#babble burble banter

[eddie-rifff]

i should get paid to think about old musicians its really what im best at

[transgender-lyrics]

Talk, it's only talk Babble, burble, banter, bicker, bicker, bicker Brouhaha, balderdash, ballyhoo It's only talk

-King Crimson, "Elephant Talk" off Discipline

[theewokingdead]

Yaim (Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Writer Wednesday 2022 #4

Gif: djarsdin

Takes place within the Another Way universe but can be read on its own.

{Another Way Series Masterlist}

Yaim - [yaym] ­– Home Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader Words: 1.6k Summary: While enjoying a stroll in Theed with Din, you wonder if your future home will be as beautiful. Warnings: 18+. Language. Lots of fluff. Banter spoken with love. Established relationship. Takes place within the Another Way universe, and refers to some past activities, but really no spoilers. A/N: I did a thing! I managed to write a Writer Wednesday submission! Written for the @writer-wednesday prompt from March 23, 2022. Thank you @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape. Most normal people see Budapest, but the second I saw the picture, I thought, “Naboo is calling.” And here we are.

Even after a week on Naboo, you still find yourself falling more in love with the planet and its flora and fauna with each passing moment, making it harder to come to terms with the fact that it’s your final day here. Never had you imagined that a place so filled with majesty and passion could exist anywhere other than in fairy tales. Never had you thought – though you had dreamed ­­– that you would actually experience something other than Tatooine, let alone this.

It’s easy to notice the differences between here and your homeworld. The citizens that pass you as you stroll through the garden with Din walk like they don’t have a care in the galaxy, as if the only purpose of their existence is simply to observe the beauty of the paradise they’re fortunate enough to call home. The single sun glows gold, its rays making your skin warm and your heart smile. A mystic breeze caresses your skin, carrying the subtly sweet smell of the pink flowers surrounding you, wrapping you like a shawl, soothing you rather than agitating you like the harshness of the dry, gritty winds you’re accustomed to.

You slow your pace and reach out to touch the silky petals of the flowers around you, regarding how much they’d bloomed since you arrived in the city. They’re cooler than you expected, smoother too. The blossoms have opened like a book that’s been sculpted instead of written, the pink ink infusing into the petals to give them a soft glow. They tell a tale of eras gone by, of the tender care of the soil, of the rain and sun, of insects.

A few petals slowly and carefully float towards the ground, dancing as the wind catches them in their fall from grace, and you realize that their life is wonderful but fleeting. It seems the story they tell is a beautiful yet tragic one, existing only long enough to grace the world with their beauty before meeting the unchangeable fate of all things in life.

But the story is hopeful too: the fallen petals become soil once more, eventually allowing new petals to grow in their place, rewarding the old trees with a new start for others to enjoy, until the end of time.

“What are you thinking, cyare?” Din’s voice snaps you back from wherever your mind drifted off to.

“I can’t get over how pretty it is here,” you say, turning to look at Din. His armor gleams in the sunlight, rivaling the smile of adoration in his eyes as he looks at you.

“Is it?” he questions, not daring to break his soft gaze from yours. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Giggles fill your throat, and you glance down for a moment before looking up at him again. “Maybe if you actually looked, you would see how beautiful it is.”

“But I like looking at you,” he insists. “I could look at you forever.”

“Creep,” you tease, lovingly rolling your eyes while stepping toward the waist-high stone wall that overlooks the river, the turquoise-blue stream babbling and burbling below as it springs over the rocks in its way.

Din steps to join you at the wall, setting his helmet down on it before leaning with his back against it, his arms folded across his chest. “What else is there to look at? You’re the most beautiful being in the universe.”

“Oh, a cheesy creep,” you reassess, chuckling softly before a comfortable silence falls between you. Your smile doesn’t fade as you stare out in front of you, admiring the Royal Palace of Theed in the distance, its tan sandstone blocks and green-tiled cupolas, which seem to be painted against the backdrop of a clear blue sky.

How is this real?

While you wish this was not your last day on Naboo, your thoughts drift to what lies ahead. Din can’t hide from his responsibilities of Mand’alor any longer, and the two of you will soon be on your way to meet with Bo-Katan to discuss the future of his people and their home…your home.

“Do you think Mandalore will be this beautiful?” you finally question. Although you wouldn't be devastated to hear no, you’re still holding out hope that there is something else worth working toward besides glass and ash.

“Nope,” Din immediately responds, causing you to furrow your brow in confusion at his quick response, not thinking he’d be so pessimistic. “We are not talking business.”

Realizing he doesn't want to spoil the trip with stress, or maybe isn’t quite ready to think about what he’s about to do, you chuckle. “I’m not talking business. I'm more like…daydreaming of what will hopefully be a good future. I don’t know, maybe I’m just trying to stay optimistic.” You shrug. Turning your head, you see he still doesn’t seem very interested in discussing it. “C’mon, Din. Humor me. Just this once.”

He tilts his head at you, as if confused. “What do you mean ‘this once?’ I alwayshumor you.”

Smirking, you nudge his arm with your elbow, then lightheartedly jest, “As you should, Mando…especially if you want to keep your life. Or at the very least your cock.”

A low chuckle escapes Din’s lips. “Is that supposed to be a threat, cyar’ika?”

“Take it as you will.” Your pursed lips keep a smile at bay.

“You’d be punishing yourself more than me,” he says, once more insinuating that you can’t resist him and his cock, as he’d done days before.

Shaking your head, you laugh. “We’ve already had this conversation, and I proved that I can live without it.”

He shifts his body to look at you, one arm resting on the wall and the other bent, gripping his hip. “That, cyare, is where you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, is that so?” you say, turning to him, raising your eyebrows in curiosity.

He nods. “You may have been able to resist me for a few hours, but do you think you could go an entire lifetime?”

“Mhm.” You turn away, pretending to admire the scenery ahead of you.

“Felucia, cyare. Felucia,” he reminds you simply.

Trying to conceal a smile that wants to form, you curl your lips inward and gently bite down. But the flush of your cheeks gives it away, unable to forget the day, how you woke with a desperate ache between your legs, one that no one and nothing but Din could relieve. Yet he was away on a hunt somewhere within the jungles of the planet, leaving you with a burning blaze in your lower belly, one that’s reawakened just at the thought of it right now.

“You made it only three”-he holds ups three fingers for emphasis- “three days before you picked up your comlink, telling me how desperately-”

“Desperately?” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, acting as though he’s exaggerating.

“-deserperately you needed me.”

“Yet I did perfectly fine without you, didn’t I?” you question, thinking of the things you did to yourself while Din could do nothing but listen.

“You begging me to come fuck you suggests otherwise,” he retorts, seeming certain you can’t argue against the things you said.

“It was all just to tease you,” you contend, though you say it without even looking at him, knowing it’s a blatant lie.

He immediately sees through your bullshit. “To tease me? Is that so?”

You opt to double down on your lie, not backing down now. “Yep.”

“Hm.”

You feel his eyes on you, knowing he’s carefully considering his next move, but you try to pretend that you don’t notice or care. You know he knows it’s a lie, and you’re wondering how he’ll respond. It’s impossible to contain your composure, to contain the laughter growing inside you, but you somehow manage to stifle it, wondering how far this ruse will go.

“I think you need some reminding, cyare,” Din finally states. “I have just the word that will do the trick.”

“Go on then,” you urge, wondering how he thinks he can win this “argument” with one simple word. What he does next you don’t expect.

As he leans closer to you, you feel his breath against your skin, hot and electrifying, breathing life into your skin, giving you goosebumps.

“Gedet’ye,” he whispers, his voice low, husky. Please. The word he made you use before finally allowing you to come after edging you for Maker knows how long during your escapades on Felucia.

Fuck.

Inhaling sharply, a shiver runs down your spine. You bite your lower lip, the flickering flame in your belly suddenly erupting into a roaring flame. If you were laid bare in front of him, he would know you’re glistening, all for him.

He slowly retreats, watching your body react to his word, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “I think I win.”

It takes you a moment to accept defeat…or rather to gather your brain from the puddle of mush he turned it into. Clearing your throat, you concede with a simple, “Fine,” though you voice is filled with confidence, knowing he’s not completely off the hook. Turning to him, you continue, “I’ll let you win. But only if you answer my question.”

The smile slowly fades, confusion taking its place, as Din worry about what you’ll ask. “What is it?”

His worry is met with a simple chuckle from you. “What do you think our potential future home will be like?”

Din seems relieved that the question is a seemingly simple one. He looks down briefly as he takes your hand in his, then stares into your eyes lovingly, shining brighter than the sun.

“Beautiful,” he softly decrees, seeming so certain of his answer.

Your mouth curves into a bright smile. “Yeah?”

He nods, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, his gloves having been long tucked into his utility belt so he could feel you whenever he wanted. “You are my home, remember? Wherever we are, wherever we go, as long as you’re there, it’ll be perfect.”

[f0xwrite]

@stricklakeetal

The first of the snippets from WIPs (as promised!) I haven't been able to write since my mom passed, so I'm not sure if or when I'll ever get any of these done, but I thought I'd share some unfinished ideas!

This one is still in a dialogue-heavy format. I’ve tried to fill in context in parenthesis. For context, in this story, most of the babies that were taken from the cradlestone are being cared for by goblins at the old Janus headquarters, all overseen by Walter, but some are housed at the Lake residence.

***

(Douxie is walking out of a record store, humming a soft tune, when his phone rings. He answers. )

“Mr. Casperian.” Strickler's gruff voice floated out from the receiver. “I hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from Jim.”

“Uh, yeah, no it’s fine.” The wizard scratched the back of his head, raising a brow. “Who is this?”

“I’m Jim’s--an ally of the Trollhunter’s. Waltolomew Stricklander. ”

“Ah, yes, Merlin mentioned you a few times.”

“Good, then you’ll recall that I am in possession of all of the familiars—err, human children—who were formerly housed within the Darklands.”

“Oh that’s right! You’re the one with Dr. Lake. How’s that going for you?”

“Er—well, that’s the thing. It’s—we’ve run into a bit of a conundrum.”

“Conundrum?”

“It would be best if you saw it in person. Do you know where Jim lives?”

“Yeah I do, actually." He scratched the back of his neck as he spoke. “What’s going on again?”

“Waaalt, it’s not just those two.”Douxie heard another voice through the receiver.

“I have to go,” Walter’s voice was grave, “Erm, the faster you can get here, the better. We need a wizard.”

“Right then, you got it.”

(Later, at the Lake residence Douxie opens the door and his jaw drops. There are babies flying everywhere, and magic spells being cast to and fro, bouncing off of every wall. In the middle of it all, a haggard Walter and Barbara are trying to reign in the chaos. Douxie inquires about the Trollhunters, who could be there in a moments notice with Claire’s shadow magic.)

“Claire, Jim, and Toby are on vacation with the Nunez’s in the mountains.” Barbara explained.

“Young Atlas needs a break. They all do,” the changeling admonished. “I know Claire could be in and out quickly, but it would be best if we didn’t interrupt them. ”

“What on earth is going on with these babies?!” Barbara yelped as she barely dodged a ball of light being thrown her way. A crash sounded from the kitchen, and with a resigned huff, she strode off to discover its source.

“They’ve been exposed to Morgana’s magic for too long,” Douxie explained. “Creatures like that, like changelings,” he gestured towards Walter, “are naturally more inclined towards magic.”

“How do we keep them under control?” Walter’s voice was desperate. “This house, and the entire Janus base will be destroyed!”

“I don’t know!” Douxie exclaimed, “I’m not used to dealing with magic users this young. I’ve never even seen it. They have no idea what they are doing.”

“You were Merlin’s protege,” Walter growled as he tried to grab two babies that had landed on his horns. “Figure it out!”

“Waaaahh!” NotEnrique screamed from another room.

“Fire! Fire! Baby on fire!” Barbara came running down the hallway towards Walter, who grabbed the child before the flames could spread up the little one’s arms to burn her.

The baby itself giggled as the flames danced around Walter’s clawed and heat-resistant fingertips, seemingly unharmed. He sighed as the charred diaper fell away.

“This is madness!” Douxie held out his arm, and in a flash of blue, put out the flame. Grimacing, he pulled his phone from his pocket, running through his list of contacts. “We need back-up!”

Diaper-less, a stream of yellow came bounding out from between the baby’s legs, promptly splashing Walter’s face.

“Ugh,” he blinked and sputtered as he tried to clear the urine away, “and here I thought Battle of Marengo was hard.”

“Buh, buh, buh--” the baby tried to imitate him as he held it at arms length.

“Hello, Zoe, lovelet, I have an address I just texted to you, can you, uh--” Douxie held the phone to his face , trying to grab a different baby's leg as it floated by, "--do you mind popping by? There's a bit of a situation."

“What situation?” came her voice from the other end

The child escaped the Wizard’s grasp, babbling gleefully while wearing a tricorne.

“Waltolomew Jr, get over here this instant!” Barbara went chasing after the baby with outstretched arms.

“It’s a bit hard to explain…” Douxie’s voice trailed off as three other babies crawled after the doctor, sparks flying out from behind their knees like toy race cars.

“It’s mutiny, I tell ya!” NotEnrique came scurrying into the room, body covered in roots and flowers. “they’ve been savin’ it all for the big day! Oi, Jazz Hands, you mind givin’ me some help here?”

“I’m a little busy at the moment.” Douxie said as he fiddled with the gauntlet. “C’mon, c’mon...” he grumbled to the mechanism. “Ah! There.”

Geometric shapes of light appeared along the floor, bursting out and upward in a cacophony of blue. The babies who were airborne dropped to the ground, and Douxie watched as Walter lunched to catch two or three with his wings.

A thud upstairs indicated that another baby had dropped, followed by a piercing wail.

“Hold this,” Barbara said, seeming to appear out of nowhere, and Douxie found himself with a sudden armful of Walt Jr. as the doctor bounded up the staircase, NotEnrique went scurrying up behind her, shedding petals and brambles in his wake.

“Ah, hello mate,” Douxie quirked a brow as he looked down to the child in his arms, “so you’re the chip off the old rock here.”

(Douxie tries to cast a few spells with some success. For a few moments, the chaos stops and all of the floating babies come back to the floor. Strickler filters back into the room.)

He heard Walter snort, and then yelp as the first baby lit itself on fire again. The children nestled in his wing began to cry at the sudden flash of light.

“I thought you put a stop to this.” Walter growled as he held the baby away again.

“There are limits to my powers,” Douxie asserted, “I’ve got the airborne babies under control, but the other one’s will take longer. “

The changeling grabbed a crystal from a pouch along his loincloth and held it to the baby’s chest, cradling the child in his arms while the others remained in his wing. He muttered something that sounded low and quick, like snapping coals, and extinguished the baby once more. Not seconds later, a different baby with bows in it’s hair shot a beam of frost towards Walter’s head, covering his hair and horns in snow. Uttering, he tried to shake it away.

“They all have different abilities,” Douxie remarked in wonder as he stepped closer to the changeling. “We have fire, frost, earth--” the lights flickered above them, “--electricity,” he added, “and who knows what else? Heaven help us if one of them is in tune with Shadowmancy.”

“Shadow magic I can deal with, to a degree,” Walter’s golden eyes fell on the boy, “I am a creature of shadow, after all. It’s the others I can’t handle.”

Douxie laughed, something wry and time-worn passing across his gaze. “You’re not made of shadow magic, pal.”

“Come again?” his wings tensed.

“You may have been exposed to it in the Darklands, but the creation of life...that requires light.”

Walter stared at him for a long moment, gaze flickering in the dim.

“Shadow magic is what Gunmar was using to create his mindless drones, you’re not that.” Douxie went on. “I may not be as all-knowing as Merlin, but I know that much.”

“Forgive me for having a hard time believing you.” A baby was pulling in his tusks. Gently, he patted it back down. “But I have known nothing else.”

“You’ll see one day,” Douxie offered pale and knowing smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

It was then that Barbara came back onto the scene, hair completely unraveled and soaked, toweling her face.

“Oh dear,” Walter quirked a brow.

“She’s in the bathtub, living it up.” Barbara sneered. “Imagine a baby with a super-soaker.” Water still dripped from her arms. “NotEnrique’s entertaining her for now. I had to change twice.”

The sound of a motorcycle entering the driveway caught their collective attention, and Barbara gave Walter a curious look.

“That’ll be Zoe,” Douxie explained as he headed for the door. The moment he opened it, the power went out, and with the sun setting, the house became shrouded with darkness.

“Fuzzbuckets,” the wizard moaned through the burbles and gurgles and wails.

(Zoe walks up, fascinated to know what the heck could be going on. There’s some light banter, then Douxie introduces them to Walter and Barbara, who are surrounded by babies.)

“Remember the Trollhunter?” Douxie gestured to the couple. “Well, these are his parents.”

Walter tensed, “Er, well, I’m not actually Jim’s--” his words trailed off when Barbara put an arm on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey.”

Looking between the two of them, Zoe cocked a brow. “Well, there’s a story." It was well known that changelings couldn’t reproduced and equally known that they didn’t pursue relationships with...well, anyone.

“One we don’t have time to unpack, I’m afraid.” Walter said, curling a wing into a makeshift hammock before adding three or four babies to it.

.......

(And that’s all I had! Obviously there would have been a resolution, and I remember planning to have Steve show up at some point, but I hope you enjoyed the concept! Forgive any typos. Will post more int he next couple of days)

[turuin]

Talk, it's only talk

Arguments, agreements

Advice, answers

Articulate announcements

It's only talk

Talk, it's only talk

Babble, burble, banter

Bicker, bicker, bicker

Brouhaha, balderdash, ballyhoo

It's only talk

Back talk

Talk talk talk

It's only talk

Comments, cliches, commentary, controversy

Chatter, chit-chat, chit-chat, chit-chat

Conversation, contradiction, criticism

It's only talk

Cheap talk

Talk, talk, it's only talk

Debates, discussions

These are words with a D this time

Dialog, duologue, diatribe

Dissention, declamation

Double talk, double talk

Talk, talk, it's all talk

Too much talk

Small talk

Talk that trash

Expressions, editorials

Explanations, exclamations, exaggerations

It's all talk

Elephant talk

Elephant talk

Elephant talk

[eldrylva]

“Someone bring me my grandson!” Eldr barked with all of the strength in his lungs he had left for the moment. The old wolf was sitting in his throne, two fur cloaks bundled at his hips and shoulders, Hroar curled dutifully at his wife’s throne. Stout black ears flickered at the shout, a rumble leaving the brother of Skadi as if he were disturbed from a nap. The pair shared in a look, Eldr chuckling wetly with a shake of his head.

“You sleep almost as much as I do now, you old bastard.” Eldr grunted, to which Hroar lifted his head at. The banter ended when the longhall’s doors were opened, the snowy haired babe being ushered inside by Tyrsten, who had the boy dangling by his ankle and giggling like a madman. Gale squealed in delight when he was swung upright, his uncle growling playfully in his face before Eldr’s outstretched arms claimed the bouncing boy.

A loud, wet kiss was planted on the laughing boy’s cheek, thick arms winding around him with a content sigh. A calloused thumb rubbed gently against a round cheek as Gale’s arms splayed against his grandfather’s chest in his attempts at a hug. Eldr chuckled, another kiss planted to the top of his head.

“You are going to be a fine man, my boy. A fine warrior.” Eldr began with a wet sigh, one that rattled his chest softly, relaxing back in his throne with Gale attached to his chest. The boy was swiftly buried in furs and much to his amusement, squealing furs that wriggled around in attempts to get free! The Jarl laughed, bending forward to engulf both child and furs in his arms and growl playfully.

Eldr rocked and rattled his grandson in his arms, delighting in the unadulterated joy leaving the snowy haired boy. Eventually amidst Gale’s attempted triumph, Eldr flicked the furs off of his head. Both boys gasped at seeing each other and Eldr was met with a prompt slap with an open palm to his cheek. Grandpa! Eldr guffawed, snaring the little hand and planting a kiss to Gale’s palm.

“You have found me! Give your aunt a run for her britches and become a Hunter of Freyr would you?”

“That is wholly dependent on if his modir and fadir want a bow in his hands first or an axe.” Astrid sounded, rounding a fat pillar of abused oak that sat across the great hall. She emerged from her room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Thaaaaat didn’t stop you, systir. You shot Volken in the ass when you were three and wouldn’t stop laughing about it for so long we thought you were going to die.” Tyrsten remarked with a wide grin, eyeing first their chuckling father and then her.

“Your face was blue and everything!” Eldr replied, gesturing about his gaunt cheeks with a raspy laugh. It only caused her brother to guffaw louder, chucking a piece of chicken bone into the fire pit that was roaring in the center of the room. His feet were propped upwards, balancing on two chair legs while a plate of food balanced on his lap.

“Synna was so concerned, bWAHAH— she beat the shit out of us for laughing instead of helping!” Tyrsten said, gnawing on another chicken bone.

“And then your aunt threw up all over your mother because she was laughing so hard.” Eldr was speaking now to Gale, whose head had been wheeling around to look at the people that had been talking in turn. A grin of his own had formed and it was simply a string of incoherent baby babbling and burbling. Happy to be here. His eyes widened when Eldr spoke to him next, and as if he thought his aunt throwing up all over his mother (like he hasn’t already done himself) was the funniest thing in the world, began to cackle.

The older warriors simply shared in a laugh, Astrid snaring a seemingly empty mug on a table. Liquid sloshed around, and she brought it to her nose to sniff. When it was determined it was filled with ale she swiftly gulped it down and set the mug down. She leaned against the table, knuckles pressed against the wood with a slight bend at the waist, knees pressed against the bench below. The siblings peered to their father, a keen sense of shame bubbling to life in their chests.

“What is it, fadir?” Tyrsten rumbled gently, stealing the words from his sister’s lips. Eldr was staring at the giggling boy in his lap, rubbing a round cheek with a calloused thumb. It was raw adoration that lingered on the older Vikingr’s face, those storm greys soft and sad.

“I am tired already,” Eldr admitted to the pair. He chuckled softly when Gale wrapped a tiny hand around his pinky finger. Tyrsten and Astrid sighed softly, a distinct and shared sadness welling to life. Eldr looked between the two, the feeling lingering before they felt their father snub it out; lest the rest of their siblings pile into the Longhall. A woman with long, cornsilk-silver hair emerged from their father’s chambers. Soft blue eyes and a kind smile to match, their mother was wearing an elegant, thick wool dress dyed blue and silver. Lengthy, thick hair was fastened into a fat braid that lingered down the length of her back.

“Modir,” Astrid and Tyrsten smiled, and Gisla crinkled her nose at her youngest and middle child affectionately.

“Sæl, my loves.” Gisla said softly, first ascending the short series of steps to greet her husband with a kiss to his cheek. They lingered there for a moment, Eldr’s brow pressed to the side of her face. His eyes closed and he gave a tired sigh, words whispered between the pair with a slight shake of his head. Their mother hummed softly, tilting her chin to press a kiss to her husband’s brow. Hroar nudged the back of her free hand and Gisla gently threaded her fingers through his fur.

“I will take Gale to Synna, you two sit and eat. There is much to talk about still and the Gods know we only have so much time.” She said, passing a look to her children as the babe was passed over to his grandmother. Be it in the North or the South, the boy had plenty of hands to hold him and hearts to love him. Gisla pressed a kiss to Gale’s head, thrilled that his grandmother had come to get him! Back to mama? Fantastic! In passing, his mother cupped the side of Tyrsen’s face, planting a kiss to his head before the bite of winter chills had buffeted the Longhall briefly.

“I can take you to bed—“ Astrid began, righting from her lean and began to move before she was halted with Eldr raising a hand.

“Let me sit here a moment.” He grunted in response, and Astrid vaulted herself over the table to plant her ass on the bench opposing her. She kicked her feet up on the edge of the fire pit, head lolling to the left. Fat ringlets tumbled over her shoulder and she huffed a curl out of her face.

"Come here, Astrid." Eldr rumbled softly, holding a hand up from his armrest, palm skyward. The siblings shared in a subtle look before her feet dropped back onto the ground and up she went. Astrid felt the mote of pride welling behind her from her brother; he was so proud of her, the things she would do. Who she'd become.

Astrid ascended the steps, gently settling her hand in her father's palm. Large digits curled around her smaller ones, and it was then the two shared in a silent, knowing look. Tired storm silvers meeting silvers of molten storm. He looked so tired.. but it was Yule..

"You know how this ends already, don't you, my love?"

[glittership]

Episode #47 -- "The Last Spell of the Raven" by Morris Tanafon

Download this episode (right click and save)

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Episode 47 is a GLITTERSHIP ORIGINAL and part of the Summer 2017 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

    The Last Spell of the Raven

by Morris Tanafon

    When I was very young, I watched my mother win the Battle of Griefswald. Standing knee-deep in our ornamental pool, she transformed the surface into a picture of Germany, and dripped fire from her hands into the water. I stood with my tutor in the crowd that watched, and did not understand why she gripped my shoulders until they ached, or why the people watching cheered and gasped. I saw the fire snake around the houses, and tiny people running from it. But until I was older I did not understand that it had been real.

Nobody talked to me about magic. My father never spoke of it, and my mother believed that I took after my father and had no talent for it. Still, at the age of seven I used it for the first time—a desperate child will reach for any tool. I knew that magic existed, from my mother’s conversations with her friends, and that it could be used to do wonderful things. And I knew that my cat Morrow was dead. So when I was given the body to bury it, I took her out to the backyard instead, and performed my best guess at a spell. The form was foolish, but the intent genuine, and intent was all it needed.

Morrow stirred, and my cry of delight caught my mother’s attention. She looked from me to the cat, heard five seconds of my babbled explanation, and began screaming.

  [Full transcript after the cut.]

  Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 47 for September 23, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to share this story with you. Today we have a poem by Jes Rausch, “Defining the Shapes of our Selves,” and a GlitterShip original, “The Last Spell of the Raven” by Morris Tanafon. This is the last original story from GlitterShip Summer 2017, which you can pick up at glittership.com/buy if you would like to have your own copy. More importantly, however, this means that the Autumn 2017 issue is coming out soon!

Jes Rausch lives and writes in Wisconsin, with too many pets and too much beer for company. Nir fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, and Lethe Press. Find nem not updating nir Twitter @jesrausch.

  “Defining the Shapes of our Selves”

by Jes Rausch

  Book One

when we reached Fire Nest on Summit, hot sun hanging low in the sky like an egg, biding, the dirt streets were dusty as smoke. So this is what the capitol of the Dragon Lands is like, i said, and, i never dreamt i’d be here, breathe in dust that must once have been the scales of ancients. There, you said, and pointed out a spire among spires, the twisting of another sculpted tail in a sea of swirling tails and horns and There, you said, and interrupted my awe with one of your smiles, man to me. When we reached Fire Nest on Summit, our pouches full of rubies, the aura of crime marinating them to a fine delicacy, we strode down streets dusty with smoke, smoky with the scent of food and sounds and flashes of golds and crimsons. We were here for a reason, a purpose, a journey, and here we were at the door carved of real dragon bone before the set of scale-clad guards, to bargain and banter and barter our way into the deal of a lifetime. Said the guard who stepped forward, He requires men and women meet specific challenges attuned to their natures to pass, and Step this way, to you. When we reached Fire Nest on Summit, you walked through your designated door, and i left behind in your dust, was told to wait when the guard could not determine which frame fit. Said the guard, it is better this way, after all, you cannot meet the challenges without a reason, a purpose, a journey.

Book Two

When I stepped into the apartment I heard the burble of the fish tank, that constant watery murmur that gives me what little comfort it can. I turn on all the lights today, and a little music too. The curtains already drawn, this little home a sanctuary where I can pee however I want to, and with the door open. Out there in the world deemed real, I can try too hard to talk with coworkers, meet company standards, go by unseen. But here I can make chicken tikka. Chicken tikka doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t care if you live or die either, so in a way, it is the world deemed real, and here, in my home I can devour it.

Book Three

when we slid into Io Port 7 dock, powered down, cleared the security scans, and disembarked after five long hours of waiting around in the mess, prisoners in our own ship, i was ready for a bit of fun. Ten months out in a vacuum will do that to you. Chasing odd jobs around stars, snagging a get-rich-quick scheme out of orbit is a tiring way to live. Dull as an old hull, random as a time of death. Our boots made the obligatory clank- clank noise down the corridors, our voices blocked them out. See, i was never free ‘til i reached for a star and grabbed a bucket of rust, made the engines run on sweat and blood and nightmares. See, you can smell the aching shell of it from the inside, but then, you probably never will. i take care choosing a crew who can withstand the raw scent of a being rotting from the inside out, fighting against the lack of friction for all days. When we emerged from the decaying ship, pristine outer hull, and slid ourselves into Io Port 7 dock and down and down the corridors already the rest and relaxation curled its way up to us. Somewhere in the center of port, a band was playing, Venus Colony 3- inspired beats pulsing and ebbing through the artificial grav. Some persistent restaurant owner was preparing dishes from Old Earth, warm smells competing for dominance with the aromas of Orion-inspired cuisine. When we descended into Io Port 7 dock, followed the sounds and smells down to get our access passes from the automated entrance bot, i entered in my name, retinal scan, handprint, voice sample. i completed the three-part questionnaire: reason for visit, profession, personal information. i turned to accept my pass scan, and the bot flashed dismissal. I’m sorry, the cold voice said, but you don’t have the appropriate body mods to legally be permitted to select that gender. I count only two of the required five.

END

  Morris Tanafon lives in Ohio but still feels like a New Englander. His work has appeared in Crossed Genres and Mythic Delirium and he blogs sporadically at https://gloriousmonsters.wordpress.com

  The Last Spell of the Raven

by Morris Tanafon

    When I was very young, I watched my mother win the Battle of Griefswald. Standing knee-deep in our ornamental pool, she transformed the surface into a picture of Germany, and dripped fire from her hands into the water. I stood with my tutor in the crowd that watched, and did not understand why she gripped my shoulders until they ached, or why the people watching cheered and gasped. I saw the fire snake around the houses, and tiny people running from it. But until I was older I did not understand that it had been real.

Nobody talked to me about magic. My father never spoke of it, and my mother believed that I took after my father and had no talent for it. Still, at the age of seven I used it for the first time—a desperate child will reach for any tool. I knew that magic existed, from my mother’s conversations with her friends, and that it could be used to do wonderful things. And I knew that my cat Morrow was dead. So when I was given the body to bury it, I took her out to the backyard instead, and performed my best guess at a spell. The form was foolish, but the intent genuine, and intent was all it needed.

Morrow stirred, and my cry of delight caught my mother’s attention. She looked from me to the cat, heard five seconds of my babbled explanation, and began screaming.

“Galen, you idiot!” She slapped me. “Things that come back are barely alive, and now you’ve wasted a spell! If you use more than four spells you die, do you want to die?”

I began screaming, convinced I was going to drop dead on the spot, and the reborn Morrow added a thin, ugly caterwaul to the din.

It was my father who ended the stupid affair, in one of the rare moments he left his study. He scooped up Morrow, plucked me away from my mother, and took us both inside, ignoring my mother’s spitting rage. I don’t know what she did after that. It didn’t matter to me at the time, because my father took me into his study. I had never seen the interior before, and when he put me down I froze in place, afraid I’d break something. He dropped Morrow in my arms; I could feel her tiny, tinny heartbeat against her ribs. She smelled like mothballs and felt like paper-mâché, as if I hugged too tightly I’d crush her.

“I have no say in the matter,” my father said, “but I suggest you never use magic again.”

I must have looked ready to start screaming again, because he began speaking quickly—something he never did.

“I would never have married Evelyn if I knew she was a magician. In the country I come from, it is despised, for good reason. Who would willingly rip their soul apart?” He sat down, drumming his fingers, and watched me for a minute. I stared back dumbly—I still didn’t understand.

“There’s a story we tell children,” he said. “Once, a raven was swallowed by a whale, and inside it he found a little house. There was a beautiful girl there, with a lamp by her side.”

Morrow scratched my shoulder. I put her down but she stayed by my legs, winding around them.

“She told the raven: The lamp is sacred, do not touch it. But every few moments she had to rise and go out the door, for she was the whale’s breath.” I wanted to ask why the whale’s breath was a girl, but my father signaled me to be silent. “And the raven, being arrogant and curious, waited until she was gone and touched the lamp. In an instant it went out, the girl fell down dead, and the whale died too, for the lamp was the whale’s soul.”

I pressed my hands to my chest.

“You’re not going to die,” my father said. “Not if you stop now. But listen—the raven dug its way up through the whale’s dead flesh, and found it beached. There were men gathered around. And instead of telling them, ‘I meddled with something beautiful and destroyed it’, the raven merely cried, ‘I slew the whale! I slew the whale!’ And he became great among men, but lived a cursed life thenceforward.”

The meaning was not obvious to a seven-year-old. “Am I cursed?”

“All magicians are,” my father said flatly, “for that raven, greedy for the power he tasted from the whale’s soul, became the first magician. Now go, and think about what I told you.”

I went, and I did. To this day, that’s the longest conversation my father shared with me.

  Morrow perished again seven years later, despite my best efforts. I fed her bugs and graveyard dirt and tiny pieces of liver and locked her in my room to prevent her from jumping off a too-high surface and crushing her fragile front legs. But I forgot to lock the door one day, and a maid wildly kicked at the grey shape that appeared in front of her, and that was the end of Morrow.

I was angry, but the maid cried and helped me gather up the pieces, and she was very pretty. That, at fourteen, had begun to matter, and I forgave her enough to give her part in the burial service.

My mother watched from the window until Morrow was well buried.

  When I wove my second spell I knew what I was giving up, and I knew my mother would kill me if she discovered what I’d done. I was to go to university that autumn, and become certified as a magician in service to the Crown, as my mother was—I risked that as well. I thought the price cheap in exchange for a smile from Asuka.

Fujimoto Asuka, the ambassador’s daughter. We attended the same parties, hated them with the same passion, and exchanged weary looks over the rims of our wineglasses until I finally got up the courage to speak to her. She had come with her father to England to find a magician to change her body’s shape. She was born with one wrong for her. We were a good match for that summer—she appreciated my adoring glances and felt kindly toward magicians. I was glad of admiration from one as worldly as her.

On the last day of summer, I convinced Asuka to slip away during a party. She didn’t take much convincing, and it’s a miracle we weren’t caught—giggling like schoolchildren and exchanging significant glances anyone could read. Perhaps the other guests were humoring us. We went to the nearby lake, so well-tended it was our ornamental pool writ large, and I took off my shoes.

“You asked me how magicians first came to be,” I said. “Nobody knows the full history, but I can tell you one story.”

The pictures I made in the water were not real, but they looked it. Even now, with my regrets, I feel a twinge of pride thinking of the spectacle. I’d studied ravens for months, memorizing how they moved, and drew inspiration for the woman from Asuka; and like any good storyteller, I lied, adding my own spin. I transformed the raven into a man in the last moments and sent him and the whale’s breath, hand-in-hand, into the crowd of gaping humans. Their descendants were magicians, I told Asuka. The raven saved the breath-girl at the last moment by lighting the lantern with a piece of his own soul.

When I was done, Asuka’s eyes glittered with tears.

She promised to write to me; but the autumn was cold and long and the mail services from Japan to England not too reliable, and after a few exchanges our talk petered out.

  I expected my parents to find out about it, but they never did. Instead, I had to explain to the records officer at Iffley College. Anyone who wished to register as a magician had to give an account of all magic they had used. She made notes as I spoke, and squinted at me as if she could see magic filling me to a certain point like a cup.

“From the sound of it,” she said, “you have three spells left. That’s the minimum for a certified magician—you have to give two spells in service, and one left over to keep you alive. You’d have to get through university without using any magic.”

That should have been my cue to turn away from the path of a magician, but I was stubborn and scared. I was not particularly good with mathematics, writing, speaking, or any other useful trait, and I feared my father might not leave me much when he passed away. Magic, no matter how I’d misused it, was the one thing I was certain I could do. I resolved to hoard my last three spells until graduation.

  Iffley should have been the site of my third spell.

It was reasonably progressive, so male students were allowed in female student’s rooms if the door remained open—as if, Amel said, girls and girls and boys and boys got up to no trouble together.

Amel Duchamps was my best friend, and one of my only friends at Iffley. Most of the magicians there had more spells to their name than I, and loved to talk about what they planned to do with their two ‘extras’ after the service to the Crown was given; most of the non-magician boys thought me strange and shy. Girls suspected that I only wanted to speak to them for amorous reasons, which was far from the truth—after Asuka, my heart was too raw for romance. I wanted friendship.

Amel provided that and more. She was not a magician, but she did not fear them-—or anything. When she was ten, a horse had gone wild and crushed her legs. The doctor had asked her: would you rather leave them dangling, or cut them away? Amel chose to have them cut, and she told me that all her fear was cut away with them. She had gone about taking dares after that, everything from eating bees to sticking her hand into stinging nettles, and at fifteen she volunteered for experimental mechanical legs.

They were beautiful, wide white-and-bronze things with gears winking through the joints. The ones being produced now, mostly for military veterans, are more workmanlike; but the woman who designed Amel’s wanted to make her fifteen-year-old test subject smile, so she had boots painted on the feet and winding vines on the calves.

“Imagine if magic took a piece of your body, instead of your soul,” Amel said to me the day we met. “Then I’d be the one who’d spent two spells. I imagine the first would take your legs up to the knees, the next would go to the hips, then your torso… and finally you’d just be a head, rolling along. Fancy that!”

She was a year older than me, but never seemed to notice. We loved each other absolutely in the way of friends, with never a hint of lust; and we both loved the boy in the room across from me with every bit of romance and lust in us, although we never dared reveal that to him. His name was Isaac; he was blind and he had the most beautiful voice I had ever heard.

“How’s himself?” Amel would always ask when I came to see her, and I’d tell her what Isaac had done lately. Then we’d move on to food, magic, sympathy over the cross of races we both were—English and Inuit for me, French and African for her. Iffley was a hard school, and the deeper into our education we got the more time we spent simply talking and the more our performance faltered. I might have failed altogether and been forced back home had—had the event not occurred.

I know very little about the attacker; only that he was a magician, and had decided how to spend each and every one of his spells. The newspapers, of course, spent weeks on the matter, on the carnage from beginning to end and the inspiration for it and the attacker’s history and potential madness, but I don’t want to know another thing about him. I know all I need to: the third dark, wet January I was at Iffley, I had gone out into the town for a much-needed drink and was returning in the afternoon when I heard the screams. I saw the blood, splattered in haphazard patterns over the wall, like wet lace slapped against the bricks. And for one minute I saw him, the killer, in the doorway across from me. He was bright-eyed with excitement, his hands curled up near his chest as if he had been physically tearing away pieces of his soul to do this with; and he looked at me. For a moment, I saw him consider.

But, as I was to learn later, he was on his last spell, and I was just one man. Why waste your power on one man when you can run to another room and kill a crowd? He turned away from me. And I, freezing as if I were seven years old again, let him.

Someone will stop him, any moment now, I thought. Some other magician, one of the ones with all five spells. They can spare it.

A minute later he cast his last spell and fell dead. A magician in the room even managed to deflect part of it. But that last spell still claimed lives—one teacher, one bystander who had been forced into the college, four students. Amel Duchamps.

  I threw myself into my work in an attempt to forget, but it didn’t help. Amel should have been the magician, I thought over and over. She had given up her legs in an instant. She would have given up a piece of her soul.

But what could I do now? I graduated Iffley College and the Crown claimed me. The last scraps of my soul no longer belonged to me.

  My third spell is not worth remarking on. It was a military operation, one part of a massive whole. Performing it, I felt the pain of separating soul from soul for the first time, and I wondered if the pain came with age or only with reluctance.

  At thirty I spent my fourth spell in a moment’s decision. I had another purpose, another spell laid out for me, although I can no longer recall what it was. Suffice to say I was accompanying a group of soldiers, police and other magicians, retrieving hostages that had been taken from the Royal Opera to the house of an art-obsessed crime lord in Liverpool.

I found Isaac among those rescued. I got up the nerve to greet him, but he only tilted his head. Then he opened his mouth and showed me that the criminal devil had taken his tongue.

I did not think about it, or even tell him what I was going to do, which in hindsight I should have. I kissed him lightly, passing the last easily taken scrap of my soul mouth to mouth, and restored his tongue. “It’s the least I can do,” I said.

My superiors raged. My mother heard of it and sent a letter to tell me how stupid I was. Isaac embraced me, which was the high point of the whole affair. But I realized that I could not hear his voice without remembering Amel, and how much she had loved him as well, and so I could not be with him long. When I received orders of discharge I bid him farewell and good luck, and set off wandering.

I found work as a teacher, here and there, although what people most wanted me to do was give lectures on how greatly I had wasted my magic—provide an example to the younger generation of magicians by accepting responsibility for my foolishness. That I could not do, and sooner or later I had to move on from a place when the attention grew to be too much.

My life was lonely. But it warmed me a little to think of a piece of my soul clinging to Isaac, like a flower-petal on the back of his tongue, reverberating with the sound every time he sang.

  In the summer of my thirty-sixth year, my mother died and the aggression between England and Germany flared into war once again. Newspapers made poetry of it, suggesting that Germany was given courage to attack by my mother’s death. They ran photographs of the Battle of Griefswald, the side that had taken place in my old home’s ornamental pool, and some reporters tried to interview me on the matter. With mourning as my excuse, I returned to my old home and locked myself in. My father had gone back to his land of birth, and wanted nothing to do with the house or me.

In time, interest died out. The war occupied everyone’s attention. Sides were taken, attacks were made, and after a while I stopped bothering to read the newspapers. With a place to live and the money my mother left behind, I no longer had to go anywhere, and as the days passed I wanted to less and less. People only spoke of magic when they spoke of how it might be used in the war. I was despised, quietly, for my lack of contribution. I came to see the few kindnesses I was still shown as undeserved, and I retreated into my home completely, stocking up on food so I wouldn’t need to leave for a long time.

A few people still found me. Young men and women going off to war passed through my part of the country, and some of them stopped at my door. I didn’t understand why; finally, I allowed a girl named Katherine inside just to see what she wanted, and over a cup of weak coffee she blurted out that she only had three spells left.

I realized that she wanted to tell me about the first two.

That was what they all wanted, really, the people who knocked at my door. Some had three spells left, some two, but all of them had spent the first on impulse. Katherine had cursed her stepfather’s vineyards. A boy called Natanael had resurrected his favorite apple tree after it had been struck by lightning. Gita had brought a patch of earth to life, and it followed her around. “It used to be bigger,” she said, looking down at the muddy little golem. “I think someday it will wash away completely.”

All I could do was listen, but I realized that was all they wanted.

Eventually they stopped coming. Germany was inching across England’s shore near my home, and people fled the area. I stayed deep within my house, and it might have been mistaken for empty; certainly, nobody came to evacuate me. I lived in a looming house over a ghost town, with the sounds of warfare drawing nearer every day, and I could not bring myself to care. I began working my way through the wine cellar.

It was when I was down there, one day, that the bombs came down. I felt the earth shake over my head, and when I mounted the stairs an hour later my house had collapsed around me. Cavernous walls bowed in, shattered windows were obscured with earth, the wooden beams of the house creaked and groaned under the weight of rubble. It was dark and stifling and still large, like the belly of a whale, and in the center of the floor lay a bomb.

It didn’t seem about to go off, so I circled it at a distance and tried to remember what I’d read about German bombs. There had been an article in the last newspaper I’d bothered to look at. They were iron shells full of destructive magic, released when their metal shell was cracked or some requirements for the seething spell within were met. Every one one-fifth of a magician’s life, and the Germans were beginning to drop dozens of them. I remembered Iffley, the blood on the walls and the cracked windows, and bile rose in my throat. That man had chosen to use his magic in that way, but I could not imagine that a rational magician would agree to it willingly. I felt a strange sympathy for the magician who had spent part of their soul in such a manner.

But what were the requirements for this spell? It had been dropped rather precisely here. Perhaps, ascribing more credit to me than I deserved, they thought I might follow in my mother’s footsteps and kill a great deal of their people. Still, why would it be meant for me and not awaken when I stood within twenty feet of it?

A thought struck me, and I almost laughed aloud; then I remembered that nobody was here to think me mad, and I did laugh. They had meant the bomb for a magician, of course. But while my spell for Isaac had been publicized, my earlier expenditures were shrouded in mystery. They had expected a magician with at least two spells left. My one remaining scrap was not enough to trigger the bomb unless I stood next to it.

I left it where it lay and went to investigate the doors.

  My bad luck held, and they were all blocked by wreckage. I was trapped and help was not likely to come. And for all that I’d willingly shut myself off from life, I felt a pang of huge and echoing terror at the thought. I wanted, for a fiery moment, to survive; or at least to know that my death would be noticed, that I would be mourned. If I had still possessed two spells, I would have used one then.

But I only had one, and the moment passed.

In two weeks’ time I had run through most of my food, and had nigh-unconsciously begun spending time nearer to the bomb. It was a contest of wills, fueled by my ragged mind; it seemed to me that my own weakening instinct to live fought against the soul-fragment of the magician who wished me to die. I spoke to it, sometimes. Would have named it, if I were a little more mad. Told it the story of my life, as far as I knew it. “We haven’t gotten to the ending yet,” I informed it, in a conspiratorial tone, “but I know I shall die. It only remains to see how.”

In my defense, I was rather drunk during those weeks, and in my further defense, my father kept a far more extensive wine-cellar than I did a pantry. Recalling my mother, I can hardly blame him.

Regardless: after two weeks, as I sat and studied the bomb and wondered how swift a death it might be to trigger it, I heard noises faint and far above me. I thought at first they were delusions—I had imagined, many nights, the sound of a cat padding through the hallways, or the creak of mechanical legs—but I kept listening, and realized they were the sounds of digging.

Someone had come.

I leapt to my feet, head spinning, and looked upwards. I could hear a voice now, shouting, but it was too far away to recognize. But as I stood there, shaking, so overwhelmed I did not know whether I felt joy or terror, I heard another noise: a slow and measured cracking.

There must be magicians in the group above. The bomb began to tremble, like a hatching egg, and in a moment it would split open.

I wished that I did not have time to think. Magic, excusing the spell I performed unwillingly, always came in a moment of impulse. But the metal egg cracked slowly, and my hands trembled, and my traitor mind said Wait a moment longer. It has not gone off yet; they might be near enough to call to, soon, and someone else—

Someone else, I knew with utter certainty, would come too late. That did not make the magic come easily, it did not spur me on without thought, but it gave me the strength to raise my hand toward the shivering spell on the floor.

“You were meant for me,” I reminded it, and as the shell finally opened I enclosed it. The force was strong, almost stronger than I, and had to go somewhere, so I directed it toward the part of the ceiling which I had heard nothing from. I had to hope that was enough.

The spell was silent, save for the roar of the roof parting before it, and nothing more than a glimmer of light to my eyes. I sank to my knees, watching the ceiling split open, and saw the cloudy sky for the first time in weeks.

“I slew the whale,” I said. My tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. “I slew the whale.”

Far away, I heard a shout. I still could not recognize the voice, but it seemed familiar. Perhaps it was one of the young magicians who had stopped at my door. Perhaps it was Isaac. Anything seemed likely, in that moment. The cloudy sky dimmed before my eyes as my vision failed, but my mind’s eye seemed to sharpen. I thought I saw the house from the outside, clear as day, and felt a cat winding around my legs, her purring weight incredibly familiar. The weight transformed into water and I stood, for a moment, in the lake where I wove Asuka’s spell.

Some say a magician splits into five pieces at their death, but it felt more like becoming whole.

And here—no, this cannot be death, for I find myself back in Amel’s room in Iffley, where I never worked a spell, and she smiles at me so hard her eyes crease up to almost nothing. “How’s himself?” she asks, and I answer, and while I do she gets up—her legs no longer creaking as badly as they did—and paces to the door to open it. Morrow slips half of her long grey body inside, but in the way of cats she can’t make up her mind; as Amel and I sink deeper into conversation she comes in and goes out, in and out, in and out and in and out.

  END

“Defining the Shapes of our Selves” is copyright Jes Rausch 2017.

“The Last Spell of the Raven” is copyright Morris Tanafon 2017.

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Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “Circus Boy Without A Safety Net” by Craig Laurance Gidney.

Episode #47 — “The Last Spell of the Raven” by Morris Tanafon was originally published on GlitterShip

[eddie-rifff]

they tried delivering the second of my two peter hammill tour posters today but for some fucking reason it requires a signature. a poster. a piece of paper rolled up in a tube for which i paid less than $100. please just give me the poster. please. i am so tired

[eddie-rifff]

i am a grown ass.. whatever i am. the amount of sauce i got on my pants eating lunch just now. not indicative of being a grown ass anything

[eddie-rifff]

i also think it is time to put my chris squire sweat rag in a shadow box. its my most prized possession ..and it has been in a tote bag in various closets for over 10 years. not entirely sure how to display it within the box tho (as in how to fold it, or maybe leave it kind of crumpled for comedic effect?) but ill probably put the ticket associated with that show in with it. some kinda fish-related art in the background perhaps

[eddie-rifff]

went to record fair. i got um. a lot of records.

this one guy.. he had multiple sections just for prog. krautrock, italian, canterbury, etc. and then i look over...... and he has a whole vdgg/ph section. with almost every ph record i wanted. he also had a genesis section with four ant phillips records i wanted. and a druid record. and sebastian hardie. and three long hello records.

anyway i spent . an amount. but hey. its my Thing. and it makes me happy. yolo

[eddie-rifff]

sigh. ive had my signed (just by broof) yessongs lp just sitting around for almost 5 years (my ex got it for me when we first started dating, i didnt get it signed personally) on my record shelf not framed bc its a triple lp and is way too thick to put in any regular lp frame but now im going and buying frames for miscellaneous things ive been meaning to frame and i just realized i can just buy a 12x12 inch shadow box so its deeper than a regular record frame and that would be fine -_-

[eddie-rifff]

adrian belew is a real life cartoon character i heard him make two unrelated puns in the like 5-10 minutes i was within earshot of him

[eddie-rifff]

lmao. danny carey asked me how i was doing like hi how are ya as i was lining up for my pic and i said “terrified :)” and tony was like “im terrified too”

[eddie-rifff]

i cant imagine its been very apparent but in the off chance anyone has noticed yes i have been posting less its because i am miserable and have been battling health nonsense on and off for the past month and a half and i am profoundly tired. like im fine you dont need to worry about me. im just not feeling very groovy

[eddie-rifff]

im going to buy some expensive peter hammill memorabilia to help me forget about how the career path im on is doomed to be taken over by ai so i have to pivot entirely if i want to have any hope of a stable career <3