#ill be over here shipping the red and green like its christmas by myself

[hazellekat]

ppl are scared the mcu is gonna pair she hulk with daredevil like its the worst thing ever, and my bi emotional ass is just here like "yes i think matt murdock deserves to be carried bridal style by a big green lady" and "matt wouldn't care whether jen is hulked out or not"

[jhl1031973]

Unpublished Work - Doctor Who: Advent Of Terror

This is my fourth entry in Big Finish Productions' Paul Spragg Memorial Short Trip Opportunity. None of my work has been chosen, but there will be other chances. This one features the Seventh Doctor and Ace. Enjoy andSubmitted For Your Approval.

- James Heath Lantz November 2, 2020

Advent Of Terror

A Short Trip Starring The Seventh Doctor And Ace

By

James Heath Lantz

The Snow came down slowly. The multitude of colours from the numerous Christmas lights and decorations reflected upon the white landscape. The village of Ortonshire looked picturesque, like a greeting card a friend or relative would send. The small hamlet was known worldwide for its Christmas celebration from late November until early January. The local candy factory made Advent Calendars that were shipped everywhere from London, England and Paris, France to Alberta, Canada and Tuscany, Italy. People of all walks of life came from everywhere to experience what newspapers and magazines over the years named “The Most Magical Christmas Village In The Entire World”. Celebrities, especially writers, would visit on their vacations. Rumours had circulated about  Amelia Earhart, Winston Churchill, Shirley Jackson, J.R.R. Tolkien, Ernest Hemingway, Anne Rice, Stephen King and Clive Barker walking the streets to take in the magnificence of Ortonshire. One innkeeper's grandmother even claims that Mary Shelley wrote the final chapter of Frankenstein in the room that belonged to her Great Aunt Sadie on Boxing Day.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in Ortonshire when the TARDIS had materialized in front of the largest Christmas tree to be placed in the town square in perhaps half a decade. The doors creaked open. The Doctor, in his seventh incarnation, placed his hat upon his head as he walked out of the time machine. He took a deep breath to take in the crisp winter air. There was a twinkle in his eye when he saw the lavishly decorated village.

“Come along, Ace,” The Doctor called to his companion with hint of impish glee in his Scottish burr. “The Most Magical Christmas Village In The Entire World awaits us.”

Ace buttoned up her coat before the Doctor closed the TARDIS doors. The Doctor looked at the Christmas tree. “Perhaps we should move the TARDIS a bit. It could ruin the view of the tree,” The Doctor pondered out loud.

The Doctor and Ace returned to the TARDIS. The ship disappeared some seconds later. After five or six attempts, it reformed just outside of the village's city limits. The Doctor and Ace were greeted by the words “Happy Christmas from” written in red and green Christmas lights over the Ortonshire sign. The Doctor silently noted that the population number was covered by snow. However, he thought nothing of it after seeing Ace smile. With everything she and the Doctor had been through, they both deserved a little holiday cheer.

“I must say,” The Doctor said as he and Ace walked through the snow covered thoroughfare and looked at the beautiful ornaments and lights of various brilliant hues, “The human capacity for celebration and decoration surpasses that of destruction at this time of year.”

Ace and the Doctor continued their stroll. The Doctor was particularly enchanted by a group of snowmen dressed like Father Christmas. He and Ace had a long, hearty laugh at the sight of them. They then resumed walking until they saw three rows of ice sculptures. The Doctor took time to admire the beauty and craftsmanship. The attention to detail on an angel astounded him. Something also look frighteningly familiar about it. Yet, he could not put his finger on what that was.

"Professor," Ace said inquiringly, interrupting the Doctor's reverie, "Where are all the people?”

"I'm sorry, Ace. What?"

“The people. There should be at least one crowd of people if this is The Most Magical Christmas Village In The Entire World like you said. Even the shops we passed along the way were empty, and it's barely seven o'clock.”

“My goodness, Ace. You're right,” The Doctor observed. “I was so taken by the splendour and wonder of Ortonshire, I failed to notice the most important thing you had just pointed out. What happened to all the people?”

Before the Doctor could even think to investigate his inquiry, a pair of hands belonging to someone behind him had grabbed his arms. Another had done the same to Ace. They had not heard the sound of footfalls running toward them. A tall woman in a yellow hazmat suit moved in front of the Doctor and Ace. Her facial features were obscured by her protective mask. She pointed her gloved left index finger at them as she spoke sternly in a Northern English accent.

“What the devil are you two doing here?” She asked.

*

The Doctor and Ace were brought to the Leverton Military Base just a few miles east of Ortonshire, which had recently been used as a headquarters for pandemic responses in the past decade or so. Blood samples were taken from the Doctor and Ace before they were led to a decontamination room. The Doctor told Ace that they must go through the procedure for everyone's protection. They were cleansed with chemicals, soap and water before putting on grey jumpsuits to while their clothing was being sterilized. They were dressed normally some hours later.

A guard brought the Doctor and Ace to an interrogation room. On the way there, the Doctor noted that the TARDIS was being rather unsuccessfully examined an adjacent laboratory. He began to chuckle upon seeing a scientist in a hazmat suit fall when the ship gave him an electrical shock. The Time Lord then thought it best to move on. He and Ace entered the medium sized, sparsely furnished room. They were ordered to wait for a Doctor Henderson to question them.

The Doctor, umbrella under his arm, paced. Ace sat in a folding chair. She followed the Time Lord's movements with her eyes. “Do they think we did something wrong, Professor?” She asked with hint of preoccupation in her voice.

“I'm not sure, Ace,” The Doctor replied. “I wonder if our being here is connected to the missing people of Ortonshire.”

The Doctor continued pacing the room. This time he did so while playing the spoons. This went on for roughly fifteen minutes. Ace wanted to protest this action, but The Doctor's expression told her that he was concentrating on the situation. He checked his fob watch when a tall, pale woman with long, dark, curly hair and horn rimmed glasses entered. On the left breast of her long white coat was a badge identifying as Doctor Carol Henderson, Head of Project PANVAC.

Project PANVAC is a team of scientists and military personnel created to study viruses and pandemics to prevent their spread and create vaccines should they be needed. They banded together with funds from various governments worldwide after so many lives were lost in the past couple years to new strains of illnesses that had mutated considerably.

The Doctor closed his fob watch and lamented, “You took your own sweet time getting here.”

“Sorry if my needing to decontaminate myself and my security officers is an inconvenience,” Doctor Henderson responded sarcastically. “Now, would you mind telling me who you are and what you two were doing in a quarantined area?”

“Quarantined area?” The Doctor asked in surprise. “We knew nothing of a quarantine. We'd only just arrived. We're not even from around here.”

“By your accent, I'd guess you're from Scotland,” Henderson responded.

“You'd be quite surprised, I'm sure. Anyhow, I am the Doctor, and she is my friend and associate Ace.”

“Doctor is a title, not a name. For example, I'm Doctor Carol Henderson.”

“For you, dear Doctor Henderson, it's a title. For me, it's a name.”

"Very well, Doctor," Henderson said with a hint of irritation. "Now, tell me what you were doing in a quarantined area.”

“We didn't know about any quarantine,” Ace said impatiently.

“Stay calm, Ace,” The Doctor said, raising his right hand slightly. He turned to Doctor Henderson. “She is quite correct. We came to Ortonshire because of its reputation for Christmas celebration. We had no idea any quarantine had been put into place.”

Before Doctor Henderson could respond, someone had knocked on the interrogation room door. She opened it and stuck her head out the other side. Someone had told her the secretary-general of the United Nations wanted to speak with her. She left and returned some twenty minutes later. The Doctor looked at Henderson in an attempt to anticipate what she will do and say next.

Henderson took a deep breath. “Apparently,” She said to the Doctor, “I'm supposed to trust you. After I mentioned 'The Doctor' to the secretary-general of the United Nations, he ordered me to allow you assist Project PANVAC if you wish to do so.”

“Yes. Of course, I'd be happy to help if I can.”

“The U.N. has quite a detailed file on you.”

“Yes,” The Doctor said, “You can thank those busy bodies at U.N.I.T. for that.” He walked toward Doctor Henderson. “Now, what exactly are we dealing with here, Doctor Henderson?”

“It started three days ago with some children who were building a snowman near the forest at Ortonshire's southern border. A boy named Charlie Wright was the first to exhibit symptoms. He complained of a headache after returning home. The local doctor found he had a very high fever before the lad lost consciousness. His three friends – another boy and two girls had similar symptoms as the evening had progressed.”

“Let's see,” The Doctor pondered, “Three days ago was December 1st. Go on, Doctor.”

“My team and were called when infection spread to the adults and other children. The local physician told us  that all the patients exhibited something odd on the skin about an hour before we arrived in Ortonshire.”

“Odd in what way, Doctor?”

Doctor Henderson paused for a moment. She seemed to searching for an appropriate description. Swallowing her pride and perhaps realizing the Doctor was no threat, she spoke.

“Perhaps it's better to show you, Doctor.”

*

Doctor Henderson's gloved hand punched a numeric code on a security keypad to the right of a metallic door. The Doctor put on a surgical mask and latex gloves while following her. The door slid open. They briskly walked down an empty, bright white corridor. The doctors were greeted by a burly security guard upon Henderson's explanation of the Doctor's presence. She had told him the Time Lord was there on orders from the United Nations. The Doctor tipped his hat before entering the patient's quarters.

Charlie Wright was a sandy haired, frail boy who looked to be no more than ten years of age. He lay dormant in the hospital bed. The Doctor looked at a copy of Charlie's file. With Doctor Henderson to his right, the Doctor examined the boy closely. His skin was chalk white with blue, green and grey vine-like tendrils all over his body. His pupils, irises and the whites of his eyes were clouded over in the same green/blue/grey hue.

“The vines are attached well,” Doctor Henderson said. “Scissors and knives were unable to cut them. Fire only activates the sprinkler system.”

The Doctor took a closer look at the vines. The Doctor said, “We may not need to do that if we can get a blood sample.”

“I'd like to get a sample of them as well to study this more thoroughly.”

“Understandable. A low level laser might be able burn off a piece without harming young Charlie here. Now, tell me. Is Ortonshire the only area infected, Doctor Henderson?”

“According to our facilities in other parts of the world, the illness is contained within the vicinity of Ortonshire. No other village, city, country or continent has had any reports of symptoms like these for now,” Henderson replied while indicating the tendrils.

“Then it's not too late,” The Doctor said hopefully, “We may be able find a cure before this spreads worldwide. Now, somebody get me that laser.”

*

Ace was in the laboratory where the TARDIS was being examined. She had been ordered to where a hazmat suit for her protection. The scientists who were studying the ship were amazed. They had no idea what they were dealing with. One man even approached the TARDIS doors with a large drill in hand. Ace laughed.

“You'll never open the TARDIS with that,” Ace observed.

“What?” The scientist with the drill asked.

“I'm afraid she is quite correct, sir. Your drill won't open my TARDIS,” The Doctor said. “Now, put that thing away. The TARDIS is perfectly safe. Stop wasting time, and point us in the direction of Doctor Henderson's office.”

The scientist indicated a corridor to his left. “You can't miss it. Her name's on the door,” He said sheepishly.

The Doctor turned his head in the direction of the TARDIS. He was clearly irritated. He muttered something under his breath. Ace couldn't quite make out what he said, but she giggled. There was something amusing and sweet about the Doctor when his dander was up. Ace told the Doctor that they arrived at Doctor Henderson's office, Now all they had to do was wait for her to arrive with the laser needed to take the sample of the virus vine. Hours had passed. The Doctor used this time to read Doctor Henderson's extensive research on viruses, pandemics and cures. He had finished reading her most recent paper when the head of project PANVAC entered the room with the surgical laser in hand.

Doctor Henderson and the Doctor went to Charlie's bedside. The Time Lord prepared the laser. He double checked its parameters to make certain it was set at minimum intensity. He didn't want to unnecessarily injure the boy in his efforts to save him. The narrow red beam hit a vine on the boy's wrist. A small chunk of about the size of a newborn kitten's toenail fell on to the white bed sheet. The Doctor placed it in a vial with a pair of tweezers. The Doctor and Doctor Henderson took the sample in thee latter's office. The head of Project PANVAC looked at it through a microscope. She was stymied and shocked by her findings.

“Doctor,” Henderson said, “Have a look at this.”

The Doctor looked into the microscope. “Very interesting indeed,” He commented.

“You don't seem as surprised as I am,” Henderson observed. “It has characteristics of a virus. However, I've never seen anything like it.”

“There is nothing like it,” The Doctor said, “At least on Earth.”

“Are you saying this virus is alien?”

“Doctor Henderson,” The Doctor began, “You're a brilliant virologist. I finished reading your papers while waiting for the laser.”

“Those are roughly thirty years of work consisting of thousands of pages,” Henderson said in a surprised tone. “It would take me at least three years to read them again.”

“I'm a fast reader,” The Doctor commented, “As I was saying, you're a brilliant virologist, doctor. Yet, you have a habit of doing what most scientists tend to do. You limit the scope of your search for answers.”

Ace had been sitting in a chair across from Doctor Henderson's desk. She was positively amused by the exchange between the doctors. She did nothing to repress her smile and laughter.

“So you are saying it's alien,” Henderson said, ignoring Ace.

“Not all alien life forms are little green men, doctor,” The Doctor responded.

“Some are Daleks or Cybermen,” Ace interjected.

“Not now, Ace,” The Doctor said gently.

“How do you know it's alien, Doctor?” Henderson asked.

“That isn't the important question, Doctor Henderson. How did the virus get to Ortonshire, and how do we cure it? Those are the inquiries you must ask if we are help the infected and prevent the spread to the rest of the world.”

The Doctor snapped his fingers and ran toward the nearest exit. Doctor Henderson followed him.

“Where are you going, Doctor?” She asked, pursuing him.

“I need to get to the TARDIS!” He called as he ran further away. “There's no time to lose!”

*

Ace, still in the hazmat suit, entered the TARDIS. The Doctor ran to the controls, pressed buttons and flipped switches. The doors closed.

“You won't be needing that, Ace,” The Doctor said, indicating her hazmat suit. “We're perfectly safe in the TARDIS.”

Removing the protective head piece and mask, Ace asked, “Shouldn't we be saving the people in Ortonshire, Professor?

The Doctor hadn't taken his eyes and hands away from the TARDIS controls. “That's exactly why we've returned to the TARDIS, Ace. If I'm right, the illness is not of Earthly origin.”

“So we're going find who created it?”

“Not exactly,” The Doctor answered. “We are, however, going to see how it began.”

“Couldn't we prevent the infection from coming to Ortonshire?”

“As much as it pains me, Ace, I'm afraid not. We're merely going back in time to see how the virus got to Ortonshire.”

Ace looked disappointed. “Don't look so glum, Ace,” The Doctor said. “We'll find a way to cure every sick person in Ortonshire. I just need to confirm a theory first.”

Ace was reassured by this by the time the TARDIS returned to Ortonshire's city limits near the village sign some days before their initial arrival. Christmas lights shined their rainbow of hues upon the box, perhaps as a signal of hope for things to come. The Doctor and Ace heard the town square's clock tower's bells toll. It was midnight. The Doctor checked his fob watch to be sure. He clicked it shut and sat down on the ground in front of the TARDIS doors. Ace sat next to him, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“What are we doing now, Doctor?” Ace asked.

“Waiting, Ace. We're waiting.”

Twenty minutes later, the Doctor looked at his watch again. He then turned his gaze to the sky.

“It should be arriving,” He said, “Now.”

The Doctor and Ace looked up. A shooting star streaked across the night sky, its fiery tail blazing through the starry backdrop. A meteor was clearly burning upon entering Earth's atmosphere. Small, flaming bits of the space rock crash landed. One had come close to striking the Doctor had Ace not pushed him out of the the way.

Ace helped the Doctor to his feet. He thanked her and dusted himself off. He returned to the TARDIS to get a long pair of tongs and a cylindrical lead container. The Doctor placed the meteorite inside the canister before walking into Ortonshire. Ace followed closely.

“Where are we going, Doctor?” Ace asked.

“We need to make sure no other meteorites in the area, Ace.”

“Shouldn't we get more of those lead cylinders from the TARDIS?”

“There's no need,” The Doctor answered with a twinkle of pride in his eye. “Much like the TARDIS, this receptacle is bigger on the inside. Now, come along, Ace. We have lives to save.”

*

Doctor Henderson made her rounds to check the infected somewhere around midnight. She entered Charlie Wright's room. She looked briefly at his file. As she looked up from the folder, the pale boy covered in vines did something that startled her. He sat up. She called his name, but there was no response. His face was cold and without expression. This brought a shiver of terror to Doctor Henderson.

Charlie got out of bed. Doctor Henderson overcame her apprehension and called the young man's name. The only responses were a chillingly vacant look in her direction accompanied by an eerie silence. Charlie marched out of the room. Doctor Henderson, her curiosity outweighing her fear, followed the boy. He didn't seem to notice her behind him. Perhaps in his current state, he didn't even perceive her presence as a threat.

Charlie had joined another group of the infected. Others followed suit. The crowd became overwhelming. Doctor Henderson had lost her balance. She placed her hands in front of her person to break her fall. Her moving forward did nothing to distract the patients from getting to their destination. Henderson saw that the rest of the Project PANVAC team was following the entranced people with tendrils all over their bodies.

The marching had stopped outdoors. Henderson noted they were in the Ortonshire village square. The colours of the Christmas tree's lights, especially the red and green, made the infected look more menacing and frightening. Doctor Henderson gulped saliva to moisten her previously dry throat. She looked around  The faces of Project PANVAC's personnel mirrored the question that was on mind.

What do these people want?

*

The Doctor and Ace had been collecting meteorites for the better part of two hours when they returned to the TARDIS. They had a dozen of the space rocks inside the container. The Doctor worked the ship's controls allowing it to materialize in front of an elaborately decorated wooden cottage. He checked the date. It was December 1st.

The house was surrounded by a white picket fence. Gold garland and small red and green lights trimmed the structure. Brightly lit statues of a snowman and Father Christmas were placed on the left and right sides of the gate behind the TARDIS. The snowman's left hand touched a red postal box with an address written on the side. The Doctor read it aloud.

“17 Miller Road,” He said, “If I recall correctly, young Charlie Wright lives here. We should investigate here for clues to how he became ill.”

The front door was unlocked, and the light within were still turned on, meaning the family left in a hurry. The Doctor and Ace moved quietly. They entered the front room to find an Advent Calender on the coffee table adjacent to the Christmas tree and television. It had an image of two children, a dark haired boy and a blonde girl, in Christmas pyjamas looking in amazement at the numerous presents under the tree. The square for December  1st had been opened.

“Doctor,” Ace said holding the Advent Calender. She indicated the empty square. “Look.”

“Yes, Ace, it's an Advent Calender. They're quite common at Christmas time.”

“No, look closer,” Ace insisted.

“Goodness, Ace, you're right,” The Doctor said upon further examination of the empty square. He saw bits of green dust inside. He put on latex gloves to take a sample of it. He and Ace returned to the TARDIS to study the weird powder. The Doctor looked worried after about fifteen minutes.

“I think, Ace,” He said, “We may have missed a meteorite somewhere.”

*

The Ortonshire Candy Factory was on the east end of the village. The TARDIS had arrived not long before the meteor shower had begun. The Doctor started a countdown. A meteorite crashed through one of the factory's windows the moment after the Doctor had finished. It had landed in a vat of chocolate unbeknownst to anyone working there. The mixing process had turned the rock to dust. The chocolate was then used in the sweets for the Advent Calenders.

The Doctor snapped his fingers and looked at Ace. “There's a slim chance,” He said, “But we going to have go with your plan, Ace.”

“My plan?”

“I'll explain later. We need to return to the TARDIS.”

The time machine vanished. It reappeared inside the factory this time. It hovered over the vat of chocolate. The Doctor stood in the ships opened doorway with a long mechanical arm device in his hands, He used a joystick to move it left and right, up and down until its two prongs grabbed the meteorite in the moment before it landed in the chocolate. The Time Lord returned inside to calculate his next move. He configured the TARDIS controls.

“Now,” He said to Ace, “If this is timed correctly, we can place this rock we caught somewhere our previous rock hunting selves will find it, thereby preventing it from contaminating the candy factory's chocolate and any infection in Ortonshire.”

“There's one thing I don't get, Professor,” Ace said. “How was this my plan?”

“It was you, dear Ace, who asked if we could prevent the infection from coming to Ortonshire. Now, put that hazmat suit back on, and prepare your throwing arm. We're almost where we need to be.”

The TARDIS whirled and twirled in the air. The Doctor opened door after checking the ship's location.

“When I say go, Ace,” The Doctor said as he opened the door, “ Throw the meteorite.”

“I hope this works, Professor.”

“I've seen you launch explosives at Daleks, Ace. You'll do brilliantly.”

He looked down at the street a few steps in front of the candy factory. “Now, Ace! Now!”

Ace's gloved hand hurled the meteorite with the might and determination of David against Goliath. IT landed near a tree less than an inch away from Ace's previous self. The Doctor closed the door, scanned Ace for infection and radiation and smiled.

“Excellent throwing, Ace. If all went well, Our next trip to Ortonshire will be a happier one.”

The TARDIS was now on the moon, time was catching up with itself as The Doctor and Ace's previous selves disappeared with all of Ortonshire's meteorites. The Doctor looked inside the container. There were thirteen plus five they had missed before.

“Ah yes,” The Doctor said, “We did another survey of Ortonshire after taking the rock you threw.”

The Doctor and Ace returned to Ortonshire's sign. The Time Lord opened the TARDIS doors. He exited to admire how beautifully lit the words Happy Christmas were. The Doctor took a deep breath with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Come along, Ace,” The Doctor called. “The Most Magical Christmas Village In The Entire World awaits us once more.”

Ace came out of the TARDIS just as a portly man with a white beard dressed as Father Christmas approached the Doctor. He grinned broadly as he spoke to them.

“Happy Christmas, folks. Welcome to Ortonshire,” The man said jovially.

“Happy Christmas to you as well, my good man,” The Doctor responded with a tip of his hat. This is Ace, and I'm the Doctor.

“Pleased to meet both of you,” The man replied, shaking hands with Ace and the Doctor. “I'm Chris. You here for the Christmas Festival?”

“Yes,” The Doctor replied, “I also wonder if you could tell where I may find an Advent Calendar.”

The End

[kitvinslakte]

PT 2

The Exhiles by Ray Bradbury

"...through every country on Earth and finally left no alternative at all but exodus. You must help us. You have a good speaking manner. We need you.”

“I repeat, I am not of you, I don’t approve of you and the others,” cried Dickens angrily. “I was no player with witches and vampires and midnight things.”

“What of A Christmas Carol ?”

“Ridiculous! One story. Oh, I wrote a few others about ghosts, perhaps, but what of that? My basic works had none of that nonsense!”

“Mistaken or not, they grouped you with us. They destroyed your books—your worlds too. You must hate them, Mr. Dickens!”

“I admit they are stupid and rude, but that is all. Good day!”

“Let Mr. Marley come, at least!”

“No!”

The door slammed. As Poe turned away, down the street, skimming over the frosty ground, the coachman playing a lively air on a bugle, came a great coach, out of which, cherry-red, laughing and singing, piled the Pickwickians, banging on the door, shouting Merry Christmas good and loud, when the door was opened by the fat boy.

Mr. Poe hurried along the midnight shore of the dry sea. By fires and smoke he hesitated, to shout orders, to check the bubbling caldrons, the poisons and the chalked pentagrams. “Good!” he said, and ran on. “Fine!” he shouted, and ran again. People joined him and ran with him. Here were Mr. Coppard and Mr. Machen running with him now. And there were hating serpents and angry demons and fiery bronze dragons and spitting vipers and trembling witches like the barbs and nettles and thorns and all the vile flotsam and jetsam of the retreating sea of imagination, left on the melancholy shore, whining and frothing and spitting. Mr. Machen stopped. He sat like a child on the cold sand. He began to sob. They tried to soothe him, but he would not listen. “I just thought,” he said. “What happens to us on the day when thelast copies of our books are destroyed?”

The air whirled.

“Don’t speak of it!”

“We must,” wailed Mr. Machen. “Now, now, as the rocket comes down, you, Mr. Poe; you, Coppard; you, Bierce—all of you grow faint. Like wood smoke. Blowing away. Your faces melt—”

“Death! Real death for all of us.”

“We exist only through Earth’s sufferance. If a final edict tonight destroyed our last few works we’d be like lights put out.”

Coppard brooded gently. “I wonder who I am. In what Earth mind tonight do I exist? In some African hut? Some hermit, reading my tales? Is he the lonely candle in the wind of time and science? The flickering orb sustaining me here in rebellious exile? Is it him? Or some boy in a discarded attic, finding me, only just in time! Oh, last night I felt ill, ill, ill to the marrows of me, for there is a body of the soul as well as a body of the body, and this soul body ached in all of its glowing parts, and last night I felt myself a candle, guttering. When suddenly I sprang up, given new light! As some child, sneezing with dust, in some yellow garret on Earth once more found a worn, time-specked copy of me! And so I’m given a short respite!”

A door banged wide in a little hut by the shore. A thin short man, with flesh hanging from him in folds, stepped out and, paying no attention to the others, sat down and stared into his clenched fists.

“There’s the one I’m sorry for,” whispered Blackwood. “Look at him, dying away. He was once more real than we, who were men. They took him, a skeleton thought, and clothed him in centuries of pink flesh and snow beard and red velvet suit and black boot; made him reindeers, tinsel, holly. And after centuries of manufacturing him they drowned him in a vat of Lysol, you might say.”

The men were silent.

“What must it be on Earth?” wondered Poe. “Without Christmas? No hot chestnuts, no tree, no ornaments or drums or candles—nothing; nothing but the snow and wind and the lonely, factual people. . . .”

They all looked at the thin little old man with the scraggly beard and faded red velvet suit.

“Have you heard his story?”

“I can imagine it. The glitter-eyed psychiatrist, the clever sociologist, the resentful, froth-mouthed educationalist, the antiseptic parents——”

“A regrettable situation,” said fierce, smiling, “for the Yuletide merchants who, toward the last there, as I recall, were beginning to put up holly and sing Noel the day before Halloween. With any luck at all this year they might have started on Labor Day!”

Bierce did not continue. He fell forward with a sigh. As he lay upon the ground he had time to say only,

“How interesting.” And then, as they all watched, horrified, his body burned into blue dust and charred bone, the ashes of which fled through the air in black tatters.

“Bierce, Berce!”

“Gone!”

“His last book gone. Someone on Earth just now burned it.”

“God rest him. Nothing of him left now. For what are we but books, and when those are gone, nothing’s to be seen.”

A rushing sound filled the sky.

They cried out, terrified, and looked up. In the sky, dazzling it with sizzling fire clouds, was the rocket! Around the men on the seashore lanterns bobbed; there was a squealing and a bubbling and an odor of cooked spells. Candle-eyed pumpkins lifted into the cold clear air. Thin fingers clenched into fists and a witch screamed from her withered mouth:

“Ship, ship, break, fall!

Ship, ship, burn all!

Crack, flake, shake, melt!

Mummy dust, cat pelt!”

“Time to go,” murmured Blackwood. “On to Jupiter, on to Saturn or Pluto.”

“Run away?” shouted Poe in the wind. “Never!”

“I’m a tired old man!”

Poe gazed into the old man’s face and believed him. He climbed atop a huge boulder and faced the ten thousand gray shadows and green lights and yellow eyes on the hissing wind.

“The powders!” he shouted.

A thick hot smell of bitter almond, civet, cumin, wormseed and orris!

The rocket came down—steadily down, with the shriek of a damned spirit! Poe raged at it! He flung his fists up and the orchestra of heat and smell and hatred answered in symphony! Like stripped tree fragments, bats flew upward! Burning hearts, flung like missiles, burst in bloody fireworks on the singed air. Down, down, relentlessly down, like a pendulum the rocket came. And Poe howled, furiously, and shrank back with every sweep and sweep of the rocket cutting and ravening the air! All the dead sea seemed a pit in which, trapped, they waited the sinking of the dread machinery, the glistening ax; they were people under the avalanche!

“The snakes!” screamed Poe.

‎And luminous serpentines of undulant green hurtled toward the rocket. But it came down, a sweep, a fire, a motion, and it lay panting out exhaustions of red plumage on the sand, a mile away.

“At it!” shrieked Poe. “The plan’s changed! Only one chance! Run! At it! At it! Drown them with our bodies! Kill them!”

And as if he had commanded a violent sea to change its course, to suck itself free from primeval beds, the whirls and savage gouts of fire spread and ran like wind and rain and stark lightning over the sea sands, down empty river deltas, shadowing and screaming, whistling and whining, sputtering and coalescing toward the rocket which, extinguished, lay like a clean metal torch in the farthest hollow. As if a great charred caldron of sparkling lava had been overturned, the boiling people and snapping animals churned down the dry fathoms.

“Kill them!” screamed Poe, running.

The rocket men leaped out of their ship, guns ready. They stalked about, sniffing the air like hounds.

They saw nothing. They relaxed.

The captain stepped forth last. He gave sharp commands. Wood was gathered, kindled, and a fire leapt up in an instant. The captain beckoned his men into a half circle about him.

“A new world,” he said, forcing himself to speak deliberately, though he glanced nervously, now and again, over his shoulder at the empty sea. “The old world left behind. A new start. What more symbolic than that we here dedicate ourselves all the more firmly to science and progress.” He nodded crisply to his lieutenant. “The books.”

Firelight limned the faded gilt titles:The Willows, The Outsider, Behold, The Dreamer, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Land of Oz, Pellucidar, The Land That Time Forgot A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the monstrous names of Machen and Edgar Allan Poe and Cabell and Dunsany and Blackwood and Lewis Carroll; the names, the old names, the evil names.

“A new world. With a gesture, we burn the last of the old.” The captain ripped pages from the books.

Leaf by seared leaf, he fed them into the fire.

A scream!

Leaping back, the men stared beyond the firelight at the edges of the encroaching and uninhabited sea.

Another scream! A high and wailing thing, like the death of a dragon and the thrashing of a bronzed whale left gasping when the waters of a leviathan’s sea drain down the shingles and evaporate.

It was the sound of air rushing in to fill a vacuum, where, a moment before, there had beensomething!

The captain neatly disposed of the last book by putting it into the fire.

The air stopped quivering. Silence!

The rocket men leaned and listened. “Captain, did you hear it?”

‎“No.”

“Like a wave, sir. On the sea bottom! I thought I saw something. Over there. A black wave. Big. Running at us.”

“You were mistaken.”

“There, sir!”

“What?”

“See it? There! The city! Way over! That green city near the lake! It’s splitting in half. It’s falling!”

The men squinted and shuffled forward.

Smith stood trembling among them. He put his hand to his head as if to find a thought there. “I remember. Yes, now I do. A long time back. When I was a child. A book I read. A story. Oz, I think it was. Yes, Oz.The Emerald City of Oz . . .”

“Oz? Never heard of it.”

“Yes, Oz, that’s what it was. I saw it just now, like in the story. I saw it fall.”

“Smith!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Report for psychoanalysis tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir!” A brisk salute.

“Be careful.”

The men tiptoed, guns alert, beyond the ship’s aseptic light to gaze at the long sea and the low hills.

“Why,” whispered Smith, disappointed, “there’s no one here at all, is there? No one here at all.”

The wind blew sand over his shoes, whining.

[janetgannon]

Dick Durham Podcast May 2017

Biscay or bust, 44 years after a disastrously ill-fated attempt, Dick Durham finally makes the fabled crossing

It may be a small one, but it’s still an ocean passage, where the sea is deep and blue and the sky reaches from horizon to horizon

Dick Durham: The last time I tried to cross Biscay I ended up fighting for my life, although I was too young to realise it then. It was the worst storm I’ve ever experienced. But for now, let me tell you about my second Biscay baptism. It was last July and this time there were no preparations for shipwreck, no Maydays, no lifeboat rescue. And yet, still, there were plenty of challenges. We were four strong: my second cousin David Smith, his co-owner Adrian Lower, former rear-commodore of RORC and the crew – John ‘Glum’ Green and myself. The boat was Snatch, a German Frers Swan 48 built in 1998. We took our departure from Lymington in a fresh south-westerly and, later, a forecast of poor visibility and a Force 7 from the same quarter saw us duck into Salcombe after one night at sea to await a veer and have a night in our bunks. However, the run ashore involved unexpected greetings from friends of our skippers, which took a greater toll on our well-being than would a further night of watch-keeping. Worse, the wind was still south-west Force 6 when we left Salcombe the next day. But with no choice but to carry on, we found ourselves east of Ushant by morning with a parted genoa furler and 30 knots on the nose. We all admired David, not just because he sat astride the bow for an hour winding on a jury furling line as spray broke over him, but also because he had only recently rejected a surfeit of rum and coke. The night’s thrash across the Channel had also seen the flailing genoa sheets tear the collapsed inflatable, stowed on the foredeck, from its lashings and hurl it overboard. Other losses included the chain locker dorade and the port light on the pulpit. But we eventually weathered Ushant, which glowed under a brief ray of sunshine, its patchwork of fields pinned down with giant lighthouses, as the next job – a shredded generator fan belt – presented itself. Glum and Adrian spent hours dismantling the watermaker and refrigerator compressor to get at the aforementioned belt. As the engineers slowly reassembled their efforts, bare to the waist and covered in grease, the wind at last veered west and we flew south-west. Unfortunately the ‘fix’ was short-lived as the spare belt also quickly shredded. To conserve power the decision was made to hand-steer, use no lights below and even turn the nav lights on only when we could see other traffic, until we could make port to sort things out. That night the wind went north-west and we made good progress, the tricolour only needing activation as we sailed in among flickering white and red lights, rather like a Christmas tree sales room, which turned out not to be craft but lobster pots. Morning brought another problem; the fridge was no longer being fed with power from the engine. Under a warm sun and with a Force 4 westerly I thrilled to some wonderful helming as the others dismantled and reassembled the generators. They succeded and we were back with nav instruments, cabin lights, and cockpit music, which, personally, I can live without. The following day Spain came over the horizon, along with more problems. We’d eased the halyards, to prevent chafe, so when Adrian goose-winged the genoa the loose halyard jammed in the top of the luff spar and now we could not roll up more than two thirds of its area. With no-one willing to go aloft at sea we sailed into Camariñas in Galicia that evening and anchored within a biscuit toss of the rocks under a pine forest to get some lee. Aloft, David discovered the top of the foil had spread and its jagged fingers had hooked up the genoa halyard and cut it to the core. He changed it for the spinnaker halyard and taped up the foil. But with dense draughts of Rioja, sardines and cod stew we celebrated our landfall. Forty-four years on, I had at last crossed the Bay of Biscay.

Along the Clipper way

Headwinds in Biscay

Biscay Triangle Rally

Biscay Triangle Rally with Yachting Monthly

French ports closed to visiting yachts

Beware Biscay destinations

HMS Pickle beaten up in Biscay

Twin-masted Tall Ship battered by gales

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on Yachting Monthly.

Read Full Content Here

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on YachtAweigh.

from http://yachtaweigh.com/dick-durham-podcast-may-2017/ from https://yachtaweigh.tumblr.com/post/159564237251

[yachtaweigh]

Dick Durham Podcast May 2017

Biscay or bust, 44 years after a disastrously ill-fated attempt, Dick Durham finally makes the fabled crossing

It may be a small one, but it’s still an ocean passage, where the sea is deep and blue and the sky reaches from horizon to horizon

Dick Durham: The last time I tried to cross Biscay I ended up fighting for my life, although I was too young to realise it then. It was the worst storm I’ve ever experienced. But for now, let me tell you about my second Biscay baptism. It was last July and this time there were no preparations for shipwreck, no Maydays, no lifeboat rescue. And yet, still, there were plenty of challenges. We were four strong: my second cousin David Smith, his co-owner Adrian Lower, former rear-commodore of RORC and the crew – John ‘Glum’ Green and myself. The boat was Snatch, a German Frers Swan 48 built in 1998. We took our departure from Lymington in a fresh south-westerly and, later, a forecast of poor visibility and a Force 7 from the same quarter saw us duck into Salcombe after one night at sea to await a veer and have a night in our bunks. However, the run ashore involved unexpected greetings from friends of our skippers, which took a greater toll on our well-being than would a further night of watch-keeping. Worse, the wind was still south-west Force 6 when we left Salcombe the next day. But with no choice but to carry on, we found ourselves east of Ushant by morning with a parted genoa furler and 30 knots on the nose. We all admired David, not just because he sat astride the bow for an hour winding on a jury furling line as spray broke over him, but also because he had only recently rejected a surfeit of rum and coke. The night’s thrash across the Channel had also seen the flailing genoa sheets tear the collapsed inflatable, stowed on the foredeck, from its lashings and hurl it overboard. Other losses included the chain locker dorade and the port light on the pulpit. But we eventually weathered Ushant, which glowed under a brief ray of sunshine, its patchwork of fields pinned down with giant lighthouses, as the next job – a shredded generator fan belt – presented itself. Glum and Adrian spent hours dismantling the watermaker and refrigerator compressor to get at the aforementioned belt. As the engineers slowly reassembled their efforts, bare to the waist and covered in grease, the wind at last veered west and we flew south-west. Unfortunately the ‘fix’ was short-lived as the spare belt also quickly shredded. To conserve power the decision was made to hand-steer, use no lights below and even turn the nav lights on only when we could see other traffic, until we could make port to sort things out. That night the wind went north-west and we made good progress, the tricolour only needing activation as we sailed in among flickering white and red lights, rather like a Christmas tree sales room, which turned out not to be craft but lobster pots. Morning brought another problem; the fridge was no longer being fed with power from the engine. Under a warm sun and with a Force 4 westerly I thrilled to some wonderful helming as the others dismantled and reassembled the generators. They succeded and we were back with nav instruments, cabin lights, and cockpit music, which, personally, I can live without. The following day Spain came over the horizon, along with more problems. We’d eased the halyards, to prevent chafe, so when Adrian goose-winged the genoa the loose halyard jammed in the top of the luff spar and now we could not roll up more than two thirds of its area. With no-one willing to go aloft at sea we sailed into Camariñas in Galicia that evening and anchored within a biscuit toss of the rocks under a pine forest to get some lee. Aloft, David discovered the top of the foil had spread and its jagged fingers had hooked up the genoa halyard and cut it to the core. He changed it for the spinnaker halyard and taped up the foil. But with dense draughts of Rioja, sardines and cod stew we celebrated our landfall. Forty-four years on, I had at last crossed the Bay of Biscay.

Along the Clipper way

Headwinds in Biscay

Biscay Triangle Rally

Biscay Triangle Rally with Yachting Monthly

French ports closed to visiting yachts

Beware Biscay destinations

HMS Pickle beaten up in Biscay

Twin-masted Tall Ship battered by gales

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on Yachting Monthly.

Read Full Content Here

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on YachtAweigh.

from http://yachtaweigh.com/dick-durham-podcast-may-2017/

[janetgannon]

Dick Durham Podcast May 2017

Biscay or bust, 44 years after a disastrously ill-fated attempt, Dick Durham finally makes the fabled crossing

It may be a small one, but it’s still an ocean passage, where the sea is deep and blue and the sky reaches from horizon to horizon

Dick Durham: The last time I tried to cross Biscay I ended up fighting for my life, although I was too young to realise it then. It was the worst storm I’ve ever experienced. But for now, let me tell you about my second Biscay baptism. It was last July and this time there were no preparations for shipwreck, no Maydays, no lifeboat rescue. And yet, still, there were plenty of challenges. We were four strong: my second cousin David Smith, his co-owner Adrian Lower, former rear-commodore of RORC and the crew – John ‘Glum’ Green and myself. The boat was Snatch, a German Frers Swan 48 built in 1998. We took our departure from Lymington in a fresh south-westerly and, later, a forecast of poor visibility and a Force 7 from the same quarter saw us duck into Salcombe after one night at sea to await a veer and have a night in our bunks. However, the run ashore involved unexpected greetings from friends of our skippers, which took a greater toll on our well-being than would a further night of watch-keeping. Worse, the wind was still south-west Force 6 when we left Salcombe the next day. But with no choice but to carry on, we found ourselves east of Ushant by morning with a parted genoa furler and 30 knots on the nose. We all admired David, not just because he sat astride the bow for an hour winding on a jury furling line as spray broke over him, but also because he had only recently rejected a surfeit of rum and coke. The night’s thrash across the Channel had also seen the flailing genoa sheets tear the collapsed inflatable, stowed on the foredeck, from its lashings and hurl it overboard. Other losses included the chain locker dorade and the port light on the pulpit. But we eventually weathered Ushant, which glowed under a brief ray of sunshine, its patchwork of fields pinned down with giant lighthouses, as the next job – a shredded generator fan belt – presented itself. Glum and Adrian spent hours dismantling the watermaker and refrigerator compressor to get at the aforementioned belt. As the engineers slowly reassembled their efforts, bare to the waist and covered in grease, the wind at last veered west and we flew south-west. Unfortunately the ‘fix’ was short-lived as the spare belt also quickly shredded. To conserve power the decision was made to hand-steer, use no lights below and even turn the nav lights on only when we could see other traffic, until we could make port to sort things out. That night the wind went north-west and we made good progress, the tricolour only needing activation as we sailed in among flickering white and red lights, rather like a Christmas tree sales room, which turned out not to be craft but lobster pots. Morning brought another problem; the fridge was no longer being fed with power from the engine. Under a warm sun and with a Force 4 westerly I thrilled to some wonderful helming as the others dismantled and reassembled the generators. They succeded and we were back with nav instruments, cabin lights, and cockpit music, which, personally, I can live without. The following day Spain came over the horizon, along with more problems. We’d eased the halyards, to prevent chafe, so when Adrian goose-winged the genoa the loose halyard jammed in the top of the luff spar and now we could not roll up more than two thirds of its area. With no-one willing to go aloft at sea we sailed into Camariñas in Galicia that evening and anchored within a biscuit toss of the rocks under a pine forest to get some lee. Aloft, David discovered the top of the foil had spread and its jagged fingers had hooked up the genoa halyard and cut it to the core. He changed it for the spinnaker halyard and taped up the foil. But with dense draughts of Rioja, sardines and cod stew we celebrated our landfall. Forty-four years on, I had at last crossed the Bay of Biscay.

Along the Clipper way

Headwinds in Biscay

Biscay Triangle Rally

Biscay Triangle Rally with Yachting Monthly

French ports closed to visiting yachts

Beware Biscay destinations

HMS Pickle beaten up in Biscay

Twin-masted Tall Ship battered by gales

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on Yachting Monthly.

Read Full Content Here

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on YachtAweigh.

from http://yachtaweigh.com/dick-durham-podcast-may-2017/ from https://yachtaweigh.tumblr.com/post/159492086141

[yachtaweigh]

Dick Durham Podcast May 2017

Biscay or bust, 44 years after a disastrously ill-fated attempt, Dick Durham finally makes the fabled crossing

It may be a small one, but it’s still an ocean passage, where the sea is deep and blue and the sky reaches from horizon to horizon

Dick Durham: The last time I tried to cross Biscay I ended up fighting for my life, although I was too young to realise it then. It was the worst storm I’ve ever experienced. But for now, let me tell you about my second Biscay baptism. It was last July and this time there were no preparations for shipwreck, no Maydays, no lifeboat rescue. And yet, still, there were plenty of challenges. We were four strong: my second cousin David Smith, his co-owner Adrian Lower, former rear-commodore of RORC and the crew – John ‘Glum’ Green and myself. The boat was Snatch, a German Frers Swan 48 built in 1998. We took our departure from Lymington in a fresh south-westerly and, later, a forecast of poor visibility and a Force 7 from the same quarter saw us duck into Salcombe after one night at sea to await a veer and have a night in our bunks. However, the run ashore involved unexpected greetings from friends of our skippers, which took a greater toll on our well-being than would a further night of watch-keeping. Worse, the wind was still south-west Force 6 when we left Salcombe the next day. But with no choice but to carry on, we found ourselves east of Ushant by morning with a parted genoa furler and 30 knots on the nose. We all admired David, not just because he sat astride the bow for an hour winding on a jury furling line as spray broke over him, but also because he had only recently rejected a surfeit of rum and coke. The night’s thrash across the Channel had also seen the flailing genoa sheets tear the collapsed inflatable, stowed on the foredeck, from its lashings and hurl it overboard. Other losses included the chain locker dorade and the port light on the pulpit. But we eventually weathered Ushant, which glowed under a brief ray of sunshine, its patchwork of fields pinned down with giant lighthouses, as the next job – a shredded generator fan belt – presented itself. Glum and Adrian spent hours dismantling the watermaker and refrigerator compressor to get at the aforementioned belt. As the engineers slowly reassembled their efforts, bare to the waist and covered in grease, the wind at last veered west and we flew south-west. Unfortunately the ‘fix’ was short-lived as the spare belt also quickly shredded. To conserve power the decision was made to hand-steer, use no lights below and even turn the nav lights on only when we could see other traffic, until we could make port to sort things out. That night the wind went north-west and we made good progress, the tricolour only needing activation as we sailed in among flickering white and red lights, rather like a Christmas tree sales room, which turned out not to be craft but lobster pots. Morning brought another problem; the fridge was no longer being fed with power from the engine. Under a warm sun and with a Force 4 westerly I thrilled to some wonderful helming as the others dismantled and reassembled the generators. They succeded and we were back with nav instruments, cabin lights, and cockpit music, which, personally, I can live without. The following day Spain came over the horizon, along with more problems. We’d eased the halyards, to prevent chafe, so when Adrian goose-winged the genoa the loose halyard jammed in the top of the luff spar and now we could not roll up more than two thirds of its area. With no-one willing to go aloft at sea we sailed into Camariñas in Galicia that evening and anchored within a biscuit toss of the rocks under a pine forest to get some lee. Aloft, David discovered the top of the foil had spread and its jagged fingers had hooked up the genoa halyard and cut it to the core. He changed it for the spinnaker halyard and taped up the foil. But with dense draughts of Rioja, sardines and cod stew we celebrated our landfall. Forty-four years on, I had at last crossed the Bay of Biscay.

Along the Clipper way

Headwinds in Biscay

Biscay Triangle Rally

Biscay Triangle Rally with Yachting Monthly

French ports closed to visiting yachts

Beware Biscay destinations

HMS Pickle beaten up in Biscay

Twin-masted Tall Ship battered by gales

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on Yachting Monthly.

Read Full Content Here

The post Dick Durham Podcast May 2017 appeared first on YachtAweigh.

from http://yachtaweigh.com/dick-durham-podcast-may-2017/