He had the childish urge to cross his fingers under the bar counter, where the two men couldn't see his hand.

The man snorted. "You talk big, but you're a coward?" He called out.

"I prefer, someone with common sense," Dazai joked.

The man slapped Dazai in the back, rattling the younger's man shoulders. "Alright, I like the mouth on you, kid. The guy is Chuuya Nakahara, hangs around downtown, avoid him all you can."

"Noted," Dazai chirped. "Thanks for the advice."

Jackpot.

XXX

Dazai had the general location. He scoped out the bars and waited until the next night. He had to go over the La Meuse several times, because of how the river annoyingly crisscrossed the city-it honestly got a bit repetitive.

His chosen bar was the one with the best wine reviews, of course.

Dazai scanned the place for redheads. Bingo. He raised an eyebrow at the lack of Chuuya's tacky hat- Rimbaud still wasn't dead. Dazai slid into the stool beside Chuuya and ordered a whiskey, not really paying attention to the type much. He was getting it more to blend in, than for the taste.

Chuuya sat straight-backed on the stool, albeit leaning backwards a bit. He had an ankle crossed over his knee. He looked to be the definition of someone at home in their regular bar.

"Hello," Dazai greeted in Japanese.

Chuuya's eyes moved towards Dazai, blue eyes that puzzled at the unknown man beside him. His stance didn't change at all.

"What's a shrimp like you drinking? Are you sure you're not underaged?"

Chuuya snarled at the insult. He shrugged it off as much as he could. "And who the h*ll are you?"

Dazai grinned, happily volunteering, "Osamu Dazai."

"Chuuya Nakahara," Chuuya grumbled in reply.

"You're a slug. You've probably been here for a while and you've barely touched it." Dazai gestured to Chuuya's still largely full glass.

Chuuya glared at Dazai. "And you're a mackerel floating in the sky," the odd insult fell off his tongue with ease. He picked up his glass and downed half in one go.

Dazai laughed. He slumped forward, letting his elbows hit the counter softly. He shook with laughter, hiding his face between his arms.

Chuuya's face was red, partly from alcohol and partly from embarrassment. That was a stupid insult and that was a valid response-he didn't know how to counter that. He angrily took another sip of his wine. "Shut up."

Dazai continued to laugh.

Chuuya frowned in confusion. The whole conversation felt like a well worn groove that he had slipped into automatically. But he'd never met Dazai before-he knew that.

XXX

Dazai hadn't seen the rat sneaking into the town. He regretted that.

He clutched at the hole in his chest, trying to keep conscious long enough to hear them.

"I came to offer you a job."

"What kind of job?"

Dazai heard as he bled out onto the floor in the secret hallway. He bit back a whimper at the pain. So that was Dostoyevsky's game-the Russian was after an ace. Once Dostoyevsky became Chuuya's employer, he would have Chuuya's loyalty.

Dazai only could process murmurs of brief snatches of the two's conversation.

"I would-"

". . . not a problem, I assure you."

". . . to go there?"

". . . days. . . . Fees are. . . ."

". . . of course, we have a deal."

"Good."

Dazai's consciousness started to fade, along with the sound of their footsteps.

Dazai had played dead for long enough. He pulled himself onto his hands and knees. He choked blood, along with the bullet that had punctured through his heart.

He staggered upright, pressing a bloodied hand to the stone. The tilted sense of balance he was experiencing was matched by his mental state, a confused mess that was barely still working. He left rusted looking hand prints as he shuffled his way through the tunnel, the blood flaked off his palm.

Wet blood still trailed down his mouth and chest. His clothes were stained. There were advantages to wearing black, like the blood on your clothes not making you look like a serial killer or barely surviving-really should be dead by now-victim when out in public.

He opened the secret door to the tunnel. All that was left was an empty room.

Dazai's eyes narrowed in anger. He had played a game with Dostoyevsky and lost devastatingly. Usually, he saw things coming and gained something useful. This time? Nothing. He'd been blind sided. This world was so different yet so familiar that he had ignored the possibility of differences.

He always hated losing, especially with strategies, regardless of whether it was Mori or Dostoyevsky. Dazai had lost-lost arguably his most important piece in one stupid move-and that was unacceptable. Possible paths to victory and revenge streaked through his mind.

Dazai hummed. He would make Dostoyevsky regret what he did. A grin etched itself onto his face as he exited the room.

XXX

Around a year and a half later

Yokohama, Japan

"Hello, Kunikida-kun," Dazai chirped as he strolled into his office. Time for his current, favorite past time: teasing his Agency partner. "How's your schedule going?"

Kunikida stood up. The hold on his notebook tightened. "It was going wonderfully, Dazai. Until you didn't show up for work for three hours," he scolded.

Dazai shrugged, unrepentant. He proceeded to sprawl out on one of the office's couches.

He dreamed, with a smile on his face.

XXX

Lyon, France

Chuuya put another piece of split oak wood in the fire. The fire cracked and popped, accepting the fuel eagerly.

"So, how have you been?" Rimbaud asked.

"Well," Chuuya simply summed up.

"How has the job with that Russian been?"

Chuuya shrugged. "It's been alright." He turned the question around, looking over his shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Good. I took a trip to Italy during winter. It was nice." Rimbaud smiled. "Coffee?"

Chuuya got up. He brushed off the wood dust that had made it on his hands and knees. "Sure."

Rimbaud poured out two cups, both were a crimson. "Any cream or sugar?" He always took his coffee black.

"I'll do mine. You don't have to." Chuuya grabbed a spoon from the kitchen drawer.

"Alright." Rimbaud sat near the fireplace.

Chuuya dumped in creamer. He stirred in his sugar as he went to sit on the floor beside his former guardian. "I still don't know how you can drink tar."

Rimabaud gestured towards Chuuya's cup. "Would you like some coffee with your milk?"

Chuuya snorted. The spoon clinked against the side of his cup.

Rimbaud sighed. "It's been a while."

"Yeah. Glad to be back, if only for a little bit."

"Are you sure this has nothing to do with your job?"

"Yes," Chuuya immediately said.

Rimbaud watched the younger man patiently.

Chuuya ran a hand through his bangs. "I may have some doubts about things," he admitted.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai was cheerful and open. Yet Dazai was. . . vaguely secretive at the same time, the type of person one could trust with secrets, but would always be the type of person to keep unknown secrets of all shapes and sizes.

Yosano reached for Dazai's wrist on instinct-his bandages had become loose. It was only when she had the medical clamp in her hand that she realized Dazai had grown stiff, that he was looking at her warily. Oh, Dazai, tried to restrain his flinch and the urge to run, but Yosano noticed.

Yosano promptly ignored him, busying herself with the bandages. She didn't take them off, instead she grabbed Dazai's other hand and put it where she wanted. With something to keep the bandages further down in place, she shifted the loose bandages to where they should be. She still saw the skin underneath.

Dazai smiled as he slipped the clamp from her hand with ease. "Thank you," he said.

Yosano shook herself out of her thoughts. "Of course." She had expected scars. But why the h*ll had they looked like kanji?

Things like that lead them to question just how open their coworker was with them. Was Dazai only keeping a few things close to his chest? Were the things he told them simply a false bottom in an abyss? Merely an act to keep them from asking the important questions? They had no idea, but they suspected there was far more about Dazai they didn't know than knew.

XXX

Approximately a year later

Yokohama, Japan

The tiger had a secondary attribute. It acted like a compass, pulling its host towards the Book. That was why Atsushi always ended up near Dazai. But obviously, Dazai didn't need to find the Book. No, Dazai needed to find the pen, or stylus.

And how was he going to get that?

Dazai sighed. He had sort of forgotten the first step of how to put his overly complicated revenge plan in motion.

Let's see. He had the Book, himself. He had Atsushi as of two day ago. . .and that was about it. But the Book was useless without the pen and he didn't know how to get Atsushi to find the pen for him.

Atsushi was a compass? How accurate was he?

Dazai pulled out his phone. "Hey, Atsushi-kun. Where are you?"

"At the dorms, why?"

"Close your eyes, turn around three times and point in a direction."

"Dazai-san? Okay?"

Dazai heard Atsushi moving around.

"Umm, I'm pointing at my kitchen?"

"That'd be West," towards Dazai's apartment, where he was.

"Umm, Dazai-san? What's going on?"

Dazai grinned. "Thanks for the help." He paused, mulling over how to rope his apprentice into helping him. "Actually, Atsushi-kun, I'm going to send you on a series of tasks tomorrow. To help you sharpen your detective skills, of course."

"Uhh, okay?" Atsushi stammered out, unsure.

"Great."

XXX

Dazai took a train out of the city the next day.

If Atsushi was like a compass, Dazai was a magnet. If Dazai was in Yokohama, he would interfere with things, like a magnet held against the facepiece of a compass, he would disrupt the tiger's ability.

Dazai was the Book and the tiger was drawn to him. It would make sense for the pen to have some sort of draw for the tiger as well, albeit lesser.

Time to send Atsushi on the weirdest scavenger hunt ever.

XXX

Two hours later

"So what is it supposed to look like?" Atsushi asked.

Dazai had his phone between his ear and shoulder. He had started playing a game part of the way through, muting the volume so that Atsushi wouldn't hear. "What'd you find?"

"Uhh, a pen? Black, steel nib?"

Dazai was surprised his half-baked plan of Atsushi playing a bastardized version of hot-cold had worked. "You found it," he cheered. "Good job."

"Dazai-san, you didn't have me do all of this just so you could find a pen you lost, right?"

Dazai almost laughed-in a way, Atsushi was right. "No, no," he assured. "It's very important."

XXX

Dazai sat up. He winced at the pain in his chest. He could heal himself back to perfect health, but that would be suspicious. He was supposed to be human. Humans didn't walk off gunshots. Well, unless Yosano used her ability.

A vase of flowers sat on the bedside table. Dazai scooted himself to the edge of his bed. He shot another glance towards the door-no one was there-the nurse shouldn't be back for another half-hour.

He stuck his hand in the vase. Dazai felt the edge of a plastic bag near the bottom and took it out. Water dripped from the bag. He opened it and withdrew a black pen. He put the bag on the table.

He tapped the fountain pen against his wrist, considering. What exactly should he write and where?

His arms and torso were completely covered in writing, everything from Japanese and Swahili to English and Russian.

He pulled up his pant leg and unwrapped a section of the bandages.

He brushed his fingers over three black lines that curled around his ankle.

He uncapped the pen and set the nib against his skin. He made slow movements, trying to make the kanji as small as possible. The black ink stung. His handwriting was as scratchy as ever, he idly noted.

He didn't kill Dostoyevsky. Doing something directly and costly like that-part of skillfully using the Book is to create great change through small things because that has a much smaller punishment-he did something else. He wished to speak with something, so that he could Amir a deal with it.

When Osamu Dazai goes to sleep on October 14th, tonight, he will talk to Arahabaki.

He gritted his teeth, holding back the scream that rose in his throat. The ink burned, sinking into his skin.

XXX

When Chuuya was first formed, he ended Arahabaki's rampage with his iron will, caging the snarling being in the mind they shared. Chuuya was stronger mentally; therefore, Arahabaki could not force his way into control of the body. But Arahabaki had access to the non-human parts of them, Corruption and the Beyond.

Dazai called out into the darkness. "Hello?" He hummed. "Hello, Arahabaki," he sang, skipping forward.

The darkness shifted. A small red fire appeared-an eye opened. A black snout appeared.

"Arahabaki, there you are," Dazai cheerfully said. He did not look concerned at all with the dangerous being.

A large beast of black flame stalked fully out of the dark. It was vaguely wolf shaped. Two red eyes made of fire peered at Dazai.

Dazai's grin widened. "I have a proposition for you." His spine curved as he slouched, showing off his nonchalant air.

Arahabaki moved closer. It was wary. It knew what Dazai was, who Dazai was.

"I want you to kill Dostoyevsky. You want control of Chuuya's body." Dazai put his hands in his pocket. He ignored the uncomfortable heat around him.

Arahabaki cocked its head. It opened its maw and spoke, "How?" It's voice was charcoal, dry and dark.

"Simple. Overwhelm Chuuya with memories." Dazai used a hand to gesture around as he spoke, as if to say it was easy.

"Memories," Arahabaki replied, skeptical.

"Yes, memories. You know of the other Chuuyas, but this Chuuya doesn't. If you overwhelm him with thousands of years of memories from other worlds? His mind won't be able to process it and you can take over." Dazai shrugged. "All you have to do for me, is kill Fyodor Dostoyevsky when I say the phrase 'do not wake me again' and you can walk away in Chuuya's body," Dazai promised. He held out a hand, more of a symbolic gesture than anything else, an invitation. "Do we have a deal?"

Arahabaki inclined its head.

Dazai gave a close-eyed smile. "Wonderful." It didn't matter that Arahabaki would try to kill him after taking care of Dostoyevsky.

Chuuya was now the perfect sleeper agent.

XXX

A year later

St. Petersburg, Russia

The melody echoed softly through the halls. It was melancholic, fitting what Chuuya was feeling far too well.

Chuuya pushed the door open. He let his shoes hit the floor in a staccato rhythm.

Dostoyevsky almost paused as he looked up from his cello. He absently reminded his fingers to keep playing.

Chuuya Nakahara's ocean blue eyes had hardened into cold ice. A black fedora with a silver chain sat firmly on his head, a momento. "I'll do it."

Dostoyevsky nodded. He looked down, back towards his cello to hide the chilling smirk that spread across his face. Honestly, he should have done this sooner.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

A thought struck Kunikida. "What's Dostoyevsky even after?" He muttered.

The question was loud enough for everyone in the office to head.

Atsushi tilted his head. "I never thought about that."

Dazai's mouth went dry. He plastered a smile on his face. "The Book." His coworkers looked at him.

Kenji looked the most openly confused. "The Book?"

"An object that can change reality," Ranpo explained. He was sitting on his desk, legs lazily swinging back and forth.

"Ohhh," Kenji replied. "Okay."

"Dazai-san, what is Dostoyevsky planning to do with the Book?" Atsushi

Dazai chuckled. "Something along the lines of, kill all of the Gifted?" His tone grew slightly sardonic. "He never really took the chance to clarify."

Kunikida's knuckles went white. If he didn't keep his nails impeccably short, he would be leaving indentations on the cover of his notebook.

"That sick b*stard," Yosano flatly commented.

Atsushi was pale. He looked as if all of the color in his face had vanished, leaving behind a whitewashed ghost.

Kyouka grabbed Atsushi's hand, a reassuring presence.

Ranpo moved his gaze slowly around the room-he looked at the Agency, at the ability members around him, his co-workers. Him, a normal human that did not possess any ability no matter how much they all lied. Ranpo stared at the lolipop he had unwrapped. He wrapped it back up-he had lost his appetite for sweets.

XXX

The large office room was empty. The only thing worth the visit for anyone normal would have been the view out the window of the sun low on the horizon, coloring the clouds purple, red, and pink. The sky was a baby blue, a contrast to the cobalt blue bay and metal grey buildings beneath.

Dostoyevsky held the pen in his hands. It was a trap, but that didn't matter. He ignored the beautiful view in front of him in favor of turning over the pen in his hands. He admired the smooth metal nib and the comfortable weight of the black barrel. It was the real thing, the Book's stylus.

"Checked the other floors. No one there," Chuuya reported. He stayed by the door.

"Good. Now, Dazai, would you come out already?" Dostoyevsky cast a cursory glance around the room.

There was a chuckle from the ceiling. A white tile slid aside. Dazai dropped to the floor, gracefully straightening up. He pulled out a pistol, pointing it at Dostoyevsky.

Dostoyevsky sighed. "Are we really doing this? We both know how it goes."

A red dot appeared on Dazai's chest. He shrugged.

A red dot appeared on Dostoyevsky's side and the back of Chuua's back.

"This is still nonsense," Dostoyevsky dryly said.

A squad of Dostoyevsky's men burst into the room. They were covered in bulletproof armor.

Dazai smiled as pointed out, "You accuse me of nonsense than just pile on more." He pulled the magazine out of his pistol, letting them both fall to the ground.

Dostoyevsky's expression turned wry. "I decided to try. Turnabout is fair play, after all."

"What, should I get a swat team to break in the office window next?" Dazai cheerfully suggested.

The two masterminds smiles turned a mix of apathy and slight giddiness. There were few people, no one else really, who could surprise and understand them.

"So what's your actual plan?" Dostoyevsky asked. Dazai wouldn't give Dostoyevsky the pen for nothing in return.

Dazai sighed. Mocking disappointment was blatant in his tone. "You walked into a trap of mine with no idea?"

"You did it a year ago. I decided to return the favor," Dostoyevsky mocked back. He had walked into a trap. But he had taken Chuuya, he deemed that a big enough protection for anything Dazai could throw at him.

Dazai hummed, looking at Chuuya. "You did a good job of getting in his head," he praised. "But I planted my agent a bit, well, deeper." His grin stretched into something monstrous. "Do not wake me again."

Arahabaki hid in the recesses of Chuuya's mind. It did not trickle the images and sensations into Chuuya's mind. It made a hole in the dike and let the flood pour in. It slipped into control during Chuuya's confusion. It breathed for the first time in sixteen years. It unsheathed it's knife and hurtled across the room to it's closest target, the squad of Dostoyevsky's men.

Dostoyevsky held a hand up and pointed out the window. He had directed his man to take out Dazai's snipers. The red dots disappeared. Shots cracked out, the glass did nothing to muffle the sounds.

One might have wrongly assumed that bullet proof meant knife proof. It did not. Dazai and Dostoyevsky watched as Arahabaki took its time to tear apart Dostoyevsky's men, playing with them. Stray bullets from the squad embedded themselves in the walls, cracking and breaking off pieces of the wood paneling.

Chuuya stopped moving. He was surrounded by carnage, blood and flesh scattered around him in a similar manner to how confetti and glitter ended up everywhere without one intending it. He wiped one of his bloody gloves off on his dress slacks and picked up one of the squad's guns. He seemed ready to fight again, either with Dazai or the snipers outside.

Dostoyevsky turned back to Dazai, looking sincerely discontented. "That was what you were banking on? Shame it didn't work."

Dazai shrugged. He knew that Arahabaki couldn't permanently take over control unless Chuuya handed it over.

Dostoyevsky was shot in the back of the head, specifically his cerebellum. He fell forward, blood dripping down the back of his neck.

The flood of memories changed Chuuya's mind. It wore away rock and tore away dirt. The ill conceived notions about Dostoyevsky were substituted for knowledge of his plans and the lows the mastermind had gone to. The loyalty to Dostoyevsky was combated by a thousand memories of people. Chuuya cared about and trusted. Chuuya was not simply this world's Chuuya anymore-he was all of the other Chuuya's. Each one that worked in the Port Mafia, Armed Detective Agency, and Japanese government. Each one that had killed and sacrificed for the city of Yokohama and the people that lived there.

Dazai grins. "Good to have you back, partner."

"Yeah, yeah. Glad to be back, a*shole."

A/N

Tl;dr Dazai wants his best friend back and Dostoyevsky dead. He is 100% willing to change reality for that to happen.

To explain Dazai's plan: it wasn't having Arahabaki kill Dostoyevsky-it was having Chuuya do it. The way to get Chuuya to do it was to have Chuuya gain the memories of the other hims. Basically, four years of being Dostoyevsky's subordinate and Dazai's enemy versus thousands of years worth of memories of him being Dostoyevsky's enemy, Dazai's partner, being in the Port Mafia, Ada, government, always working against Dostoyevsky, always loving Yokohama the place Dostoyevsky always seemed hellbent on destroying. Basically, Dazai kind of switched out this universe's Chuuya for canon Chuuya (except armed with meta knowledge).

My favorite part of this is definitely Dazai's solution to finding the pen.

Dazai: "Welp, guess I'm going to send Atsushi on a city wide hot-cold game and hope it pans out."

And for some reason, it works.

-Silver

Notes:

A/N

Tl;dr Dazai wants his best friend back and Dostoyevsky dead. He is 100% willing to change reality for that to happen.

To explain Dazai's plan: it wasn't having Arahabaki kill Dostoyevsky-it was having Chuuya do it. The way to get Chuuya to do it was to have Chuuya gain the memories of the other hims. Basically, four years of being Dostoyevsky's subordinate and Dazai's enemy versus thousands of years worth of memories of him being Dostoyevsky's enemy, Dazai's partner, being in the Port Mafia, ADA, government, always working against Dostoyevsky, always loving Yokohama the place Dostoyevsky always seemed hellbent on destroying. Basically, Dazai kind of switched out this universe's Chuuya for canon Chuuya (except armed with meta knowledge).

My favorite part of this is definitely Dazai's solution to finding the pen. Dazai: "Welp, guess I'm going to send Atsushi on a city wide hot-cold game and hope it pans out." And for some reason, it works.

Shoutout to my betas, TKDGirl17 on ff.net and Solitaire_Dreams on Ao3.

-Silver

#bungou stray dogs #OSAMU DAZAI #chuuya nakahara #Fyodor Dostoyevsky #arahabaki #bsd #rimbaud #the book bsd #book dazai #book!dazai

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onestowatch · 5 years

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Snoh Aalegra Reinterprets Her Feels with Rhythm n’ Blues in ‘- Ugh, those feels again’

Feels; they have a way about them. Popular rhetoric surrounding “feels” often urges us to resist them. Though concurrently beautiful and treacherous, our feels are the base of human connection and when they go, you can most certainly expect their shameless return… but is that really a bad thing?

Perhaps when it comes to “feels,” we need go no further than tapping into Iranian-Swedish R&B legend-in-the-making, Snoh Aalegra’s latest album - Ugh, those feels again (Aug 16). A continuation of her freshman project, FEELS circa 2017, Aalegra expands on the life altering love that FEELS was based on, but from a different, more mature-perspective.

Executive produced by iconic producer, No I.D. (Jay-Z, Kanye West, J. Cole), - Ugh, those feels again is a true testament to the R&B greats of the ‘90s and ‘00s while offering a forward-looking perspective on the genre. Sonically, the production feels unified and purposeful. Though each track offers various musical angles, the overall vibe is like a sharpened dream, woozy but crisp. The bass is grounding but not overbearing, with keen attention spent on bringing out Aalegra’s gorgeous vocals and sonorities resting at the top end of the mix. Sprinkles of electronic sounds combined with the earthy vibes of jazz, give the project that perfect well-rounded sound.

Diving right in from the beginning with “Here Now (Intro),” Aalegra wastes no time is capturing your attention. Featuring sped up vocals reminiscent of Kanye West and Frank Ocean with lyrics oozing of that wisdom she has gathered in the past two years, she muses “Even if we catch the sunrise / It’s only a moment passing us by / We still have more, Southside” and as quickly as the moment arose as Aalegra promises, it passes. Into slow burning, anti-love song “I Want You Around” hosting a nod to one of Aalegra’s heroes, Stevie Wonder, it chronicles the common experience of being down for the hang but not feeling quite ready to get wrapped up in “love.” Jazz elements especially present here gives the track a sultry, lustful vibe with class. Overlapping vocals in the bridge, fall into a piano interlude between tracks, leaving the listener floating blissfully into subsequent song “Situationship.”

youtube

We bring up the tempo a bit here, a tropical, freeing vibe manifests. A manipulated, repeated piano glissando matched with a quintessential R&B groove acts as the foundation of the track, giving Aalegra the space she needs to riff through the vocals while reminiscing on the “in-between” in romance, a classic stage in single-hood. Aalegra shared with Billboard that both “I Want You Around” and “Situationship” were inspired by the fun elements of being single; "I'm having new experiences and I'm meeting new people. When you have those positive butterflies feelings -- those are the kinds of emotions that inspired these songs.”

“Whoa” and “Find Someone Like You” bring both new feels and instrumentation into the mix. Percussive elements on “Whoa” are reminiscent of Afro-funk while “Find Someone Like You” feels cinematic with heavy attention spent on strings. “Toronto” showcases Aalegra’s impressive vocal range, as she builds and builds in the track. An explosive round of “Oohs,” leaves the listener reeling and maybe wanting to “Ooh” as well.

As we move into the second half of the album, Aalegra focuses less on the freedom of her new found single life and into understanding the emotional implications of her past, toxic relationship. “Charleville 9200, Pt. II" and “You” are specifically about this life changing relationship. “Chareville 9200” which made its appearance on her 2016 EP, Don’t Explain, is about her first encounter with said partner while “Pt. II” is Aalegra’s moment to mourn her love lost. A cathartic, epic goodbye she relents, "Why you take me up this high? / Just to put a hole in my parachute / So I would fall for you / Why you let us get this low?When you know I'd give up my life for you / Ride and I'll die for you.”

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But don’t let those deep emotions distract you for long, on “Nothing to Me,” we see the sexy, don’t-take-s*** version of Snoh… and we like it. An epic throwback to classic ‘90s R&B artists, we're sure TLC and Brandy smiled wide when they heard this one. A side we don’t see often, Aalegra is free and justified in her independence. A series of question we’ve all asked asked our favorite f-boys, "Why you always acting wishy-washy? / Why you always say you ready for me? When you know you ain't ready for me?" ends with a conclusive statement we all want to shout from the rooftops, “We aren’t friends if we fuckin’ homie."

The project finishes off with a healthy dose of soul, like a warm bath and joint after a god-awful day, Aalegra is showing everyone that with heartbreak comes wisdom and more importantly strength. “I Didn’t Mean to Fall in Love” is your come-to-church moment baby and the congregation is waiting. You might find your arms raised in the air, tears streaming down your face by the end. But wipe them away quick, because “Peace” is all about bidding farewell to pain in style. A fresh, funky track complete with a surplus of record scratches, an emotive electric guitar line, and topped off with a dynamic violin part, Aalegra closes with the mantra “Peace in my mind gon’ save my life … Life ain’t really, ain’t really, ain’t really what it used to be.”

#snoh aalegra #ugh those feels again #no id #Stevie Wonder #r&b #soul #album reviews

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hamba-ali · 6 years

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Brown Bess affection story -lvl 3-

Chapter 2: To Attain Victory

NOTE: Please DO NOT use or repost this translation WITHOUT permission!

Ah, Master. T, thank you for healing me.

The wound in your hand must be hurting too, right? We will do the preparation for tomorrow, so you can just go to rest.

… On the other hand, I… I finally able to attain Zettai Kouki…

I am too preoccupied with protecting you, so I don’t really remember what happened on that time…

I felt like I heard that voice again when the light appeared in front of my eyes and everything become white.

I wonder if Zettai Kouki is a kind of miracle?

… Well, anyway, it is clear that I was being acknowledged as both Kijyushi and Knight.

Ah, talking about Kijyushi make me remember about that French Bastrad! Charleville!

That frog, he keep telling Master to run away in the middle of the battle, right?

It make me wonder if he even have a slightest pride as Kijyushi. Not to mention, how in the bloody hell we can run away from those guys? It is the end for us if we got shot in the back.

But well… it is true that taking over the World Empire only by using antique gun is something no sane person will think of.

To be honest, it still make me shudder by just thinking about what will happened if I don’t attain Zettai Kouki back then.

Because, you know, right? Our fight with the World Empire will only ended in one between the two choices, win or death.

We can’t not continue to win… if we lost, it will be the end. The end for everything.

That’s why, I, too, need to be nobler than I am now to be able to continue protecting you.

Those guy from the Military won’t just stay silent if we keep attacking them. If I stay as I am now…

… Don’t make that face. You don’t have to worry about anything.

Just let me protect you. Understood?

OK. Have a little rest now if you understand… Good night.

#brown bess #brownbess #senjyushi #senjuushi #the thousand noble musketeers #translations #affection story #esenya

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bipolaireenivresse-blog · 5 years

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Spring And My Own Goddess Of Spring And Winter Flowers

It was the best day in my life. I had rented a nice black car and I was driving east, fast and easy, on secondary roads through the rolling plains and plateaus of Champagne and Lorraine. It was 3 May 2017. The sky was blue with scattered white cumuli that were appearing much bigger, higher and greyer at the horizon. Something huge was forming there. I was on my way to see Fishbach’s concert in the Saint-Donat church in Arlon, Belgium, as part of the Aralunaires festival. I was high, very high, higher than I had ever been before. Of course I was smoking weed from noon to dawn. But it was only peripheral adjustment and support. The engine of the highness was endogenous, in my brain. With the precocious arrival of spring I had kicked out depression and been climbing unquestioningly through hypomania: I was not working, I had sufficiently money left; I was in perfect conditions for experimenting and enjoying unconditional happiness, euphoria, excitation and hedonism — the shiny side of bipolar disorder, the golden trick, the lovely upgoing slope to nowhere but inner paradise — whatever may happen subsequently. It was 3 May 2017. I was on my way to see my music idol producing herself with her band in a church (a church!). I would pass through a terrible storm at the border between France and Belgium, arrive little time before the show, sit at the first row in the church, receive an incredible emotional hit and see a tunnel opening in the light and stroboscope landscape like a pathway to another universe; have a short chat with Fishbach after the concert (she would comment the design of my notebook and leave a nice note in it), drink a pint of beer and a big cup of coffee in a bar of the deserted city centre, circle ecstatically in my car in the urban ring roads feeling weird gravity shifts, finally take the way back home, after midnight; once in France, ∼30 km south to the border, I would meet the customs officers, a joint of weed lying, red and hot, in the ashtray close to my small reserve box, and bore them with an unstoppable and improvised speech — I am a writer, I just come back from a concert of Fishbach, do you know Fishbach? No? You should listen, it’s great, she inspires me a lot, look these are the nice merchandising they gave at the show, OK, OK, this side of the car, really you have never heard about her?… — until they let me go; I would shout my joy at the stars in the sky, get lost through the complicated net of roads before home, arrive after the sun had risen, barely sleep before preparing myself for the next show, at night, at La Cigale in Paris — Fishbach again, of course, why questioning? Two concerts in two days, I was just a groupie. It was 3 May 2017. It was the best day in my life. I was precisely on the edge between reason and insanity, hypomania and mania, at the cerebral orgasmic point before snaky mental maze. Under my umbrella, smoking, my back pressed against the outside walls of the Saint-Donat church, on the top of the hill of Arlon, amazed and overwhelmed, I was listening to Fishbach vocalizing before the concert and there was nothing else to live.

Was I then in love with Flora Fischbach and was my tracking of her a psycho behaviour? My friends were concerned with this issue and would let me know. What I will write further will address the second part of the question. Now, about l.o.v.e.: of course I was in love with her. Everybody was in love with her. Well, let’s say, every person attracted sexually by women in her audience was in love with her. I mean, she was, she is too much: delivering brilliant and daring pop music, singing extraordinarily — love her or hate her, there is no middle point on this subject —, beautiful, sexy, even ambiguous in gender and age, naturally classy, and above all hypnotic, magnetic, psychetic; on scene, supported by great musicians, she was, she is fucking something. I fell at first listening and sight, as many, many others.

But my passion for Fishbach was of course well beyond and apart from lust. The discovery of her debut album À Ta Merci in the first days of February 2017 gave me an electroshock. As I alluded previously, I was exiting a long, deep, and chaotic depressive phase and she was just the perfect extra kick I could expect. It was like being a young teenager living his first musical crush once again. With the slight difference that my Fishbach’s crush was several orders of magnitude more intense than the musical crushes I had experimented when I was actually a young teenager, in the late 80’s. Fishbach’s music was just a glittering synthesis of most that I could have liked so far in music draped in the peculiar big sound of « French touch »: the mainstream pop music of Daniel Balavoine or Mylène Farmer, the synth-pop of Kraftwerk or Depeche Mode, the rock of Electrelane, the electro-rock of Ladytron, the lettered songs of Françoise Hardy or Françoiz Breut, …, with, from place to place, irresistible spans reminiscent of Tame Impala or Vangelis’ Blade Runner themes and atmospheres.

Soon, listening to Fishbach’s music became an almost full-time, delighting occupation; she was a drug and she was better with drug. Obviously and corolarilly, there was a noticeable feedback loop between her and my mood level: the more I listened to her music the more I felt hypomaniac and vice versa. Last but not least, there was the song called « Mortel » and its two strangely diverging versions (one on the 2015 Fishbach EP, one on the À Ta Merci album). I was totally stunned: listening to this song was like feeling an harmless though harrowing arrow passing through all the nodes of my entire existence. I swear I watched hundreds of time the YouTube Vevo Dscvr live version of the song. The emotion provoked was indescribable and undecipherable.

I booked a ticket for her upcoming concert in La Cigale, Paris, 4 May 2017. But it was too far… When I discovered that she was actually about to perform her very big touring date in the same place 14 March, I went crazily impatient; I managed to buy, the day before the event, a black market ticket on the Internet. 14 March 2017 was a spring sunny and cool Tuesday. In the morning, in order to lower my excitation, I went running 20 km. I arrived at La Cigale very early in order to be able to place myself in the first or second row in the audience. I was 15. It was my first concert ever. I smoke only one joint and drank only one beer. After the show I was not the same person anymore. Some ravishing wasp come from outer space had bitten me, injecting in my body and soul a sweet and fatal venom. Her name was Flora and, with my poor erudition, I remembered that Flora was the goddess of something in some ancient mythology; I checked on the Internet: indeed, Flore or Flora was, in roman divinity, the goddess of flowers and spring. It was too much, too poetic: the reflection of my own renewal in music and emerging star. And, from then on, everything started to lovely burst.

As I told to the customs officers in the night of 3 May, in these times, I was effectively and vainly trying to write a « novel ». I intended to describe the dying of the light-like loss — or, actually, the refusal of loss — of past euphoria existing in bipolar disorder treatment and stabilisation. Nevertheless, after seeing Fishbach live for the first time, this literature direction split up into various and poorly coherent drafts as I more and more focused my writing energy in composing letters to Fishbach. And, yeah, in the end, I went totally psycho with that. Everything started around 15 of 16 March (i.e., no more than two days after the show in La Cigale): I felt an uninhibited, overwhelming, irresistible, almost vital need of telling her in writing what I had felted during the concert and since the discovery of her music — and acknowledging her. Surprisingly, I had found an email address at her name in a public page in Internet; it was obviously obsolete but I considered this way better than sending a post mail to her family in Charlevilles-Mézières in the northeastern corner of France. She would probably never read the email I had written but, who cared? Just the fact of sending the stuff was delivering me from a weight — yes, I am the boy who listened too many times to « Tous les cris les SOS » by Daniel Balavoine. Nevertheless, I started to dream about the possibility of meeting her and telling her about the mail. From 15 I was regressing to 14 or even 13. The possibility became probabilitywhen I decided to go with some friends to a concert of Cléa Vincent in La Gaîté Lyrique, Paris: the latter singer was kind of friend with Fishbach and Fishbach was not programmed anywhere on that day. It was 12 April and, at that date, my hypomania had enhanced exponentially and, in that night more precisely, my disinhibition was strengthened by a mix of alcohol, weed, and MDMA. Of course Fishbach was there, a few metres from me, in the background of the concert room; and of course, overcoming any fear of being ridiculous, I went straight to her, told her about the mail, « I would like you to read it », verifying the obsolescence of the abovementioned address, finally telling her my first name and surname at her demand. Believe me or not, living such a teenage dream when you are 40-years old — with the physical, psychological and chemical means allowed by time — is quite of a thing. It is totally, absolutely childish but when you are bipolar in a jumping, junkie hypomaniac phase it is the best shoot of heroin you can beg for — then, just add the right dose of romanticism looking at your heroine walking in beauty like the night just as in one of your preferred Suede songs and you are in paradise. From that moment, I started to write other emails to the same address, which from emotional reports of a bipolar fan in euphoria rapidly turned into more and more complex interpretations of the Fishbach’s song lyrics, and especially of the « Mortel » lyrics. Since I met her a few times after shows, I had clues that she was at least receiving my texts; but, strangely, maybe by fear, maybe because my reality was progressively colonised by hallucinations, I would prefer to leave a thick sheet of doubt on what I was in my inner me quite pretentiously dreaming the most — having her as my reader. During the first part of May, as I was sliding on a slippery slope with readings of quantum metaphysics mixed with foreseen theories about the control of technology and Internet over Humanity, my « letters » to Fishbach drowned into delusions: I was for example persuaded that « Mortel » had travelled in time through my consciousness (and of course from hers) between its first version release date (November 2015) and my discovery of Fishbach (February 2017) with consequences on my existence trajectory. It was still not that worrying: in a way, considering the frequently odd nature of Fishbach’s lyrics, this may have been considered as funny. I could have continued my role of freaky, half-crazy groupie: there was so many touring dates to come. For example, I had won tickets for a concert in the suburbs of Paris where both Fishbach and Cléa Vincent were programmed! It was 15 May. But, that day in the afternoon, I got my first psychotic paranoid crisis: I destroyed almost all my electronic devices at home, especially the Internet box that I smashed with a hammer and drowned in the toilets before washing it with burning water and squeezing it in the outside bin. This crisis left me exhausted and I did not went to the concert. I would never see Fishbach again during the 2017 year. I had opened a new territory in my psychosis: after sending her an heavy chain of intriguing playlists and images, I stopped this vain, one-way correspondence. What for writing when you can communicate through quantum telepathy? It was only the beginning of my relation with the virtual, computed part of Fishbach: I would deliver her from the sick program in her brain and we, as one, would save the world. I had some beautiful days waiting for me in the psychiatric hospital.

At the end, if I analyse my relation with Fishbach’s person, band and music, there is one important remaining idea: it is a question of faith. When, nowadays, absolutely sober and cautious with my possible hypomania trends, I look back at this special date of 3 May 2017, I confess I feel a kind of nostalgia. How could I feel different? That day I truly believed I was blessed by her. She was my own Flore, my own goddess of spring and flowers. I will never forget how, before losing control, during a few weeks of a sunny spring, I felt a strong convergence between my delighted mood rises and my Fishbach-related emotional events. I told previously about a feedback loop. Between hypomania and Fishbach, was there a dominating cause-to-effect way? Who knows? Maybe I just have to let myself go and believe in Fishbach. After all, even outside hypomania and without any drug, I still feel the same emotions and energy listening to her music: I am entranced by it/her. Oddly, yesterday, she was performing on a boat in Paris, a kind of VIP, quickly sold out event. On Twitter, I started joking with someone from her record label: even if it was sold out I could try to come swimming or parachuting. Maybe last year I would have been sufficiently insane to try something like that. However, whereas some miles away from me this boat was carrying her, I was running in a deep and dense forest, crossing stags and snakes, fascinated by the diffusion of vespertine lights through the deep green canopy, imagining the beloved beat of « Mortel » entwined in my heart pulses. Despite the extreme heat, I was sometimes shivering; there was something, someone in there, in the air, through the sky and towards the sinking sun. And I was softly riddled by random shots of life.

#fishbach

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goldentailedmermaids · 6 years

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What are some stereotypes of France and the French people that you think are unfounded?

Well, first of all there is this stereotype I dislike A LOT that France = Paris. Like, my dudes, are you aware that there are so many gorgeous af cities in France? I mean, Lyon, Nantes, Toulouse, Rouen, Strasbourg, Charleville-Mez... (non). Also, my dudes, the best castles you can find are in Dordogne, Corrèze or Aveyron. Trust me, Paris has nothing against the countryside. Sure it has dope architecture and museums but do they have the sea and massive fortresses? I think not.

Then, there is this one: French people are dirty and never shower and they smell and they are hairy. My dudes, no. Oh nonononono. This is so unfounded I can’t even! Look, there is this huge cult of hygiene in France and if you stink or people notice you are wearing the same clothes two days in a row, they’re going to bully you to shower. Trust me, we have a cult for hairless bodies (for women) and perfumed skin.

Also, this: French accent is sexy. Hehehehe no. Only when skillfully dosed.

I can’t really disagree on the food stereotype because, well, it’s true. Our food is dope and snails are delicious as well as frogs and we have dope cheese and pain is life. So yeah, we like eating and we like eating well.

What really bugs me tho, among all the stereotypes is the general idea that french people are highly cultured, glamoured or fancy. Because that is so far from the truth. Just sit next to a french driver in traffic and you’ll see where all of our manners go. We’re average, people. We are basically humans being whining way to much, who goes on strike as a hobby, who eat a lot because food is a literal religion and who want to appear better than the other.

#upthebaguette #la vie de ma mère y'a tellement de clichés #quand j'en vois j'en rigole #Anonymous #ask

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namikala · 6 years

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Started Senjyushi, which was produced by Marvelous! which created Sengoku Night Blood in collaboration with LINE. The game’s FAQ says it’s playable overseas, but it seems like you might need to use a VPN if you’re outside Asia? However, it looks like some players in Mainland China need to use a VPN as well according to what I’ve seen on Weibo. Anyway, I have no problem connecting to the game server from Hong Kong.

There are two ways to log into the game: through your LINE account or as a guest. Note that you are unable to transfer data after you switch phones or uninstall the game if you log in as a guest. The only method of data transfer right now is thru LINE. The good news is that you don’t need a Japanese LINE account to do so!

The story is about how you’re living under the rule of a cruel king and he has banned common people from owning weapons, so the resistance, which you are part of, have turned to using antique muskets that have been kept in museums as art pieces. And somehow these muskets gain a human form??

You get Brown Bess and Charleville as starters. Then I got two four stars from my first 10 roll of the gacha. Sadly, neither Springfield nor Margarita came home…

You have a headquarters with different facilities, such as a dormitory and infirmary, that you unlock as your player level rises. Chibis of your boys live on the headquarters page and you can talk to them when a ’!’ appears beside them.

The battles are all auto like in Touken Ranbu, Bungo to Alchemist and Sengoku Night Blood, meaning you can’t control who your boys attack. Like in Senbura, you can heal your boys in battle. The main difference is that you heal them with your MP, instead of how you can only heal them three times in Senbura.

All the boys have three types of character ‘episodes’: love, medal and daily. Looks like you unlock the love ones by raising their love level which you can do so through battles and by talking to them. There is a skill tree that’s represented by medals, so I’m guessing you unlock the medal stories there. No sure how to unlock daily stories yet.

#senjyushi #thousand noble musketeers #otome game #otome hell #mobile gaming

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senjuushi · 2 months

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Valentine’s Day 2024 Lines — Antiques

Enfield

Friend Chocolate: Thank you very much! The truth is, I’ve been writing a poem to show my thanks... I’ll be ready to unveil it by next year, I believe. Yes, indeed!

Dear Chocolate: “The shining beams of daybreak’s sun // The flowers blooming full // Let’s pick one for our love, you and I, // and from dawn to dusk, give thanks for this fleeting life.”

Snider

Friend Chocolate: ...I don’t want that. I won’t accept anything from you unless it’s special.

Dear Chocolate: You know I don’t eat sweet things, don’t you? Tch... fine, then. You can eat it. And I’ll watch you finish every bite.

George

Friend Chocolate: Wow! This chocolate is so cute!☆ I can tell you put a lot of joy into making it. Thank you~♥

Dear Chocolate: Whoah... this is too good to eat. Oh, I know! Let’s take a picture of the two of us next to the chocolate! It can last forever that way!☆

Kentucky

Friend Chocolate: Oh, this friend chocolate’s super cute! Thanks! Ha, haha... huh, no, I’m not crying! Just tearin’ up a bit from joy!

Dear Chocolate: Th-This, this i-is... Master, from today on, I’ll be goin’ around actin’ like I’m your favorite, y’know. Is that okay?

Pennsylvania

Friend Chocolate: Oh... what a coincidence. I was just thinking I wanted somethin’ sweet to eat. Thank you kindly for the gift.

Dear Chocolate: That looks delicious... thank you. To show my gratitude... hm, a hug wouldn’t be enough. If something sounds good, could’ya tell me...?

Charleville

Friend Chocolate: Wow, what a cute chocolate lollipop! Merci, Master.♥ And here, chocolate-covered dried fruits, from me.♪

Dear Chocolate: Wow, amazing! ...mm! This is the tastiest dessert I’ve ever eaten! Will you make it next year too? And the year after that?

Chassepot

Friend Chocolate: F-Friend chocolate... I see I haven’t done enough to convey my feelings to you... Well, thank you. What a lovely gift...

Dear Chocolate: Master... I was hoping for this. Getting something so special from you...! Ahh, the whole world seems brighter now!

Tabatiere

Friend Chocolate: Haha, what lovely chocolate. I’m usually the one thanking you anyway, but... thank you, really. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.

Dear Chocolate: I get Master-chan’s homemade chocolate all to myself? Haha... you sure this isn’t some kind of mistake? This much happiness might kill me, you know...

Dreyse

Friend Chocolate: Thank you. However... this sort of snack seems rather childish. Wouldn’t I look strange eating it...?

Dear Chocolate: What a wonderful gift...! I hardly know how to express my joy... perhaps a lap around the school with you on my shoulders!

Jitte

Friend Chocolate: Oh, thanks for the lovely gift. Mhmm, a bit of chocolate right now sounds awfully sweet!

Dear Chocolate: Even with so many options... you’re really choosing me? Oh, dear... this is supposed to be romantic, but I’m starting to tear up.

Karl

Friend Chocolate: Oh, chocolate. Thank you. If Margarita were here, this would certainly be a merry day...

Dear Chocolate: Ah— thank goodness. I’d forbidden myself chocolate for the last month in hopes of a gift from you. What a blessing this is... I’ll enjoy it!

Lorenz

Friend Chocolate: My thanks, Test Subject #2. You didn’t forget to prepare some for Karl-sama as well, correct? Make sure his is the best of the bunch.

Dear Chocolate: I had predicted this occurence, and yet... now that it’s happening, why is my heart in such a frenzy!? Do you know the answer, Test Subject #2...!?

Cutlery

Friend Chocolate: You’re giving me friend chocolate? Thanks. Some chocolate from Charlotte came in too. I’m happy to get so much...!

Dear Chocolate: Huh... this is for me!? You’re kidding... I can’t believe it. Getting something like this, I’m amazed... *sob*...!

#Senjuushi #千銃士 #Enfield #Snider #George #Kentucky #Pennsylvania #Charleville #Chassepot #Tabatiere #Dreyse #Jitte #Karl #Lorenz #Cutlery #Translation

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gymequipsale · 4 years

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Many natural bodybuilders feel

" This is definitely not the case. Instead decide first what your primary weight lifting program goals really are.We have all heard that weight lifting is beneficial for our bodies to maintain lean tissue, increase strength, and boost metabolism. Just think, almost all of our daily activities are performed at a partial range of motion. The fact is limited, or partial reps stimulate muscle growth, and can be considered safer. As a natural bodybuilder, and Exercise Physiologist, I know how important it is to not fall into the trap of these all too common weight lifting myths. 5. Weight lifting myths start when one bodybuilder tells another bodybuilder who tells another bodybuilder of this new weight lifting workout technique that really works. Now I'm not suggesting in natural bodybuilding it is bad to train at a full range of motion, but possibly more effective to train at the strongest range of motion. Range of motion is not imperative to muscle development. Greater natural muscle definition is even possible without lifting weights, that is, if your body fat drops low enough. Therefore, it is my responsibility today as an Exercise Physiologist to deliver the weight lifting truth. 2. The fact is shaping muscle results from decreasing subcutaneous body fat. Therefore, it is safe to say, we are not getting a great natural muscle return for the precious weight lifting workout time invested.

Many women believe this is a way to "prevent them from developing big muscles. Let's take sprinting for instance. Many natural bodybuilders feel this is absolutely true. The next time someone tries to promote these myths you will definitely know better. More than likely you are gaining muscle during rest, not losing it. Please don't fall into this trap. You must train at a full range of motion to develop natural muscle. 4.In order for hypertrophy to occur in a natural bodybuilding program there are two requirements: maximum overload, and increased work in a unit time. You can reduce fat in a specific area by working that specific muscle (spot reducing). False. This, of course, leads to wasted time, and less than optimal muscle building results. By reading this article you are a step above other bodybuilders, and will get much great muscle results from your weight lifting routine. Jim O'Connor - Exercise Physiologist / The Fitness PromoterCopyright (c) - Wellness Word, LLC9461 Charleville Blvd. False.Don't be afraid of losing muscle if you miss a week of weight lifting. Plus Mini Treadmill Home Fitness for sale312Beverly Hills, CA 902121-866-935-5967. Thus, more resistance can be applied leading to greater muscle fiber stimulation. Must weight train 3 days each week or your muscles will suddenly get smaller. As far as body fat is concerned, working a specific muscle group does not mean fat will suddenly melt off in that specific area.

The only problem is the theory is backed by pure fallacy rather than sound science. My top 5 weight lifting myths will not only empower your mind, but also stimulate your body to more natural muscle in much less time. Don't get caught falling for this myth. Weight train with wisdom! *** Attention: Ezine Editors / Website Owners ***Feel free to reprint this article in its entirety in your ezine, Blog, Autoresponder, or on your website as long as the links, and resource box are not altered in any way.3. Weight lifting less allows for maximum natural muscle regeneration. Weight training and fat loss, once again, has a systemic, not localized effect in the body. There has not been a study proving that "full range" reps stimulate more muscle fibers. Therefore, overloading the central nervous system is the most important step in natural muscle development. If you simply decrease your calories each day, you can develop greater natural muscle definition. Use heavy weight and less reps to build muscle mass, and low weight with lots of reps to shape the # muscle and increase its definition. Sprinters are not running at a full range of motion, and they still develop muscle tissue. Once a weight lifting workout is conducted while not completely recovered from the previous session, the whole natural muscle building process will be short circuited, and compromised.

The challenge arises when we base our weight lifting routines on certain myths. Your natural muscle building results depend upon it. Once again, there has been no study conducted to date which confirms you must perform a full range of motion in order to stimulate maximum muscle growth. Are you interested in building muscle mass, or increasing muscle endurance? Next you decide the number of reps, and intensity of training. You must do 3 sets per exercise, and multiple weight lifting exercises in order to see progress. Studies have proven all you need is one high intensity, muscle stimulating set in order to stimulate maximum muscle growth. False. How many times have you heard this fallacy? I have heard it thousands of times. Without rest the body can't overcompensate from the added stress by generating larger muscles. Therefore, bodybuilders who train religiously 3 days per week at a high intensity level are doing more harm than good. 1. Please avoid these 5 weight lifting program myths that I reveal below. The fact is the opposite is best. It is upsetting to realize the weight lifting workout world is riddled with myths. It is a fact that the central nervous system triggers the muscle growth process. If definition is your main goal then build muscle while decreasing calories in order to strip away the unwanted subcutaneous layer of adipose tissue. Consider incorporating partials in your weight training workout. There is no scientific basis, nor reasoning for performing 3 sets per exercise. Please note that muscle growth and body fat loss is systemic in nature

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a-writing-bear · 6 years

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[FrUk] Secret Santa 2017: Familiar Company

This is a Gift for @lastloveliestsmile for the @fruk-net Secret Santa event!!! ʕ♡˙ᴥ˙♡ʔ

Note: Happy Holidays! I’m extremely sorry that I kinda went a bit far from your prompt but writing angst is a bit tricky for me, so enjoy a bit more fluff!! <3 Hopefully the French phrases I used aren’t too incorrectly phrased!

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012116

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Word Count: 1,558

Age Rating/Mature: All Audiences :)

Prompt: “ You are giving the gift of fanfiction to @lastloveliestsmile. Their prompts are: "domestic cuddling, pets, the museum and ANGSTY discussion of their shared history" “

History was what kept them together for so long. Or at least that’s what the brit had concluded as he leant across the doorway, watching Francis hum slightly as he prepared breakfast over a kitchen counter, mindlessly cutting up some strawberries. It was the familiarity of their relations which brought comfort – albeit France’s presence in his Arthur’s existence was an often cause of conflict in the past, it was a true honest-to-god fact that they had always seemed to be around each other no matter how fickle they had been. No Matter what.

“Bonjour Arthur! Shame that my l’amour de ma vie had no decency to wake up and help with breakfast.” The green-eyed man snorted, still clad in a ruffled shirt from the night before paired with messy hair sticky out at odd places. Arthur appreciated Francis’ teasing humour more than he likes to admit, even with words drenched and spoken with the Parisian tinged accent. A part of him cringed at the term of endearment his ‘partner’ had teasingly used but yet, even with his bad understanding of the language, Arthur found it oddly tender.

The slight bright tinge of fluster that had appeared on the brit’s face was mismatched with the gruff reply he had almost whispered as he came to stand behind his company to drape over and wrap his arms around his company in welcoming affection, taking an overwhelming faux interest in the simple task of fruit preparation.

“I doubt you would agree to have me anywhere near the stove.” The small chuckle from Francis was infectious and the comfortable grin they shared seemed to brighten the cold winter morning they had found themselves enjoying. It was the typical type of morning they shared every so often; one of the morning that resulted from sheepish agreements to stay the night before. The couple overall was a strange quirk of history itself– always somehow pegged together. They had known each other for so long- painstakingly long Arthur had claimed once – that they were accustomed to each other’s habits or everyday normalities resulting in easy moments; like how Francis had already left a mug of English breakfast tea, still warm, on the table and how Arthur had complied with the Frenchman’s insistence on storing coffee in the cupboards. As they both sat down (They parted from the silent cuddle sadly), balcony door open, with Arthur sipping his brew to seemingly sobering up from his tiredness (somehow also engrossed in the newspaper) Francis had found himself looking out over the balcony of the brit’s countryside estate. It was one of the quieter homes England owned, and while the views were pleasant enough (though not as pleasant as rural France of course) the cold winter air that had blanketed his cheeks accompanied with the lack of noise of the humdrum of city-life made him sigh in slight unprovoked boredom.

“It’s not that cold, love. Drink more coffee and maybe you won’t find things to be so dull.”

“You are sad about your roses, non?” Arthur’s eyes flicked up and his brows furrowed in a little confusion over the strange statement. It was the middle of winter and while –yes he WAS upset he could not see those pretty flowers bloom or bud, there was nothing he could do to stop mother nature from bringing in the Christmas season…he had resigned any token of peeved annoyance to this natural inconvenience.

“It’s just hauntingly sad to see your work disappear. Its course has been taken and it is gone, it will be back but…just not now.” Suddenly the Englishman had understood that the melancholic words that Francis spoke of were talking about something much more than just his garden outside.

“I…guess rightly so.” They turned to each other and picked at their breakfast. Idle chatter about their countries current affairs seemed insignificant, especially after Francis’ earlier poignant statement. It wasn’t usual that his boyfriend partner would openly speak of genuine sentiment, and it had put him off to watch France’s obvious deep reminiscing.

“Do you want to talk about it Francis?”

That’s how Arthur had found himself with his French lover in the archive and storage room of the British Museum. More specifically the storage room which was curated mostly from Arthur himself – trinkets and souvenirs he had kept over the centuries and had asked King George II back in 1753 if he could keep, in a private secret storeroom of antiquities for himself somewhere in the museum (The Museum original origins was Sir Hans Sloane’s own collection that he had ‘bequeathed to King George II FOR the nation’ technically meaning the museum was dedicated to England himself but he asked for permission out of politeness of course.).

His national museum was not only a tourist trap, but a legacy of Arthur himself, and while he loved to watch his citizens mull over history he knew he needed to bring Francis to his private collection, something only another nation would understand the importance of. Down in this quiet unknown-to-the-public display room, it seemed to be a different place altogether: an isolated showcase, a room where time seemed unsure of what itself was. There were renaissance paintings awkwardly hung beside majestic tapestries from 1066 to old medallions and shillings piled neatly on a pedestal mingling with the first pound coin from 1983.

The long-haired man had paused. Unsure of what to say as he held onto Arthur’s hand at their side. Before he could open his mouth to mention any word of value Arthur quickly hushed him and without a word lead Francis to another section of the room where a placard marked very simply put:

[ French Collection ]

The two had gone very far back – Lord, God knows they don’t even want to speak of their messy origins…especially the kerfuffle occurred between Normandy and the early Anglo-Saxons.

“I know we can both recall a lot of fights. A-and I don’t know about you but bloody hell you’ve put me through a lot. I suppose the Hundred Years’ War was really one of our worst…it was also a really big one in the beginning.” It was so very long ago, even before he became known as ‘Great Britain’ with his brother Scotland (It really puts into perspective of how short he has actually represented Northern Ireland as well as Scotland and England).

They both remembered clearly of the very cold nights of slammed doors and angry shouting over sovereignty of their early days, Kingdoms which had messy foundations. The royalty that had come and gone throughout the years, the constant babbling about who owned the throne was a past headache. They were both so young back then, But Arthur was more impressionable due to France’s tutelage – regardless that the ‘age’ gap wasn’t so far. So young for an adult’s world.

“Remember I had that stupid idea for my hair after you made fun of me. Then you helped cut it back to my usual style?” He murmured in a shy attempt to breed conversation. Arthur still cherished that memory even though his insecurity over his hair at that time was due to the Frenchman.

“We were so petty at times.”

“‘Were’?” Arthur quipped back humorously, stifling his laughter,

“ahah Allez savoir pourquoi Arthur!” They both smiled longingly towards the various artefacts until a specific one caught the Frenchman’s gaze: A polished Charleville Model 1754 French Musket without a bayonet, too clean looking to have seen a war in its time but upon closer inspection, the scratches on the barrel and the old metal signified its authenticity. Had England taken the time to restore this old thing? When had he even picked this up- surely not during their figh-

“During the Seven years’ war. I know. I picked it up from Matthew, he was adamant about giving it away but he had one of his own anyway. I have a Model 1777 from the time we…”

“Fought over family.” Arthur sported a sad smile at that, he had always believed all of his colonies were family but it was also difficult to forget Canada also belonged to France and with American independence he had watched Francis’ people throw so much away for revolution. Things had always been tough. Things were so intertwined in modern life, you could no longer turn your back on those around you. Besides, doing that to Francis would hurt both of them. Shyly, the shorter man moved closer and placed a hand on France’s shoulder. His eyes search for something he himself was not aware he was looking for, some sort of sign that Francis knew that they click. Within bad times, the good times and surely the bloody times – they just needed to work. More than ever before.

The man clad in green was not sure when he had closed his own seeking eyes, or when he had felt those soft lips upon his. Lulled into a pleasant exchange the two parted to breathe after a few glorious seconds. The fear and regret that France had harboured that morning seemed to be washed away in that very moment, the past had been written down already- the future shortly bringing new troubles that they could push through together. Without hesitation, the two happily sighed and embraced for a few more minutes…besides, what was life without a bit of trouble?

#hetalia #fruk #aph fruk #aph england #aph france #hetalia axis powers #Hetalia Fanfiction #fanfic #OneShots #prompts #FrUk-net Secret Santa 2017 #lastloveliestsmile

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shannrussell-blog1 · 5 years

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Part 1 of this article focussed on the things to see along the track.

This time I’ll cover at the practicalities of travel in this area and provides information to ensure a safe and enjoyable trip.

Accommodation

Marree – a good variety of accommodation is available. A caravan park has camping and caravan sites as well as cabins. The hotel has quite modern cabins available.

Clayton Wetlands – established by nearby Clayton Station, the wetlands are a result of a free flowing bore and provide a top camping spot. This is a spacious area so you won’t be crowded. They have even created a hot artesian spa in a water tank. Toilets are available.

Mungerannie – home of the famous Mungerannie Hotel, there is a spacious camp ground along an extensive wetland, once again formed from a free-flowing bore. If the bones are aching, another warm artesian “hot tub” is available. There are also basic cabins for hire. Bird watchers will have a field day.

Birdsville – a good range of accommodation is available. An excellent caravan park has camping and powered sites as well as cabins. The famous Birdsville Hotel has a motel attached with all modern facilities.

Preparation

Despite the fact that this is a well-travelled track, especially in the cooler months, it is isolated with minimal services. Like all outback travel, top class preparation and self-sufficiency are the keys to an enjoyable experience providing positive memories for years to come. Here are some major factors to consider:

Food – carry all food required to at least get you to Birdsville, with a couple of days extra supplies in case of breakdown. Birdsville has basic supplies with only a small store attached to the roadhouse.

Water – don’t rely on any access to water along the way, especially drinking water. Carry all you need, again ensuring extra in case of breakdown. Supplies can be replenished in Birdsville.

Shelter – if you want cabins or hotel/motel accommodation, book ahead. Facilities are limited and can be booked out in the busy time of the year. There are plentiful camping opportunities along the way. If camping, an insect proof shelter can save many frayed tempers, flies can be a real problem.

Fires – campfires are allowed most of the year, but firewood is rare. Carry your own.

Fuel – Luckily there are not long distances between fuel stops so large amounts of extra fuel are not required. Once on the dirt, keep a close eye on the fuel gauge so that any puncture of a fuel tank is picked up quickly. Have some hole repair material handy that suits the material of your fuel tank and can be used with fuel leaking.

Tyres – gibbers are tough on tyres. If your tyres are getting towards the end of their life, replace them before leaving. Carry at least two spares, a tyre repair kit and compressor, and know how to use them. Reduce tyre pressures around 20% from normal bitumen pressures when on the dirt. Check out the Cooper Tires website for their excellent guide to tyre pressures.

Communication – there is no mobile phone coverage along the track, so carry a good UHF radio as a minimum. Telstra do have a mobile phone signal in Birdsville.

Vehicle – have your vehicle thoroughly checked before leaving and ensure your mechanic knows where you are heading so that everything is looked at. Be very aware of carrying as little gear as possible to avoid over-loading your vehicle. Try to pack light gear on a roof rack to keep the centre of gravity low. Ensure you do not exceed your vehicles legal Gross Vehicle Mass as insurance can be voided if an accident occurs as a result of over-loading.

Personal – fly nets are a must – don’t leave home without them! Good insect repellent is another must, especially if camping near water where mozzies can be a real problem. Have light weight clothes that cover arms and legs and always wear a hat in the sun – you can burn very quickly, even in the winter.

Caravans and Camper Trailers – A good sturdy camper trailer will have no problems with this trek and yours will definitely not be the only one out there. Modern off-road caravans are becoming more common with the main track normally in pretty good condition.

Some Tips and Bush Etiquette

Approaching vehicles – to avoid windscreen damage, slow down when another vehicle is approaching – you don’t want a smashed windscreen out here.

Keep headlights on – enormous clouds of dust will follow a vehicle in many areas. Make yourself as visible as possible with headlights on to avoid a head on crash.

Road trains – triple road trains are not uncommon on the track, producing incredible dust clouds and sometimes trailers can weave about quite a bit. Slow right down and pull over as close as possible to the left. Don’t speed up and move back onto the road until you can see if there is any more on-coming traffic. If travelling in convoy, ensure the leader warns the group and makes clear their intentions to pull over.

Station tracks – do not travel down station tracks, even to find a camping spot. This is like driving into someone’s driveway in the city.

Camping spots – some of the best spots are alongside creeks where there are often some beautiful shady trees. Tracks can often be found leading to some flat, cleared areas. Never camp in a creek bed as heavy rains many kilometres away can result in a sudden rush of water down what is normally a dry creek bed. Beware of camping under over-hanging limbs of large gum trees. These are prone to break without notice and people have been killed by the falling limb. Never camp near stock watering points as this scares stock away, leaving them without water.

Cook after dark – the flies will go to bed after dark, making life a lot easier. Have some good lights that can provide enough light over the camp site without having to be right next to you. You will attract insects to the light rather than you. A good headlight is great when cooking and you need some intense light over your mouth-watering delight.

Driving through water – After significant rain you will come across large pools of water spreading across the road. The temptation is to drive over to the edge as it appears the water is shallower. Don’t. The pool exists because the road surface under the water is hard, but the edges are generally soft and often consist of deep mud. Use a low gear and drive steadily right through the middle of the pool.

Animal hazards – much of this track is un-fenced so keep a constant eye out for wandering stock. Kangaroos and emus can also be a hazard so keep the speed down and avoid having to make sudden direction changes on the dirt road. Quite often large wedge-tail eagles can be seen feasting on a dead carcass on the road. Slow right down and sound your horn. These birds, especially with a belly full of fresh meat, are slow to fly off and potentially can fly right into your vehicle causing significant damage and trauma to your passengers. One way to occupy your passengers is to rotate sitting in the front passenger seat and this person has the important role of the official animal spotter.

Times to avoid (maybe) – the Birdsville races are held usually in early September. If you love outback races, huge crowds and camping in close quarters, this won’t worry you. However, if this is not your scene, avoid this time. Birdsville is often the in place to go for the many charity “bashes” that criss-cross the country. Again, these can swell numbers in town and put pressure on facilities. To avoid these, do your research or, better still, contact the Visitor Information Centre.

Where To From Here

Despite its isolation, there are a number of alternatives to either head home or continue on to other places.

North

Take the Eyre Developmental Road to Bedourie and Boulia, then head west on the Donahue Highway (don’t be fooled by the name – I would not recommend this for conventional vehicles) to Alice Springs or further north on the Diamantina Developmental Road to Mt. Isa.

South

Head back down the Birdsville Track but take the alternative track (Inside or Outside), assuming the Inside Track (4WD recommended) is open.

Take the Walkers Crossing Track (if open) to Innamincka and continue south on the Strezlecki Track (the subject of a future blog). This track is only suitable for 4WD vehicles.

Go east along the Birdsville Developmental Road for 222km and then turn south on to the Cordillo Downs Road and on to Innamincka. This track can be very rough.

East

The Birdsville Developmental Road joins the Diamantina Developmental Road and heading east will lead to Windorah, Quilpie and Charleville.

West

The only option here is a Simpson Desert Crossing, not to be undertaken lightly. See “Crossing the Simpson Desert – Parts 1-3” for comprehensive information. Definitely high clearance 4WD only.

Distances and Services

Fuel: U = unleaded D = diesel L = LPG

Accommodation: CP = caravan park H = hotel/motel C = cabin

Distance from Pt Augusta Fuel Accommodation Public Toilets Quorn 41 U,D,L CP,H,C Y Hawker 107 U,D,L CP,H,C Y Leigh Creek 260 U,D,L CP,H,C Y Copley 264 U,D CP,H,C Y Lyndhurst 297 U,D,L CP,H,C Y Marree 377 U,D CP,H,C Y Mungerannie 583 U,D C,Camping Y Birdsville 898 U,D CP,H,C Y

N.B. there is no LPG fuel available beyond Lyndhurst.

Download the Birdsville Track Distances and Services PDF

Maps

Hema Maps Great Desert Treks–South East

Royal Automobile Association of S.A. – Flinders Ranges and Outback

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