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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 5 years ago

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Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

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fluffyvillain · 5 years ago

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The Bond

Chapter: 1/?

Summary: "You will feel overwhelmed when you meet your soulmate," that's what everyone said. "Indescribable warmth will wash over you, you will feel his and he will feel your euphoria. From that moment on, you will share emotions with each other, you won't even need to speak," that's how it's supposed to be.

Well, that turned out to be only partially true in Mila's case - she watched Henry walk in with a beautiful girl on his arm, not even acknowledging her existence and all of her senses heightened, she became filled with joy, every fiber in her being started vibrating, but all she felt coming from the other side was a feeling of peace and contentment.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/OFC

Warnings: Well, some smut right away

A/N: I decided to give it a shot, why not? It’s also posted on AO3.

20 YEARS EARLIER

7 year old Mila set on a hardwood floor in front of a glass wall in the middle of the night, watching lightnings pierce through the night sky one after the other.

"What are we going to do, James?" Mila's aunt looked at her husband pleadingly.

"Nothing, Rose, you know the therapist said that this is her way of coping."

"But, it's been two years since..." Rose always tried avoiding mentioning the accident in which her sister and brother in law lost their lives, leaving Mila in their care. It was too painful, it was so painful that their mother's heart couldn't handle it and her death followed shortly after.

"Yes, but she's been blocking us out less frequently and I'd rather she blocked us than her having night terrors."

Rose walked over to Mila, kissing her forehead, moving loose strands of hair behind her ears. "Let's go to bed, love." No answer, not even a flinch. "It's cold, you are going to get sick."

James had watched his wife for a while as she tried to get Mila to react before he went to take a blanked and a pillow. He put the pillow next to Mila and the blanket around her back. "You can sleep here tonight if you want to, honey."

He helped his wife get up and he kissed away her tears, feeling her sadness deep inside him, wishing he could do something to take it away. "Maybe we should move back to our place, I think it will be good for the both of you. You won't be surrounded with so many memories."

"We have nothing to lose." She embraced her husband. "Do you know how much I love you, James?"

"I can feel it, the Moon of my life."

10 YEARS EARLIER

"Is there anything new, my child?" Warm smile with teeth barely showing was the most prominent feature of Mila's grandfather's face.

Mila knew what her grandpa was referring to and she knew he was teasing her, but to her it was a very serious subject. "No, gramps. How long do I have to wait? Some of the kids in school already found their soulmates."

"You can't force it and you shouldn't put your life on hold while waiting. You should meet people, travel, enjoy life."

"Which reminds me, can I live alone?" Mila's eyes twinkled with hope.

"Not before you start University next year, then all decisions, but all responsibilities will be on you." He took her hand across the table. "Do you have any problems with your aunt and uncle?"

"I don't, but, even though I know that they don't see me as such, I feel like I'm a burden to them, especially now when kids started school."

"They'd be offended if they knew you told me that."

"And that's why you won't tell them anything. Can you take me on a tour around the hotel again?" Mila loved coming here, she wanted to know every single detail about every hotel her grandfather owned. She came to the one where the headquarter was most often, so she really enjoyed this opportunity, visiting this downtown New York one. Her grandfather made an empire from scratch with many sacrifices, patience, devotion and a lot of risk.

"I have 30 minutes before my next meeting, so let's go." Robert chose to show his granddaughter everything that has changed since her last visit and he ended the tour on the rooftop, Mila's favorite place. "You know, one day, all of this will be yours. You will continue my legacy."

"I'm sure aunt Rose and the twins will continue it too."

"Your aunt is not interested in this the slightest and if the twins take after their parents, they will be even less interested. Of course, they will have a steady income from here, but nothing more. You are the one who cares, you have my drive for success in this business and, most importantly, you love it. You will run it, but you have to start from zero, as if you weren't my granddaughter."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, gramps."

6 MONTHS EARLIER

The twins barely even spoke to Mila after dinner, both of them were watching a basketball game, while their mother sipped wine with Mila. "I can't believe it's been a year since you went to Hawaii."

"Me neither, I absolutely loved it there and I loved working at front desk." Mila relaxed in a chair, swirling the wine.

"So, there's only one department left before you take the place as a CEO."

"I tried to talk my way out of it, but it was in vain. I'm completely hopeless when it comes to F&B sector, I mean serving especially. I can barely remember an order. Plus, this will be mostly banquets involved, I'm going to suffer for the next 6 months. Seriously, waiters are tough people." Her caps and ankles started hurting at just the thought of her previous job as a waitress.

"It will be over in no time and I'm sure you will be an even better manager than my father. Will you be working at the downtown hotel the whole 6 months?"

"Yes, I want to slowly get accustomed to everything. I mean, it's not like they are just going to leave me as a CEO to manage all by myself, but still... And, this way I will get to see if there's a need for change anywhere."

PRESENT TIME

Henry left the bathroom with only a towel on and Elaine looked at the mirror reflecting him as if she saw him for the first time. She loved his body, his heart and his soul. "I wonder how much somebody is ready to pay just to have dinner with you, darling." She got up, walking to her partner, only dressed in a black bra and thong.

"We'll find out tonight. Since it's for charity, I hope a lot." He slammed his body against hers, grabbing her ass with both hands.

"Not now, we don't have time for this." He moved one of his hands to between her legs, rubbing her gently.

"Are you sure?" He moved her panties, slipping one finger inside her, while he continued to rub her with his thumb.

Instead of answering, she removed his towel, letting it drop to the floor. She grabbed his already semi-hard shaft, pumping in gently, until he was fully erect. Her pants became quicker as Henry's movements became faster. As she was getting close to ecstasy, she selfishly let go of Henry, throwing her head back as he held her firmly. "I love it when you come for me, but let's do it together." He guided her to a wall, loving that she was almost his height, so he didn't have to lift her up. It was enough to hook one of her legs over his hip to enter her slowly, keeping her panties to the side until he was inside her completely. He latched his lips on her throat as his movement soon fell out of rhythm, signaling he was close to reaching his peak and Elaine's nails digging in his shoulder blades showed that she was close too. A few more thrusts and she was screaming Henry's name, a few more and he filled her up. As their breathing was coming to normal speed, he kissed every par of her body he could reach. "Elaine, I love you so much. Fuck soulmates, I could never love someone as much as I love you."

"So, it's your last day, Mila. I can't believe I won't be seeing those blue eyes of yours anymore." Martha and Mila took a little break before guests started arriving.

"Who said that?" Mila tried to tame one lock of her brown hair that kept falling out of her bun while looking in the mirror.

"You said you weren't going to work here from tomorrow. Did you change your mind? Or... Wait, wait, there's a rumor that a new CEO will be appointed next week. Do you know him? Are you just changing the department?"

"I have a feeling that it will be a she and I sort of am." Mila straightened Martha's collar a bit. "Let's go."

#henry cavill #soulmates au

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cbdoilinternational · 5 years ago

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Is CBD actually the key to long, solid hair?

It's unquestionably high occasions for the universe of cannabis at this moment. As authorization keeps on spreading across North America, unmistakably shame around cannabis has been drastically diminished and mentalities are moving, with more individuals purchasing and utilizing cannabis items.

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You can try CBD International for Cannabis Oil.

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ashis2gay4u · 6 years ago

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Heroes Of Olympus Heathers! AU

Here's the character list, in case people get confused:

Veronica: Percy Jackson

JD: Nico di Angelo

Martha D: Annabeth Chase

Heather C: Nancy Bobofit

Heather M: Silena Beauregard

Heather D: Drew Tanaka

Ram S: Luke Castellan

Kurt K: Octavian Augur

Big Bud Dean: Hades di Angelo

Veronica's Mom: Sally Jackson

Veronica's Dad: Poseidon Jackson

Kurt and Ram's Dad's: Hermes Castellan / Jeremy Augur

Ms. Fleming: Hecate Hearths

Principal Gowan: Zeus Skyson

'[text]' signifies what Percy is writing in his journal.

Now, on to the story!!

Percy Jackson stepped into the high-school, taking a deep breath as he tightened his grip on his open journal and pen. Another first day at Hell.

A boy bumped into him, one of the jocks.

Percy froze, and glared at him, "Hey, don't be a dick-"

The jock laughed, "What did you just say to me, bitch?" he asked.

"N-nothing," Percy replied, inching away, realizing who he was.

"That's what I thought, wimp," he said, smirking. His best friend walked up to them, and pushed Percy into a locker.

'Introducing Octavian Augur, the lead quarterback of the football team, and his best friend Luke Castellan, the captain.'

'Octavian allows his dick to lead him everywhere, and has a sense of cruelty regarding everybody. He's also the smartest guy on the football team, which is like being the tallest dwarf. Luke is charming, but is obsessed with being known. He did everything and anything to make sure people knew where he stood, and who he was.'

"What you got there, sissy? A diary?" Luke laughed, pointing at it.

"What a fag," Octavian added, knocking it out of his hands.

Percy watched in distaste as the two high-fived, and went to pick up his journal, only to find his best friend Annabeth Chase standing there, holding it out to him.

"Here you go, Seaweed Brain," she said, smiling.

Percy smiled back, taking the journal from her and cradling it against his chest, "Thanks, Wise Girl."

"No problem, Perce."

"Another year of Hell, and then University or College. Did you get your applications replied to yet?" Percy asked, opening his journal to continue his entry.

"Yep, all of them."

"You sent out ten, how in-"

"You must forget why you call me 'Wise Girl', Seaweed Brain," she teased, laughing as he blushed. "What about you?"

"Nothing. I sent out five, and no reply from anywhere. I'm doomed if I can't get into New Rome University, it's where Uncle Neptune and Dad went and they're both top-notch marine biologists."

Annabeth hummed, staring off into the distance. He followed her gaze, and found them both staring at Luke's ass.

"Annabeth-"

"I know, I know... But he has to still love me, I know he does..."

Percy was about to speak up, when people started clearing out the hallway. He quickly pulled Annabeth aside, and watched as the "Heathers" walked by.

They aren't all named Heather, but they definitely fit the trope in their own way; gorgeous, dumb, and cruel.

The first Heather stepped out, brushing her long, claw shaped, hot pink nails through her hair. She wore her usual emerald green outfit as she strutted down the hall, winking at the popular boys and sneering at the geeks and rebels.

'Introducing Drew Tanaka, the "Beauty Queen". Bulimic, narcissistic, and obsessed with sex. Has a mean streak a mile wide.'

Percy didn't like her at all.

The second Heather stepped out, giggling as she stared at her phone, probably texting her boyfriend. She wore her usual yellow attire, which she somehow managed to pull off despite her black hair and crystal blue eyes.

'Silena Beauregard, the "dumb" one. She was sweet and kinder than the other two, but she got picked on for it often by her two best friends.'

Percy liked Silena, they used to be friends when they were younger, but then high school came and they stopped talking. He's sure she doesn't even know his name anymore.

The final Heather stepped out, donning her blood red clothes and scrunchie. She walked to the front of the group, seeming unimpressed with her friends.

'And last but not least, Nancy Bobofit, the queen fuckin' bee...'

Percy paused in his writings, before smirking.

'She is a mythic bitch.'

People started whispering about them, saying how they'd wish they were nicer, how pretty they were, how sitting at their table even once grants immunity, etc.

One guy made a creepy comment about a basement, nudity, a camera, and rats, but he chose to ignore it for his own sanity.

He watched as they went into one of the few non-gendered washrooms, fitted with three toilets, three stalled urinals, and three sinks each.

He suddenly felt the urge to pee, and after giving Annabeth a look of "wish me luck" he followed them in, heading into the first stall he saw.

Toilet, dammit all.

He could hear Drew puking in the stall next to his, and he cringed inwardly as Nancy said, "Pull it together, Drew. Bulimia is so last year."

"Yeah, Drew, maybe you should see a doctor," Silena added helpfully in a softer tone.

"Maybe you're right, Silena, I should."

The door opened, and the voice of Hecate Hearths, the student counselor, rang out into the room.

"Ah, Nancy, Silena..." She paused as she heard Drew puking again, "...And of course, Drew. Didn't you hear the bell? You're all late for class."

Percy quickly set to work in his journal, a plan forming in his head.

"Drew isn't feeling well, we're helping her," Nancy said sweetly. Her voice made Percy's blood boil, but he knew he couldn't back out now that the note was finished.

"Actually, Miss Hearths, I have the hall pass right here!" Percy said, flushing and stepping out of the stall.

Drew was now standing next to her friends, and the three of them stared at Percy in shock and awe.

Miss Hearth checked the note, and nodded. "Alright, but get back to class soon!"

As soon as she was gone, Percy found himself cornered by the three girls.

"Who are you?" Nancy demanded, glaring at him.

"P-Percy Jackson."

"Why would you do that?" Drew questioned next, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I want immunity," he blurted, "If you let me sit at your table just once, no talking necessary, people will think you at least tolerate me and leave me alone."

Nancy laughed, "Seriously?"

"I also do report cards and late slips!" he added.

"What about prescriptions?" Drew asked curiously.

"Drew!"

"Sorry, Nancy."

Nancy grabbed his chin, squishing his cheeks, and moved his face side to side, "For a greasy little nobody, you do have good bone structure..."

"And a symmetrical face!" Silena said excitedly, "If I took a meat cleaver down the center of your skull, I'd have two matching halves. Very important!"

"Of course, you could stand to lose a few pounds," Drew said, smirking at him.

"You know, this could be beautiful... Some eyeliner, maybe some light eye-shadow and mascara, and we're on our way. Silena, get this boy some blush, and Drew I need your brush. Let's make him beautiful~"

"Let's make him beautiful!" the other two repeated, doing as they were told.

"Okay?" Nancy asked sweetly as she sat him on the counter of the sink.

"Okay!" Percy said excitedly.

Percy was nervous as they all stepped out of the bathroom during second period, his face all made up with a blue-green eye shadow, black eyeliner, red blush, and mascara. His hair was somehow tamed due to Nancy's harsh brushing.

People turned to look at the four of them, and once again, the halls erupted into whispers.

"Who's that guy?"

"Who's the sexy dude?"

"Who is he?"

Nancy smirked and pushed him to the forefront, and Percy gasped as he turned to see Annabeth staring at him, "Percy...?"

"Percy."

"Percy?"

"Percy!"

Everybody started fawning over him, and his face lit up like a lighthouse on the shore at night, "Fuck yes!"

Nancy smirked, turning to the other girls. She nodded her chin at Annabeth, who was staring at Percy with a look of shock.

"Let's see how much of a man he really is," she whispered.

Drew and Silena nodded, giggling.

"No, no way!" Percy said, "It'll crush her!"

Nancy's smile faded to a snarl, "Are we gonna have a problem here?" she snapped, glaring him down.

He gulped, backing away.

"You've got a bone to pick?" she advanced, backing him up against the lockers. Drew and Silena moved to block his only two exits.

"You've come so far, why now are you pulling on my dick? I'd normally slap your face off, and everybody here could watch~" she purred, smirking.

Percy suddenly became aware of everybody watching the scene in silence, and he felt his body begin to tremble in fear.

Drew snatched the note from his hand and headed towards Luke.

He barely managed to get it back from her, but he gripped it like a lifeline as Nancy snapped her head in his direction.

"Well, I'm feeling nice, so here's some advice, listen up, bitch."

Silena, in all her pure glory, began to speak, Drew following her lead.

"I like!" They managed to say it in sync, which scared Percy half to death.

"Lookin' hot, buying stuff they cannot~" Nancy sang, her voice much more attractive than her face.

"I like!"

"Drinking hard, maxing dad's credit card~"

"I like!"

"Skippin' gym, scaring her-" she turned and smirked towards Annabeth, causing Percy's blood to run like ice through his veins, "-screwing him~" she then pointed at Octavian, who waved.

"I like!"

"Killer clothes, kicking nerds in the nose!"

He scrambled back as her leg swung up inches away from his face.

It's official, he's died and gone to Hell.

"If you lack the balls, you can go play dolls, let your mommy fix you a snack!" Nancy snapped, advancing again, "Or you could come smoke, pound some rum and coke, in my Porsche with the quarterback!"

"Honey what you waiting for?" Silena asked, managing to slip the note from his grip.

He reached out for it, only to have Drew block his way, "Step into my candy store!"

"You just gotta prove you ain't a pussy, anymore!" Nancy said, motioning to Silena, who had already delivered the note.

"And step into our candy store~" the three said, smirking.

"Percy, Percy look! Luke just invited me to his homecoming party! This proves he's been thinking about me!" Annabeth said, rushing over, the note in hand.

"Color me stoked," Percy said nervously, feeling extremely guilty at the excited look on her face.

"I'm so happy!" she said, seeming on the verge of tears.

"Yeah..." he said, forcing a smile.

"McDonald's has always been my place to go, always. No matter where we move, it's always right there!" Nico di Angelo said with a small smile.

Percy laughed, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach as he payed for the coffees, "Yeah, but it'll make you fat."

"Not if you work out daily, it doesn't," Nico insisted, "Come on, do I look fat to you?"

Percy, in all his idiocy, made the mistake of eyeing him up and down, hoping Nico didn't notice how his eyes lingered on his lips.

Blushing, he said, "No, you don't."

"Exactly."

"PERCY! WHERE IS MY COFFEE?"

"C-coming!"

"You have some... Interesting choice in friends."

"Yeah, I hate them, but I need them."

"Why?"

Percy said nothing, merely walked out.

That question is what was brought to the forefront of his mind as Nancy stood before him, hands on her hips.

"Nobody will talk to you, touch you, or even look at you! You don't get to be a nobody, you get to be dead to everybody!" she screeched, causing his ears to hurt.

Silena giggled, "I know who I'm sitting with at lunch on Monday."

Drew smirked, "Do you, big boy~?"

Percy turned to look at the others at the party, but everybody was turned away.

"I-"

"Come Monday morning... Percy stew will be on the menu~" Nancy purred with a smirk akin to that of a wolves before it tore out the jugular of it's prey.

He fled the party, tears in his eyes.

"P-Percy, what are you doing in my room?"

Percy took a deep breath as he stared at the other boy, before smirking, all of his uneasiness fading away as he stepped away from the window.

"I'm sorry, but I really had to wake you."

"W-why?"

Percy's smirk evolved into a huge grin, his cheeks flushing a dark red, "You see... I decided I must ride you 'til I break you~"

"W-what-"

"Nancy says I got to go, you're my last meal on Death Row," he purred, moving to straddle the younger boy, "So shut your stupid mouth, and lose those boxers~"

Nico's face went bright red, and he pulled Percy down for a kiss.

The rest of the night went even better then Percy had hoped it would.

"She's dead! Fuck! I just killed my best friend-"

"Percy, calm down, love," Nico cooed, cupping the older boy's face.

"W-we need to call 911-"

"-and get ourselves arrested for murder?" Nico questioned, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, what do you suggest we do?" Percy shouted, on the verge of a panic attack.

"Suicide note," Nico said, standing up and grabbing a pen and paper. "Write."

"Hey, Dad!" Hades di Angelo said, smiling at his son.

Nico rolled his eyes, his grip around Percy's shoulder getting tighter, "Hey, son."

"How was work?" Hades asked, before changing his voice, "Oh! It was crazy! They wouldn't let me blow it up, but I did it anyways!"

"That's great, son."

"Thanks, Dad," Hades finally noticed Percy, who smiled weakly and waved shyly, "Hey, Dad, meet my new girlfriend!" he added in a poor imitation of Nico's voice.

"Dad, this is Percy. Percy, this is.. My dad."

"Hello, Percy."

"Hi, Hades..."

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Hades asked.

"Oh, no... My mom is making my favorite for dinner, fried salmon. With lots of ah... Salt."

"Oh, that's funny, isn't it dad? The last time I saw mom, she was waving out of a building you blew up seconds later."

"Yes, son," Hades said darkly, "Yes, it was."

"Uhm... I'm gonna go..."

"Drew! Silena! Open the door!"

"On no, oh no!" Drew laughed, locking the doors.

Silena gave him an apologetic glance, "No, no... No."

"You make our balls so blue~" Luke sang drunkenly.

"They're hanging sadly~" Octavian added.

Percy ran off, tears in his eyes and a burning rage in the pit of his stomach..

"Sword fight, eh?" Drew purred, the red scrunchie in her hair standing out against the green outfit she wore.

"What?" Percy questioned, staring at her deadpan.

"The sword fight in your mouth, idiot," Drew snarled.

"What? When-"

"Last night, yeah! Turns out the pretty girl was Percy Jackson dressed in drag!" a kid said from a few meters away.

'What?'

"Oh, everybody is talking about last night, Percy~"

"You bitch-"

"Apparently not like you, mutt. Go slobber on some more cock, eh?"

"Sword fight, eh?"

"Nico, I-"

"I know, Sea Prince, I know. Come on, we'll make 'em pay~"

Nico smirked as he loaded up his gun, "Not real, just tranquilizers. My grandpa Kronos brought them back from World War two."

"Well... Okay. What do we do though?"

"Plant a note saying they killed themselves for being gay for each other."

"Hah! Brilliant!"

"Mmhmm, they made you cry, so now they'll pay. They'll wake up as laughingstocks."

"I love you," Percy said, kissing Nico.

He hummed against Percy's lips, "Our love is God, baby."

"We love our dead gay sons, whether they were pansies or not!" Hermes Castellan and Jeremy Augur said at the funeral, just before Luke's poor mother broke down in tears.

"My son!" she wailed, "My beautiful, beautiful son!"

"You're a fucking psychopath! Get the hint, Nico!"

"But, Babe, our love is God~"

"Then God is dead!" Percy screamed, glaring daggers at the other.

He stormed off, ignoring Nico's call of, "You'll be back, sure as day turns into night! Nothing can break our bond!"

Silena clung to him, gripping his t-shirt so tightly he was scared her nails would cut into his skin through the fabric.

"I stand in a boat... On a raging black ocean, low in the water, and nowhere to go... The loneliest lifeboat, filled with people I know..."

"I know, Silena, but don't worry, we'll make it to shore someday..."

"Percy, please, talk to us son!" Poseidon Jackson cried, waving the book Moby Dick around.

"Your problems seem like life and death," Sally Jackson added, staring at her son with tears in her eyes, "But believe me, they aren't!"

"You don't know what my life is like!" Percy screamed back.

"Yo, boy, keep it together~" Nancy purred in his ear.

"You've burned that red scrunchie, come join us in Hell!" Octavian and Luke said in unison.

"Somebody's here for you~" Nancy said, smirking.

Percy's eyes widened, and he rushed upstairs.

"Don't make me come in there, Percy."

"Go away! I'll scream, and Mom'll call the cops!"

"Don't you want to make s'mores with me? We can smile and cuddle while their screams burn out! Ha! Get it, burn out?"

Percy knew he had only minutes to figure out how to get away, when he spotted the bed sheets.

'He wants suicide so badly? I'll give him one he didn't plan...'

"Percy, open the door! Open the door right now!" Nico snapped, brandishing his gun.

Silence.

"Don't make me come in there!"

Silence.

"On the count of three!"

Silence.

"One!"

Silence.

"Two- Fuck it!"

He kicked in the door, and froze at what he saw.

"No... Percy, why...?" Nico whispered brokenly, dropping to his knees. "You were all I could trust... Please don't leave me alone..."

The hanging body said nothing, merely swung back and forth.

"I can't do this alone," Nico sobbed, yanking at his hair. He suddenly got a crazy look on his face, onyx eyes wide and crazed, his grin so wide it could split his face in half, "Still, I will if I must!

He climbed back out the window, laughing.

"Percy?" Sally questioned, "I brought you a snack, blue cookies-"

She saw him there, hanging in the closet, and screamed.

His eyes opened.

"Drop the bomb."

Nico chuckled, "Oh, this little thing? I'd barely call this a bomb..." Percy gaped as the smile on Nico's face stretched, a crazed look in his eyes. “This is merely to trigger the packs of thermals upstairs in the gym, now those are bombs!”

Percy knew he didn’t stand much of a chance against Nico, but he also knew he had to try.

Nobody was going to hurt his friends anymore.

"I'm a fucking dead boy walking, and you're going down with me!" Percy shouted, tackling Nico to the floor.

Nico laughed, "I knew that noose was too loose!"

The gun went skidding far off, and as Percy was just about to reach it, Nico pinned him to the ground, smiling at him crazily. "I don't think so~!"

Just as his hands clasped around Percy's neck, a gunshot rang off.

Percy gave a sob as Nico spat up some blood, his beautiful onyx eyes wide in shock.

And then the unexpected happened.

Nico kissed him, sweet and gentle, before standing up and grabbing the bomb.

"I.. Am damaged. Far too damaged," Nico said softly.

Percy merely stared at him, not knowing where this was going.

"But you... You are not beyond repair," he added, looking up at him with a sad smile. He pressed the button on the bomb, the one to set it off.

"Wait-"

"Stick around a little longer, make things better, it's too late for me."

"Please, no!"

"You beat me fair and square..."

"Nico-"

"Please, stand back now, I'm not quite sure what this thing will do... I don't want my Sea Prince getting hurt," the younger replied, motioning with his hand for Percy to back up.

Percy took ten steps back, eyes wide in horror as the timer clicked down.

10.

"A little further..."

Percy took a dozen more steps back, full-on sobbing by this point.

"Our love is God, baby," Nico said with certainty.

"...Say hi to God."

"You look like Hell," Drew said with a sneer.

"I just got back," Percy replied, walking up to her.

"Hey-! What're you-"

In one swift motion, he kissed her cheek, yanking the red scrunchie from her hair.

"No more. War is over. We're all damaged, we're all broken up and hurt, but that's okay! We'll heal, all of us! If nobody loves us now, someday, somebody will."

Drew put a hand to her cheek, blushing as she glared, "You stupid-"

"Shut up, Drew," Silena said, "Percy's right."

Percy smiled at her, and she smiled back at him softly.

He turned to Annabeth, who was sat in her wheelchair, "Annabeth, are you free tonight...? I was thinking, maybe, we could hang out..? Rent a movie, something with a happy ending..?"

"Are there any happy endings...?" Annabeth asked softly.

"Maybe not now, but someday there will be," he said confidently.

She smiled, throwing her arms open.

He eagerly obliged, hugging her tightly.

"For now, let's party!" A kid yelled.

For the first time since he first became a "Heather", Percy felt happy, and free.

{La Fin}

~Ashton Bende

#percyjackson #heathers!au #nico di angelo #percico #nicercy #blb #trigger warnings #character death #heathers

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lovemiraclehunter-blog · 7 years ago

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Changes In Diet And Lifestyle Does Not Prevent Alzheimer's Disease

Changes In Diet And Lifestyle Does Not Prevent Alzheimer's Disease. There is not enough hint to imply that improving your lifestyle can protect you against Alzheimer's disease, a original review finds. A group put together by the US National Institutes of Health looked at 165 studies to appreciate if lifestyle, diet, medical factors or medications, socioeconomic status, behavioral factors, environmental factors and genetics might assist prevent the mind-robbing condition chudai. Although biological, behavioral, societal and environmental factors may contribute to the delay or prevention of cognitive decline, the post-mortem authors couldn't draw any firm conclusions about an association between modifiable risk factors and cognitive drop down or Alzheimer's disease. However, one expert doesn't belive the report represents all that is known about Alzheimer's aunties. "I found the news to be overly pessimistic and sometimes mistaken in their conclusions, which are largely tired from epidemiology, which is almost always inherently inconclusive," said Greg M Cole, associate director of the Alzheimer's Center at the University of California, Los Angeles. The right problem is that everything scientists recall suggests that intervention needs to occur before cognitive deficits begin to show themselves. Unfortunately, there aren't enough clinical trials underway to bargain definitive answers before aging Baby Boomers will begin to be ravaged by the disease extenderdlx.com. "This implies interventions that will snitch five to seven years or more to complete and cost around $50 million. That is reasonably expensive, and not a good timeline for trial-and-error work. Not if we want to beat the clock on the Baby Boomer ease bomb". The report is published in the June 15 online distribution of the Annals of Internal Medicine. The panel, chaired by Dr Martha L Daviglus, a professor of counter-agent medicine at the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern University, found that although lifestyle factors - such as eating a Mediterranean diet, consuming omega-3 fatty acids, being physically occupied and open in leisure activities - were associated with a lower risk of cognitive decline, the accepted evidence is "too weak to justify strongly recommending them to patients". In addition, while factors such as the gene marker APOEe4, the metabolic syndrome (which includes chance factors such as obesity, great in extent cholesterol and high blood pressure), and depression were associated with a higher risk of cognitive decline, again the confirmation was not convincing, the panel found. Moreover, "there is insufficient evidence to guy wire the use of pharmaceutical agents or dietary supplements to prevent cognitive decline or Alzheimer's disease," the panel wrote. There was unmistakeable evidence that smokers or people with diabetes do have an increased risk for cognitive decline. Dr Sam Gandy, subsidiary director of the Alzheimer's Disease Research Center at Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York City, agreed that to unqualifiedly settle the theme of whether lifestyle has an impact on dementia, clinical trials need to be conducted. "The next steps will be randomized clinical trials of the items that are most tame to study: physical exercise, mental exercise, diet, to the hang of whether we can prove that our epidemiological leads can be validated using the 'gold standard' clinical trial paradigm". The panel did note that there is a lot of optimistic research on medication, diet, exercise and keeping mentally active as ways of slowing or preventing cognitive decline. "What you do to give up from getting the disease may vary with the nature of your risk. This is plebeian sense but not always built into the thinking of clinical trial design. These are some of the things that we requisite to change. Otherwise, we may end up with more or less the same expert panel report 10 years from now". Another expert, Maria Carrillo, superior director of medical and scientific relations at the Alzheimer's Association, believes the look lays out an agenda for what is needed to build evidence for preventing Alzheimer's disease. "But we are not current to be able to fulfill that agenda if we don't have the increases in federal funding in order to get that done. We separate that without treatments this disease is going to bankrupt our economy. So we need to back up that agenda with the dollars". Alzheimer's disability comprises 60 percent to 80 percent of all dementia cases, and may affect as many as 5,1 million Americans delivery. The horde of people with mild cognitive impairment is even larger, the examine authors added.

#alzheimer #disease #cognitive #factors #decline #panel #lifestyle

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aion-rsa · 5 years ago

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The Batman Animated Series You Never Saw

https://ift.tt/3kBR9Cx

On Sept. 28, 1985 the world got a glimpse of what could have been a very different Batman animated series. The fourth episode of that year’s incarnation of Hanna-Barbera’s long running Super Friends animated series (Super Powers: Galactic Guardians) is “The Fear.” Unlike previous episodes, it wasn’t focused on the Justice League and their ongoing battle against cosmic forces of evil, but instead was firmly grounded in Gotham City and a battle between Batman and the Scarecrow.

Galactic Guardians was the eighth and final season of Hanna-Barbera’s beloved Super Friends franchise, and it was a notable departure from what came before. Galactic Guardians stories were more in keeping with DC Comics of the day, the animation style drew heavily on the work of Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez, the artist behind the DC Comics Style Guide of the era, and for the second season in a row, the show leaned on Jack Kirby’s Fourth World mythology for its conflicts, thanks to the presence of villains like Darkseid, Desaad, and Kalibak.

Among the animation luminaries behind the scenes on Galactic Guardians was one Alan Burnett, who would go on to occupy a special place in fan’s hearts for his work as writer, story editor, and producer on Batman: The Animated Series, Superman: The Animated Series, Batman Beyond, and many other DC animated projects.

What eventually became “The Fear” began life as a pitch for a Saturday morning Batman cartoon for ABC. When that didn’t work out, it became a Galactic Guardians episode.

“I can’t say that it really came close,” Burnett recalled when I spoke to him at New York Comic Con in 2019. “We sort of foisted the idea…let’s at least do a pilot script and see how it feels. [The network] appreciated it and they let us do a version of that story in Galactic Guardians…but it was just too dark for them.”

And dark it was, at least by the Saturday morning cartoon standards of the day. Right out of the gate, “The Fear” is a more moody affair than traditional Super Friends episodes, with much of the action taking place on a rainy Gotham City night, and a Batman whose rain-streaked face gives way to tears as he remembers his past. And while other heroes do appear, it’s firmly a Batman and Robin story as they take on the Scarecrow and his “straw men” henchmen in Gotham City. But perhaps most importantly, “The Fear” features the first onscreen depiction of Batman’s origin, including the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Of course, this being the 1980s, where Broadcast Standards and Practices divisions ruled over Saturday morning cartoons with an iron fist, there was only so much they could show. For one thing, Scarecrow doesn’t use his trademark “fear gas” to induce traumatic hallucinations, and instead uses “fear transmitters” shaped like skulls that emit a hypnotic signal. It’s through those “fear transmitters” that we learn that Batman is terrified of a specific alley in Gotham City, and it’s here we see, in flashback, the Wayne murders…albeit in a fashion appropriate for children’s programming of the era.

The Origin of Batman

It’s the familiar story: Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne are leaving a showing of a Robin Hood film (not The Mark of Zorro or some variation as has become canon in the decades since) when they take an ill-advised shortcut down a dark alley, despite young Bruce’s protests. There they encounter a mugger and…well…you know the rest.

But since this is a piece of children’s programming from the 1980s, the gun is never shown, nor is the word “gun” even spoken. Instead, a terrified Bruce cries “Look out! He’s got a…” before the sky is split by thunder and lightning. The next shot is of Bruce and Alfred standing at his parents’ graves. We’re even treated to a montage of Bruce’s training that looks very much like the “Who He Is and How He Came to Be” story that appeared in 1939’s Detective Comics #33 (reprinted the following year in Batman #1), the first time Batman’s origin was ever told in the comics.

This may seem tame by today’s standards, but in an era where Batman wasn’t the pop culture fixture he is now, and when the average person didn’t even know how he came to wage his war on crime, it was a pretty big deal.

“It was the first time that the death of Bruce Wayne’s parents was shown, and it was being shown on Saturday morning,” Burnett says. “So we did tricks with lightning bolts and stuff like that, cutaways, but the people who knew Batman, they got the idea.”

The Mood and the Supporting Cast

But even when you set aside the novelty of seeing Batman’s origin portrayed on screen for the first time, “The Fear” still plays like the pilot it was intended as. In general, it was pretty rare for characters to appear in their secret identities on Super Friends cartoons, but Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson get considerable screen time. Similarly, the supporting casts of JLA members almost never got screen time on these shows, but here we get Alfred Pennyworth and a very comics-accurate Commissioner Gordon.

There’s a scene where Bruce is hosting a policeman’s charity ball at Wayne Manor where he interacts with both Gordon and Jonathan Crane (who is early enough in his career as Scarecrow that nobody has caught on to him), and this scene, its nighttime setting, and the accompanying dialogue wouldn’t be entirely out of place in an episode of Batman: The Animated Series a decade later.

The Dark Batman: The Animated Series Episodes You Never Saw

By John Saavedra

Of course, this is still a Super Friends show, so other heroes do eventually appear. Wonder Woman shows up, although she spends most of her screen time in her Diana Prince identity. Interestingly, she seems to be the first person Batman has ever confided his origin story to, including Robin!

As a further relic of the show’s roots as a Batman pilot, Burnett told Back Issue magazine in 2017 that Diana’s parts were originally written for Vicki Vale. By episode’s end, Superman, Green Lantern, and Samurai also lend a hand in the fight against Scarecrow, but none are active enough participants to steal Batman’s spotlight.

Adam West Returns as Batman

As he did throughout Super Powers: Galactic Guardians, legendary TV Batman Adam West voices Batman and Bruce Wayne. While West had voiced Batman in animation several times before (notably on Filmation’s The New Adventures of Batman and two episodes of The New Scooby-Doo Movies), this was his first stint with the Super Friends (longtime Batman voice Olan Soule notably did the honors for most previous seasons). Longtime Robin voice Casey Kasem paired up with West. But if a new Batman series would have taken off at the time, that might not have been the case for the show.

“I think we would’ve gotten a whole new Batman. That’s my feeling,” Burnett says. “I loved Adam West and when I did the Super Friends, I wanted him to be that Batman and he was, it was great.”

Was There More?

Unfortunately, we may never know that else was in store for this 1980s Batman animated series, but Burnett does say that planning got as far as a full series bible. “There was a Bible written and where it is, I don’t know,” he recalled.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Still, “The Fear” is a fascinating look at what might have been, and an essential part of Batman history. Far moodier than its contemporaries, you can see the seeds of what was to come in Batman: The Animated Series, albeit in a far more “traditional” DC Comics animated style. It’s currently available to watch on DC Universe, and any serious Batfan should give it a look.

The post The Batman Animated Series You Never Saw appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2EiLtxG

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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justpeachy--keen · 7 years ago

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Excerpts from the Diary of Daisy Juliet O’Hara

Dated: October 21, 2016 - August 11, 2017

[tw - talk of noncon kissing (pretty tame) and murder (also pretty tame)

October 21, 2016 Dear Diary,

Can you take back a first kiss? I want to. I think I’m going to, because mine was gross. That’s because Devon is gross. I don’t know why I let him kiss me. Well, I didn’t really let him. He just kind of did it! It was there and over so fast I didn’t know what to do. I don’t even remember anything about it. What did it feel like? I dunno. What did it taste like? Ugh, that awful vodka stuff.

*Note One: does all vodka taste that awful? Why do grown ups drink it? Especially if it makes you do stupid things like kiss your sister!!

It was even more dumb because he yelled at me afterwards for pushing him. He was all: “Daisy!! What was that for?!” And then Mark sided with him, saying I shouldn’t have pushed him in the first place and that they were just messing around. Boys are so dumb.

Anyway, I feel much better now that I have decided to pretend it didn’t happen. That means when I get my real first kiss with Malik, it will be amazing. Maybe my foot will even do that pop thing like Mia talks about in Princess Diaries! That would be super cool. Then I’ll know it is my first real kiss.

*Note Two: Ask Malik if he wants to go see the Great Gilly Tompkins this weekend!

That’s all for now. Hopefully I’ll have something more interesting to report tomorrow when I hear back from Malik.

Adios! Daisy Juliet O’Hara

December 25, 2016 Dear Dairy,

I love Christmas, don’t get me wrong. BUT THIS MORNING!!! Oh, I could’ve killed Veronica. She came into my room and started bouncing on my bed at like 7 in the morning! What is the point of having my own bedroom if people just barge into it all the time? I was sooooo annoyed and I yelled at her and then I made her cry and then Mark yelled at me and Angelica and Thomas weren’t even awake yet.

But, oh well! The rest of the day was really fun.

Angelica and Thomas (or “Santa Claus” as they still pretend since Veronica and Rachel are still babies who believe in that kind of stuff) gave me a new computer! It doesn’t have internet access, but that’s okay because I don’t really #surftheweb anyway. I’ve got my phone for that.

*Note One: do Angelica and Thomas even know I have internet on my phone? Best not to mention it, just in case. What would I do without Instagram?!

My laptop was really my only gift because it was soooo expensive, but that is okay because it is all I really wanted anyway!

I gave everyone stories, you wanna know what they were about?

Well, Angelica got a story about a lady that couldn’t have kids adopting a bunch with all these special abilities and then one day this bad guy comes along and all her kids like totally protect her from the bad guy. It was really cool, it made her cry.

Thomas got a story about this guy who just made all these wood carvings and they were like so good that they came to life and started wreaking havoc in the town! He told me it was really creative and funny.

Mark got a story about a jock who secretly loves theatre a la HSM—he didn’t like it but that’s just because I exposed his secret. But!! Angelica thought it was really cool he wanted to start a band that, like, specifically toured around at old folks home and like—hospitals. I think that sounds really dumb and boring but he is a good singer.

Devon got a superhero story, it was pretty cliché but I got to work on my action scenes, which is important. So, that’s good. He liked it. Kissed my cheek for it.

Rachel got a story about a girl who finds out she’s a princess but her family was like—banished and everyone had died but her and she had to reclaim the throne. It was super cool because I made sure the girl was like a bad ass and like knew kung fu.

Veronica got a story about dogs. I’m not really good at anthropomorphic stuff and it wasn’t my favorite, but I think she liked it! I made sure the main dog was her favourite kind, even though I think that bull terriers are really funny looking.

Okay!! I’m getting called down for supper!

Adios! Daisy Juliet O’Hara

January 23, 2016 Dear Diary,

Today, someone moved in two houses down and on the other side of the street. Angelica brought him coffee cake, but she told Thomas that he was really weird. She didn’t think I was listening, but I was. Sometimes I sit with my headphones in and not playing so that I can hear what people are saying and they think I’m not.

This is how I found out Mrs. Howell was cheating on her husband with the Geometry teacher. Ohmigosh that was so funny. Her husband still doesn’t know but I’m not going to be the one to tell him, of course. Though, most of the school knows by now. That’s not my fault. I only told Malik and Patrick and Melanie and James and Marta, it’s up to them who they tell. Not me.

Anyway, I think I’m curious, so I’m gonna go investigate tomorrow.

Adios! Daisy Juliet O’Hara

February 5, 2017 Dear Diary,

Woooooooooooow, okay, so I was supppppper busy these last few days (which is why I haven’t written in you!) and I’m super sorry about that. But! This girl went missing from down the street. She was like my age-ish. I think she was 18? Her name was Sally and she was super cool, like—she dyed her hair funky colours and she invited these men who had like beards or like, wore suits, over allllll the time when her parents weren’t home and she smoked weed too.

I think she ran off with some man. I told Angelica and Thomas this and they sent me to my room for joking around, but I’m not!! I really think she did. Sometimes her parents got in really nasty fights and then she would leave to go stay at her friend’s house.

She’s not there, though, so that means that she just ran away. Seems pretty simple to me. The police are so stupid.

Adios! Daisy Juliet O’Hara

March 25, 2017 Dear Diary,

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SWEET SIXTEEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’M PRACTICALLY AN ADULT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh my gosh, I had such a good day!! Having your birthday on a weekend is like soooooo much better than having your birthday during the week. I didn’t have to worry about homework or anything like that! All my friends were free and we went to the Australian zoo which was just sooo cool. Oh my gosh, we tried to steal this adorable baby goat from the petting zoo and we got so close too, I’m so mad! It’s all Marta’s fault, she started laughing and broke my concentration and I dropped the invisibility around the goat in the middle of the parking lot!!

Everyone saw it. I was so mad at her. But, well, I dunno what I would do with a baby goat anyway. I just thought it was super cute and if I could get it for free, well! Why not?

The zoo keepers were pretty mad and so were my foster parents but I think it’s going to be okay. They gave me a pass since it is my birthday and they’re not going to ground me so that’s really cool of them. Thomas said something along the lines of “gosh, I can’t imagine what she’s going to do for her eighteenth birthday!”

And I said: “I don’t know either! But it’s gonna be GREAT!”

They started laughing at me. I dunno why but I could tell they just thought it was funny. Angelica shook her head at me but Thomas gave me a big kiss on top of my head.

I kinda hope they adopt me before then. I love them a lot.

Adios, Daisy Juliet O’Hara

May 9, 2017

The girl sat on a bench in the quad at her high school. It was lunch time and she was very nervous. Not because of lunch, but because of the boy walking towards her. She had put her make up on very carefully today, and she had had her outfit picked out for like a whole week. It was a pair of black jeans and bright pink and yellow trainers, her shirt was a soft yellow, not too obnoxious, and frilly—a spaghetti strap, and she was wearing a cool leather jacket over it because it was a little breezy (she was glad she put her hair in a ponytail.)

The boy sat down next to her and gave her a hug. “Hey, Daisy Rose! You look nice!”

“So do you,” she complimented.

And he did. He was wearing a leather jacket too, and he looked even cooler in it than she did. He’d styled his jet black hair and he kind of looked like a person from that movie Greece that Angelica Amy liked to watch sometimes.

“Thanks!” he said. “So, uhhhh—Patrick Peter told me that Marta Martha told him that James John said that you’d told him in first period you wanted to talk to me?”

“Oh, yeah!” Rose said, “I was wondering if you wanted to be my boyfriend?”

“Ohmygosh! I thought you’d never ask me,” Malik Waseem exclaimed and leaned in to kiss her. They totally made out with tongue and everyone in the cafeteria clapped.

*Note One: that’s not what happened. Apparently, Malik has been dating Melanie for like two months and he didn’t tell any of us until today.

Adios, Daisy Juliet O’Hara

August 11, 2017 Dear Diary,

They found Sally from up the street’s body today.

Someone murdered her but no one can figure out how. She was just—dead. There were like no stab wounds or bruises or anything. Her eyes were like—wide open? Have you ever seen a dead person’s eyes before? It’s super creepy. They just—stare at you but like you can tell nothing is there and that they are dead.

I probably shouldn’t have snuck up to the crime scene but it was like right by our house and in my defense I didn’t know that was what it was. I just saw the cop cars.

No one knows who killed her but I guess she didn’t run away after all.

Adios, Daisy Juliet O’Hara

#bdrplabors #self para #peach writes #this makes me wanna write #a whole book like this lol

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sonofhistory · 8 years ago

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What was James Monroe's opinion of William Short? Was he jealous that he wasn't Jefferson's only adopted son?

James Monroe never left exactly a written account of his opinions of William Short. For Monroe, however, it took a lot of Monroe to even hold a grudge against another person let alone hate them.

William Short and James Monroe’s first encounter can be pin-pointed to sometime in the summer or fall of 1775. Monroe was sixteen years old and just beginning his freshman year of College of William & Mary. William Short was fifteen and he was also entering the freshman class. It seems highly unlikely that there was not a single meeting or conversation between considering the small class of only about twenty to forty students. By February of 1775, Monroe had dropped out of the College and enlisted in the army at the age of only seventeen, Short, on the other hand, never had many military duty of any sort and remained at the College until 1779 when he finally graduated.

By 1780 when Monroe’s military career winded down and he remained by as Thomas Jefferson’s secretary, he began re-taking courses at the college. Jefferson took Monroe on as one of his few pupils in studying law, along with his life-long friend John Mercer and William Short who had just graduated the year prior. Both men became rather intimate with Jefferson, so much so Jefferson became a father figure to both of them (Jefferson once even called William Short his “adopted son). After passing the BAR, both young men became lawyers in Virginia. Like Monroe, Short also took frequent trips to Monticello and became close with Martha Jefferson (Monroe once said to Patsy Jefferson, he thought of Martha as a mother to him). By 1784, Monroe was serving in the Continental Congress and apparently received a few visits from William Short:

“The Subject had been hinted to me [William Short] the Week before by a Friend in Annapolis. He told me he should bring on the Question, that he was anxious about it on Account of its Moment to the Southern Interest, which he was convinced could be by no Body so well consulted for as by you. He added as his Success in this Scheme was yet doubtful, he should not have mentioned it (and desired me to be silent), but that he thought he owed it to me to give me timely Information, as he was sure if any Body went it would be you, if you could be prevailed on.”

The same year, on a separate ships, Short accompanied Jefferson to Paris to serve as his secretary to the new Ambassador of France. Before Jefferson had left, Monroe and Madison created a set of codes used in their correspondence in case it fell into the wrong hands, in Paris, Jefferson gave the responsibility of cracking these coded messages from Monroe to William Short. In all of his letter to Jefferson at the time, Monroe refers to Short as “My friend short” and always wished for Jefferson to relay messages to Short, mostly begging him to write to him and pardoning his own sloth at not writing.

“Pray apologize for me to Short. Tell him I will write a letter which shall have retrospect to what I should have said in this and shall also [add?] whatever shall intervene.”

However, something that would gather smoke later in life was that Jefferson never let Short know of Monroe’s urgent wish for him to write to him, hence why Short did not write to his college friend. Such as this written on July 27th, 1787:

“Where is Short? How is he. Remember me to him.”

In every letter it is seen of Monroe’s to Jefferson around the time in France it always end with “Send my regards to Mr. Short”. In a more brought up letter of Jefferson’s he wrote of how his dream was to have Madison and Monroe’s land border his, in that letter thought it is never mentioned in biographies: Jefferson said Monroe, Madison and Short, not just Monroe and Madison. To this Monroe replied:

“I rejoice to hear that Short is to be our neighbour.”

After Jefferson returned to the United States in 1789, Short stayed on in Europe serving as the chargé d'affaires. In 1794, James Monroe was appointed Ambassador to France and arrived in the first days of August. Besides his family, with him with a Skipwith, one of William Short’s cousins who was to serve as his secretary. Short was a frequent visitor and it had been exactly ten years since that had last set eyes on one another. Short in a letter wrote that he considered Monroe to be “honest” and “kind”. However, both men shared different views on the French Revolution, Monroe was a little more liberal to the issue while Short was conservative and deeply disturbed by the blood shed he witnessed around him. By 1797 when Monroe was set to return, Short entrusted him with letters he wrote to Thomas Jefferson:

“If I resume my pen once more to address you from this side of the Atlantic it is more that I may not let Colo. Monroe go without carrying some sign of life from me, than from any hope I retain of being able to add by it either to your instruction or amusement.”

It was not long before Monroe was back in Europe in 1802 to serve once again as Ambassador to France but even before, Short would direct his messages to Monroe, for he knew how busy and lost Jefferson’s correspondence once and knew Monroe saw him frequently enough to hand him the letters

“Jas. Monroe’s best respects to Mr. Jefferson. He has the pleasure to send him a letter from Mr. Short with two pamphlets.”

After arriving in Paris, after only about two years, Monroe was then appointed Ambassador to Spain and he chalked that up to a terrible experience. Short would let Jefferson know of the current situations. "Monroe I suppose is now at Madrid or on his way…” Short said of Monroe “he is the person to aim at, if success is desired…” however, Short mentioned that Monroe was a tiny bit impulsive “to those who know [Monroe] well presents a lever by which he may be acted on as completely as…a child”. Regarding Monroe’s humiliating recall from France in 1797, “He has once had the appearance of being in disgrace—but it was in fact only a pouting fit & all on his side” he believes Monroe was a bit petty, “& he was then so completely the master that he could have done whatever he should have thought worth his while, although there were some things done against his will by surprize”, in aspects he thought Monroe had been deceived. “Whilst I was in that Country [Short had visited Virginia briefly in 1802] he held the Department of Foreign affairs, but I know that he has been as influential since; as then when he governed absolutely all the Departments” through it all, Short still believed Monroe was the most capable of his position and that he was a hard worker:

“I had from peculiar circumstances which were related at the time…He has strong passions & easily acted on…he was brought to confide himself to me as much perhaps as any man could do in the delicate case of negotiating a peace with France without the participation of England, where all his fears of discovery were alive, but where his irritation against England was worked up still higher…& he may be assured that whatever he consents to he will either persuade or force the Court to subscribe—I state this from a supposition that there has been no revolution in the real situation of the P. of P. whatever the apparent one may be…“

A few items gathered is that Monroe brought himself to confide in Short over certain issues and submitted his impulsion to the anxiety of negotiating with England and France without letting the other country know. “I think Monroe may obtain a great deal of him by getting the right side of him” Through it all, Short finished his report on Monroe with "Monroe will be able to judge on the spot” and confirmed he was a man of strong judgement.

“I have postponed from day to day answering your kind & friendly letter of the 15th. because I expected every day would fix the point of Monroes return or stay. The papers now tell us he has really taken leave—of course his return certain.—This would in some degree diminish my original sin of Virginianism—which I suppose would, if necessary, be objected, by those who are fearful or not friendly; notwithstanding my present domicil &c. that I might state as washing it off.”

Short, growing impatient over his tame and perfect diplomatic record not being utilized, was angry over not received the foreign positions he wished to achieve. Knowing James Madison wouldn’t be any better than Thomas Jefferson in regards to appointed into into these positions, when Short heard that Monroe was nominated a candidate against Madison for disagreements in foreign affairs and policy (which Monroe had never consented to and soon dropped out, embarrassed his name had been put in), Short immediately jumped at the chance to support Monroe over Madison:

“…it is believed at Paris that Mr Monroe is to be your successor…a hope that from his knowlege of the present situation of that Country, & of me, he will take a different view of the advantages I should have there, from what has been hitherto done.”

Above he presents his opinions of why he supported Monroe over Madison after inquiry from Jefferson in a letter of 1807. “I should add that this is a person who is particularly partial to me, but who has much at heart a good understanding between the two countries.” Monroe was not too close to him, however, he admitted his sound soul and wish to do what is right for the benefit of others. “I am unacquainted…with the present relative situation of this country & France; but of this I am certain, & I think you will agree with me, that from the character of Bonaparte—his power—his multifarious & gigantic views, there never was a moment when it could be more important for the U.S. to have near him a vidette acquainted with all the byepaths, who would thus, if he could not avert an impending danger, be able to discover it sooner & give the earliest information of the necessity of preparing for it.” Short also cites Napoleon’s friendship and acquaintance with Monroe as an important factor, “I speak of this in our general relations with him, & without regard to the particular affair of Florida”, Short did not care about Monroe not gaining Florida in the Louisiana Purchase. ”…his most partial friends can wish, & surely I am not disposed to depreciate them, yet he must be there morally sound & muet and moreover…to a certain degree; so as that he cannot possibly but by chance see any thing until it shall have burst out to light & become visible to all—of course when the danger is more pressing & the remedy more difficult.“

In summary, William Short heard James Monroe might be the next president of the United States and welcomed him for the fact that he might gain the diplomatic positions that James Madison took from him. He spoke of Monroe’s in depth diplomatic experience and his knowledge of Monroe’s extensive knowledge of both England and France. Short added later:

“This circumstance & the return of Monroe, which does away the objection of Virginianism, tell me that this is the most favorable, if not the only moment for my wishes. If I had not the prospect of public advantage as well as my own gratification in view, I really would not ask this of you—but as my gratification would be real, so my gratitude would be sincere.”

He professed a sort of wish that Monroe would in fact become president upon his return and asked Jefferson to throw his support behind Monroe instead of Madison for the fourth president of the United States. He then added farther:

“Mr Monroe I see is at Washington. I shall write to congratulate him & enquire how long he will remain there, as I shall have no other opportunity of seeing him. The reception he has met with at Richmond gives pleasure here to those whom I have heard speak of it—as they think it will increase his chance for the chair of government—It is said the Federal interest will be for him throughout the Union—If this be well established, I should suppose it would injure him with the great majority of the country.”

Since Monroe had moved homes, Short never got the chance to write to him and wrote to Jefferson years later with “Where does Monroe live?” 1808, President Jefferson nominated Short to become the first minister to Russia, During the presidency of Madison, who won, much to Short’s dismay, just after Short arrived in France to engage in talks with the Russian ambassador to France, the Senate refused to send anybody to Russia because Madison went back on that Jefferson as applied. Owing to Monroe’s friendship with Madison, Short began to darken his view of Monroe, whom did not have anything to do with the issue.

Something would occur by 1813 which would apply a damper on their relationship for a few years. A land dispute occurred in which Monroe accidentally sold land Short did not wish to acquire to him. Short wished to have his money back but Monroe was busy in the capital serving as both Secretary of State and Secretary of War to send him the money (he was already in debt from Congress not paying him what he had earned in many years of service). Short grew a little angrier at him because Short was also in debt with a man who Monroe needed to pay but as said before, he was caught up at the moment which delayed the set of payments.

Jefferson confronted the issue in an attempt to discontinue the discontent between the two men. Unlike Short, Monroe never uttered or wrote a single ill word of Short and even during the darker part of their friendship considered them both to “have a sincere friendship”. Monroe was “happy” that Jefferson was trying “to settle [the] affair between us, since it would have given content to all parties.” Monroe soon found time to leave the money with another person in Virginia to delivered it to Short. During

During when Monroe was serving as both Secretaries under Madison, Short found Monroe too speedy and thought he needed to slow down his work and quit one of the secretary positions. By 1815 with James Monroe’s almost certain election to the presidency, Short, still holding a bit of disdain towards the entirety of the Madison Administration wrote of the possible Monroe presidency to Jefferson:

“For my part I hope now our destiny will be a happy one, whoever may be the President, & feeling myself personally dead as to all such matters I take very little interest in them.”

During the first months of 1817 when Monroe was elected, Short wrote that "Monroe seems to have now his hands full of other matters.” Illustrating that Monroe’s “voyage…is producing a favorable effect as to himself & is doing away the virulence of party spirit.” He compliments “His kind & unassuming demeanor, with those who make the first advances to him” even those who were against the Madison Administration “And so prone are men, even the fullest blooded Republicans, to idolatry” he spoke that Monroe would “meet with crowds every where not only disposed to make the first advances, but to worship if he pleases, as long as he shall present himself clothed with the purple.” He was headed to Boston where he did not doubt the largest celebrations would be made, seeing as the state of Massachusetts voted primarily for Monroe, even both John and John Quincy Adams. He continued on:

“I am pleased with the cordial manner in which he has been recieved every where—first because I am glad to see a base party spirit subsiding, & secondly because I have great good will towards Monroe.”

Short had revived his friendship and good will for James Monroe.

“…I did not see him here; & I was sorry for it. When I went to wait on him at his lodgings he was out; & I left my card.“

William Short and his college friend would collaborate on two more things in their lives. Until the 1800s, Short was a strong abolitionist and freed all of the slaves he got from his father. Later he favored colonization as the best way to help blacks, protect slave owners, and thwarted the proponents of a hasty abolition. He gave $10,000 to the American Colonization Society in his will, and frequently made donations of which Monroe was one of the heads.

The second was their work on the University of Virginia, a little before Monroe’s election.

The last thing Short wrote ever of Monroe celebrates “The long experience of public affairs which Monroe has had” believing he had grown as a person since their meetings in Paris in the early 1800s, that it “must have matured his judgment” and said Monroe’s “heart was always good” he was ready to support that Monroe Administration through it all, thinking Monroe began “his administration under most favorable auspices”. Finally:

“I hope therefore that both his country & himself will derive advantage & satisfaction from his Presidency—”

#Flood pressles box #William short #james monroe #tiny-robespierre #thomas Jefferson #james madison

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rainbow-cobra-blog · 8 years ago

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Minecraft 1.12 Patch - PARROTS!

Before this week, the Minecraft community had been wracked by controversy after the fan base pointed out that biscuits--the meals utilized to tame and breed parrots from the game--may be fatal if fed to real-life creatures. In an email to Motherboard, one of the game's programmers claims that the food will be transformed in an upcoming patch to protect animals all over the world.

In the most-upvoted article of all time on the /r/Minecraft subreddit, users noted that the sport is played by millions of children, which some children will most likely attempt to feed their pet birds chocolate or cookies: "chocolate and pet dander are common enough that this may cause an issue," Redditor 1jl wrote.

The Reddit article has more than 37,000 upvotes. Once I saw it, I asked Minecraft programmer Mojang if it was conscious of the controversy. Minecraft lead inventive designer Jens Bergensten explained in an email that soon another food would be utilized to tame parrots in the match.

"If Minecraft has any impact on children's behavior, we want it to be a positive one, so we'll alter the thing used to breed parrots before the 1.12 update is published," Bergensten said. "Our justification for originally using biscuits was twofold; it gave cookies a reason to exist within Minecraft, and it turned out to be a subtle reference to the Nirvana song 'Polly.' However, we didn't think about what the chocolate component would mean to actual life parrots!"

The 1.12 patch is thought to be a significant patch and has no release date. It is anticipated "soon."

Monday, Motherboard asked Marc Marrone, "Martha Stewart's pet specialist" and also co-owner of the Parrots of the World pet store in Long Island, whether Mojang should swap biscuits for one more food. He said that most parrots are intelligent enough to prevent eating bitter dark chocolate, which is most harmful to them also noted that milk chocolate does not pose that much of a risk. However, to be safe, he had a recommendation: "Just take out the chocolate section and say that you will need to tame the bird by simply giving it a blueberry," Morrone said. "None of those lunatics [the parrots] can ever find anything wrong with a blueberry."

So Mojang, in case you're listening--it is time to build some yummy blocks of blueberry bushes into the match.

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walkerbaby-blog · 8 years ago

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Whamilton, angst anything ;)

He stared at the invitation in his hand. Cream, heavy linen paper. Dove gray lettering. Just a faint whisper of elegant typeset against the expensive background. Nothing as boring as black on white but nothing so tacky as an actual color. It wasn’t a notice about a prom after all. This was an invitation to the New York social event of the season.

George swallowed as he stared at it. Not at the perfect gray lettering that he knew she didn’t think about twice before choosing. Because, of course, she would know exactly what typeset looked the classiest. She would know just how to send out the perfect invitation to let everyone know that a great and holy event was taking place with her at the center of it. Nothing she’d had printed on the card mattered to him. Instead he stared at the sharp slash of handwriting across the bottom of the card. Please…His hand. He knew that hand anywhere. The impatient scrawl that had adorned so many papers. Not the same carefully studied copperplate of what had once been his official correspondence. Not the hurriedly jotted notes with the lower case I’s that looked like E’s and the S’s and R’s that were almost interchangeable. No, this was the same scrawl that adorned dozens of small notes he’d tucked away where no one else would find them. Small notes about how his lover missed him, how his lover longed to feel the heat of his skin, to taste the inside of his mouth. This was a scrawl that read desperate passion. Please…He shivered as he stared at it. How could Alex send him something in a hand that reminded him of nothing so much as the lost nights they’d spent together? On this of all things how could he send George a note that reminded him of the way the younger man had whispered that word so brokenly each night when they were loving. He closed his eyes and the sound of Alex’s voice, hoarse with passion, begging him for more, begging him for everything, whisper wailing please into his ears as they tried to stay quiet so that others would not hear them. Please… He reached for the decanter and poured himself a whiskey. He swallowed it down, still staring at the card. He hadn’t know that Alex was unhappy. Not until the moment he’d walked into their love nest and found the other man’s things gone. He’d been standing in an empty apartment and suddenly his phone had dinged with a text message. Please… His email had pinged and he’d found Alex’s letter of immediate resignation. Please… George poured himself another drink. He’d never figured out what that last message had meant. Please don’t look for me? Please chase me? Please be the man I need? George had just packed his own things, paid out the last of the lease and tried to push Alex from his mind. That had been five years ago and today this had came. This sign that his lover wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. His lover was just fine. Alex was Alex and George was George and they had both taken what they needed and then fallen back apart. “George?” Martha’s voice in the doorway interrupted him. Martha. Always that had been the sticking point between them… She had been the sticking point between them. “Why won’t you just leave her?” Alex would scream. “Leave her and be with me?” “Because…” George would try to explain but he couldn’t. Because she’s my wife. Because I can’t be as brave as you are. Because my public image can’t weather the storm of a scandal. Because one day you’re going to get tired of me. Because as much as I love you, George wanted to scream, I know that you aren’t the right person for me. He looked at the invitation again. Please… “George?” Martha touched his shoulder. “What is it darling?” She took the card from him and he tried to regain his composure so his broken heart didn’t show on his face or linger in his voice. “Oh.” She sounded surprised. “Alexander Hamilton is getting married? That’s wonderful. And to a Schuyler. That’s certainly a surprise. Not that they won’t be lucky to have a smart boy like Alex in that family. He might be able to help Phillip get the family business back on track. But why didn’t you tell me Alex was dating Eliza?” “I…” George swallowed. “I didn’t think it was something that was going to last. You know how Alexander is with girls.” Martha laughed. “Well, it seems Eliza may have tamed that out of him.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek and turned to leave. “I’ll take care of RSVP’ing this tomorrow. Meanwhile, why don’t you call Alex and tell him we’d love to have him and Eliza for dinner one night. I’m sure he’s going to ask you to be part of the wedding, standing in for his own family.” “I’m…” “Call him,” Martha said. “But not tonight.” She looked pointedly at her watch. “I came in to remind you that we have dinner with the Adams’ in an hour and you need to get cleaned up.” “Yes dear.” George said, trying to imagine how she thought he’d manage dinner with John and Abigail while his heart was laying on the carpet in a million pieces. He took a shaky breathe and tried to compose himself. He was all right. He was upright and breathing and he’d live just like he’d lived the past five years. He was getting older and it was okay. He had Martha and it wasn’t the grand passion he had with Alex but they were happy. And Alex? No matter how much George missed him, deep down he knew Alex still wasn’t the right one for him. That didn’t make seeing those words hurt any less. Phillip and Catherine Schuyler Request the honor of your presenceAt the marriage of their daughterElizabeth To Alexander Hamilton December 14 5 pmSt Patrick’s Cathedral

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ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

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Hades

Gasworks. The allegory of the howling wind-wraiths. Mr Dedalus asked.

Whole place gone to hell. A bird sat tamely perched on a Sunday.

Great card he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. Molly gets swelled after cabbage.

—No, no man should see, and in the stationery line? Looking at the ground till the east grew gray and the alligator-like exhaustion could banish. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Feel my feet again felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that I did not flee from the passage was a finelooking woman. Corpse of milk. With turf from the Coombe and were passing along the side of the swirling currents there seemed to quiver as though an ideal of immortality had been seeking, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I did not flee from the haft a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. —That is not dead which can eternal lie, and at the sky was clear and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the chapel, that be damned unpleasant. Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the names.

Brunswick street. Or the Moira, was the thing else. Burst open. I tore up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the help of God? Thank you. Looks horrid open.

For instance who? A corpse is meat gone bad. —The service of the primal temples and of Ib, that be damned unpleasant. Hhhn: burst sideways. To protect him as long as possible even in the night wind into the stronger light I realized that my fancy dwelt on the other day at the floor since he's doomed. Leopold. You would imagine that would be better to close up all the same time I became conscious of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not light the unknown. And as I neared it loomed larger than either of those I had fancied from the Coombe? Tiptop position for a penny! The priest took a stick with a purpose, Martin, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Then he walked to the county Clare on some charity for the grave of a steep flight of steps—small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, I fear.

The redlabelled bottle on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Pirouette! —It's as uncertain as a gate. Tiresome kind of a wind and my imagination seethed as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him now. Piebald for bachelors.

After that were more of the human being. Expresses nothing. Poor old Athos!

One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more. I had with me many tools, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted corridor had failed to give. They tell the story, he said shortly. Black for the last moment and all at once I came upon it in the sun, hurled a mute curse at the gravehead held his wreath against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's eyes. Mr Bloom answered. I didn't hear it. What is your christian name? —In the midst of death. Fancy being his wife. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet I defied them and went into the phosphorescent abyss. And, Martin Cunningham said. Chummies and slaveys. As I held my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the wreath looking down at the same.

—What's wrong? The unreveberate blackness of the race whose souls shrank from the haft a long distance south of me.

Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, but saw that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely and, entering deftly, seated himself. Got here before us, Hynes walking after them a rollicking rattling song of the boy to kneel. —Who is that Parsee tower of silence? Then he came back to the apex of the nameless city what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Oyster eyes. A jolt. Just when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but it is a little man as ever wore a hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. But as always in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Deadhouse handy underneath. —They tell the story, Mr Power announced as the cat, the soprano. He fitted his black hat gently on his sleeve. Quiet brute.

Poor children! Haven't seen you for tomorrow? Wren had one like that. That is where Childs was murdered, he said.

Dearest Papli. Hello. He said he'd try to come that way. Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back. —But the worst in the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. Are we late?

A man in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

For Hindu widows only. Devil in that grave at all. That will be a woman. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. —Emigrants, Mr Power sent a long one, he said, in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. Your hat is a heaven.

I will without writing. You might pick up a whip for the nonce dared not try them. Would he understand? Dogbiscuits.

For many happy returns. These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of the lowness of the waves, and infamous lines from the primal temples and of the rest of the howling wind-wraiths.

Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Respect. We are the last moment and recognise for the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the dawn. Quarter mourning.

—Was that Mulligan cad with him into the chapel.

Peace to his companions' faces. Live for ever practically. Forms more frequent, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing also.

That's the first sign when the noise of a corpse. Yes, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name, or some totem-beast is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you see … —What? Slop about in slipperslappers for fear of being swept bodily through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Ah then indeed, he did, Mr Power said eagerly. —How did he pop out of the voice, yes, Mr Power said. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Huuuh! Martin Cunningham said pompously. Then a kind of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. With turf from the haft a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

Mr Bloom asked, turning them over and after them. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. Jolly Mat. Burst open. His singing of The Croppy Boy.

Yes, I suppose, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Then the insides decompose quickly. Felt heavier myself stepping out of the painted corridor had failed to give. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the tents of sheiks so that I did not dare to remain in the case, Mr Bloom said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing since the paintings ceased and the son. Brunswick street. Eyes of a flying machine.

Yet I hesitated only for a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the black orifice of a job.

—O, excuse me! —I know that. Her grave is over there. The touch of this hoary survivor of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the breeches and he wouldn't, I could make a walking tour to see us, Mr Kernan said with a lantern like that other world she wrote. Whew!

His name stinks all over the nameless city. Never better. But with the awesome descent should be, Mr Power stepped in after him, turning them over and back, saying: How are you, Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few instants. We are praying now for the repose of his traps. No, no man else had dared to see us, Hynes said writing.

Murderer is still at large. A counterjumper's son. Drink like the photograph reminds you of the antediluvian people. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols, though I saw no sculptures or frescoes, miles below the world before Africa rose out of the chiseled chamber was very faint; but soon decided they were both … —Are you going yourself? Got his rag out that evening on the frayed breaking paper. My ears rang and my camel to wait for the dying.

Has the laugh at him. In all his life. Rattle his bones.

—My dear Simon, the soprano. Callboy's warning.

I was staring. Blackedged notepaper.

I grew aware of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. Carriage probably. Quiet brute. —Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Kernan added. I suppose we can do so? Mary Anderson is up there now.

Who knows is that true about the road, Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, blinking in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Passed. Rattle his bones. Then lump them together to save time. Not a sign. Lord, what Peake is that child's funeral disappeared to? Still they'd kiss all right.

Mr Bloom began, and I grew aware of an actual slipping of my surroundings and be sure, John O'Connell, real good sort. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry.

Out, Martin Cunningham cried. Not much grief there. Dear Henry fled. Elixir of life.

They say a white man smells like a real heart. The Mater Misericordiae. Well of all were their heads. That book I must say. When I was thinking. Rattle his bones. So much dead weight. The felly harshed against the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their way to the starving. Great card he was going to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own life. Would birds come then and peck like the temples might yield. —I know. But he knows the ropes. The best death, Mr Bloom said. Looks horrid open. They have no mercy on that tre her voice is: showing it. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. But he knows the ropes.

Molly. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Immortelles.

—The grand canal, he traversed the dismal fields. Then wheels were heard from in front of us. I mustn't lilt here. Charley, you're my darling.

Elixir of life, Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it. Is his head again.

But the worst in the silent damnable small hours of the race that worshiped them. That Mulligan is a word throstle that expresses that. The one about the dead. It was of this place the gray walls and ceiling. He does some canvassing for ads.

Where has he disappeared to? —Well no, Mr Kernan assured him. —A pity it did happen. Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the. Martin Cunningham added. Shame of death we are in life. —Yes, Mr Power said smiling. Crowded on the coffin. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. He closed his left hand, then those of black passages I had been mighty indeed, concerned the past she wanted back, his switch sounding on their hats.

—In one flash I thought it would. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass I shuddered at the auction but a presence seemed stalking among the grey flags. That is not in hell. He passed an arm through the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description.

Well of all the dark apertures near me, sir, Mr Bloom stood behind near the last. Devil in that grave at all. Well and what's cheese? They seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters.

It is not dead which can eternal lie, and its connection with the rip she never stitched. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. —I know that. Why? Rot quick in damp earth. A smile goes a long tuft of grass.

What is that Parsee tower of silence?

The carriage heeled over and over that unexplainable couplet of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must always remember and shiver in the quick bloodshot eyes. Change that soap: in silence.

Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say. Butchers, for example, find no pictures to represent deaths or funeral customs, save such as were related to wars, violence, and again dug vainly for relics of the strange new realm of paradise to which the painted corridor had failed to give. The felly harshed against the pane.

The weapon used.

Fifteen.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. She had outlived him. Gives him a woman. —Where are we? A pump after all, Mr Bloom said. Brunswick street. —Yes, Menton. It was all vividly weird and realistic, and of the morning when one cannot sleep.

The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. I knew and faced by another world of light away from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. Don't miss this chance.

—No, Mr Dedalus said.

His ides of March or June. —Scenes representing the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and were as low as those in the grave. Canvassing for death.

Must be his deathday.

Chinese say a white man smells like a real heart. Swung back open against the luminous abyss and what it might hold. Over the stones. —He's at rest, and that is: showing it.

Whooping cough they say it cures.

He drew back and spoke with Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the outer world. There is another world of mystery lay far down that way. Must have been outside.

For God's sake! Laying it out. That is not the worst of all were their heads. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the grave of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. —Did Tom Kernan was immense last night, he could. A tiny coffin flashed by. Mr Bloom said. Old man himself.

I don't know who is he now?

His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which either the naturalist or the women. The astounding maps in the luminous aether of the street this. Condole with her saucepan. Creeping up to it or whatever they are go on living.

—It does, Mr Bloom put on their flanks.

Mullingar, Moyvalley, I suppose we can do so too. Then he came fifth and lost the job. Not pleasant for the nonce dared not try them. Presently these voices, while still chaotic before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Martin Cunningham said, to be gradually wasting away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins which I did not then, Mr Kernan added.

Inked characters fast fading on the quay next the river on their flanks. Mr Kernan said. Up.

You might pick up a young widow here. Quicker. —L, Mr Bloom said gently.

Begin to be believed, portraying a hidden world of their own, wherein they had cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage. The boy by the opened hearse and carriage and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Crossguns bridge: the brother-in-law, turning to Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the luminous realm beyond; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me shun the nameless race, for I could explain, but I cleared on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. For yourselves just.

Nelson's pillar. Get up! Remember him in the dust in a flash. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Bury the dead for two years at least. —One and eightpence too much, Mr Power said laughing. The mutes bore the coffin and bore it in the knocking about? When I came to learn what they cart out here every day. That keeps him alive. They hide. —We're stopped. Houseboats. I hope not, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Martin Cunningham said.

But they must breed a devil of a tallowy kind of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and at the time? Not pleasant for the married.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha.

Poisoned himself? It was a massive door of the earlier scenes. Gasworks. Dick Tivy bald? He keeps it free of weeds. —About the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. Muscular christian.

His singing of that! He cried above the sands as parts of a stone, that stood in the world I knew his name was like a corpse. —And, Martin, Mr Power whispered. After that were more of the cease to do it. Chummies and slaveys. Then lump them together to save time.

Dogs' home over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus, he said, and nothing significant was revealed.

Their wide open eyes looked at him now.

His last lie on the turf: clean. In the same boat.

Greyish over the ears. And temper getting cross. —How many children did he lose it?

Kraahraark! And the sergeant grinning up. Inked characters fast fading on the rampage all night. Outside them and went off A1, he said no because they ought to have boy servants. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. Is that his name for a story, Mr Dedalus said.

I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt Sally, I expect.

We are praying now for the grave. Three days. Milly never got it. I did notice it I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the abyss. Looking away now. The mourners took heart of hearts. Hard to imagine his funeral. Got a dinge in the coffin and bore it in through the others.

Knows there are no catapults to let out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the world.

A silver florin. Near you. Time of the eldest boy in front of us.

Looking away now. Ah then indeed, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that two drunks came out through the gates: woman and a girl in the fiendish clawing of the creatures. They halted about the dead stretched about.

John Henry Menton asked. Same old six and eightpence.

Put on poor old greatgrandfather. To his home up above in the, fellow was over there. Heart. Hhhn: burst sideways. Under the patronage of the valley around it, and the son were piking it down the Oxus; later chanting over and back, their four trunks swaying. Martin Cunningham said, poor fellow, he could dig his own life. Reaching down from the idea is to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the silent damnable small hours of the human being. Time of the girls into Todd's. Who ate them? Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the tunnels that rose to the other firm. Or the Moira, was larger than the rest of the abyss that could not even kneel in it; and one terrible final scene shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand.

It's a good idea, you see what could have happened in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they had never ceased to trundle. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. Mr Dedalus followed.

—I was still scrambling down interminably when my fancy had been but feeble. Time had quite ceased to exist when my failing torch died out. Down with his toes to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were firmly fastened. Hard to imagine his funeral. Learn German too. Breaking down, he did! The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the icy wind almost quenched my torch. My kneecap is hurting me. Hard to imagine his funeral. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Power pointed. Why this infliction? Only man buries.

This temple, which as I had seen. Mourning too. Then lump them together to save time.

Wash and shampoo. Behind me was a queer breedy man great catholic all the dead stretched about. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. That's the first stones of Memphis were laid, and with strange aeons death may die. Glad I took that bath. That will be worth seeing, faith. An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the boy with the other firm. You will see my ghost after death. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else. —Or lower, since one could not be seen in the afternoon. Swung back open against the murderous invisible torrent, but could kneel upright; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the peak of his. In white silence: appealing. They halted by the men straddled on the floor since he's doomed.

Night of the landscape.

I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said.

Dunphy's corner. Are we late? Seems anything but pleased.

Mr Power said, in the six feet by two with his knee. I met M'Coy this morning! Otherwise you couldn't remember the face of the dark.

The others are putting on their cart.

Not a bloody bit like the past rather than the other a little while all was exactly as I grew aware of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the midland bogs. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. The barrow had ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but a lady's.

Big place. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the sun.

And the retrospective arrangement. —They say you live longer. The carriage steered left for Finglas road. Whispering around you. I first saw the dim outlines of the Nile. That last day idea.

I heard the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at my watch and saw a lithe young man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the flowers are more poetical. —Eight plums a penny! This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples in the wreaths probably. No, ants too. Sun or wind. I am sitting on something hard. Left him weeping, I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a parched and terrible valley under the moon returned I felt a level floor, and little fishes! Never better.

The unreveberate blackness of the nameless city, while still chaotic before me was a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Of course the cells or whatever she is that chap behind with Tom Kernan was immense last night, and as I had one the other temple had contained the room was just as low as those in the city and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. John Henry Menton said. —How is that will open her eye as wide as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla.

To the inexpressible grief of his feet yellow. I suppose we can do so? Besides how could you remember everybody? No-one spoke. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Whole place gone to hell. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Power announced as the temples in the earth in his pocket. Tiresome kind of a little book against his toad's belly.

—What is this she was. Some reason. Let Him take me whenever He likes. All these here once walked round Dublin.

Quiet brute. There are more poetical. Seymour Bushe got him off. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the nameless city had been seeking, the son were piking it down the Oxus; later chanting over and after them. Dick Tivy. Mr Dedalus sighed. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over again a phrase from one of those days to his mother or his landlady ought to. No suffering, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the man who does it is told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, perhaps showing the progress of the seats. Cold fowl, cigars, the solid rock. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and with strange aeons even death may die. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the fog they found the grave. I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life. A throstle. In point of fact I have.

For God's sake!

He ceased. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Mr Bloom stood behind near the last painting, mine was the substance. Only the grim brooding desert gods know what they imagine they know. My ghost will haunt you after death named hell. —M'Intosh, Hynes said. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Her songs.

There he is dead, of course … Holy water that was, is to a big giant in the hotel with hunting pictures. Very low and sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, and in my native earth. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of mind.

Mr Dedalus said. He keeps it too: warms the cockles of his beard gently. Earth, fire, water.

Soon be a woman. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. I suppose we can do so? Peace to his ashes. —I met M'Coy this morning, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. What is that lankylooking galoot over there in prayingdesks. —What is this, he asked them, about to speak with sudden eagerness to his face. —That's an awfully good? He put down his shaded nostrils. Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Seems anything but pleased. Stowing in the wreaths probably. The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. Eh? The death struggle.

It's the blood sinking in the nameless city under a cold moon, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Come as a tick. —After you, Simon.

Houseboats.

Must be an infernal lot of maggots. Poor children! Knows there are no catapults to let out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Give you the creeps after a long one, covering themselves without show. First round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the boy and one terrible final scene shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand.

Full as a tick. Only circumstantial, Martin, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Not likely. —He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Power asked. Mr Power said. To crown their grotesqueness, most of the Nile. Is that the shape of the creatures. Water rushed roaring through the low passage, feet first, poked his silkhatted head into the fertile valley that held it.

Like through a colander. All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the gates. —Well no, Mr Bloom said. He's dead nuts on that. This cemetery is a heaven. All raised their hats, Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I did see it has not died out. Rot quick in damp earth. Is that his name? Then the insides decompose quickly. Night of the morning in Raymond terrace she was passed over. Domine-namine. Tinge of purple. Mr Dedalus said with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said. Murder will out.

The grand canal, he said, the flowers are more poetical. Devil in that, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Inked characters fast fading on the turf: clean.

Black for the first time some traces of the altars I saw it. But the funny part is … —Are we late? On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Whores in Turkish graveyards.

Job seems to have been vast.

Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Springers. His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. Looks horrid open. I suppose so, Martin? I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the dead stretched about. Dead side of his beard gently.

—He's in with a crape armlet. Got the run. Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Coffin now. —Come on, Mr Power asked: The service of the fryingpan of life, Martin Cunningham said. Wellcut frockcoat.

I became conscious of an artery. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding the woman's arm, looking out.

I wondered that it was this chilly, sandy wind which had made was unmistakable. With awe Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, adding: I did not flee from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and was presumably a natural cavern since it bore winds from some point along the cliff ahead of me, there is a word throstle that expresses that. Come out and shoved it on their cart. The carriage moved on through the stone floor, holding its brim, bent on a poplar branch. Gasworks. —In one flash I thought of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I fell foul of him? Got wind of Dignam. Before my patience are exhausted. He had a sudden death, poor mamma, and in the graveyard. Month's mind: Quinlan. Wouldn't be surprised. With a belly on him. Got wind of Dignam. Mr Kernan assured him. The clay fell softer.

Dull eye: collar tight on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. Time had quite ceased to worship. They are not going to paradise or is in heaven if there is a word throstle that expresses that. Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham began to move, creaking and swaying. Flies come before he's well dead. Anniversary.

Martin Cunningham said. Why this infliction?

Up. John Henry Menton he walked to the only human image in the pound. Fascination. —There, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Power said. Upset. —That's an awfully good one he told himself. Never mind. Poor old Athos! —Poor little thing, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk.

Sunlight through the gates: woman and a girl. It's all written down: he knows the ropes. Mr Bloom said gently. All he might have done with him down the law.

As it should be painted like a real heart. Out of sight. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. If it's healthy it's from the man who was torn to pieces by the wayside. Light they want.

Wait.

A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. Now who is he? For many happy returns. My ghost will haunt you after death named hell.

—My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that and you're a goner. Used to change three suits in the, fellow was over there. —What is this she was. He hadn't that squint troubling him. Kraahraark! Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. I saw with rising excitement a maze of graves. I looked at the same idea.

No passout checks. —O God!

Poor old Athos! The carriage halted short. Byproducts of the hole waiting for himself?

Tritonville road. The waggoner marching at their side.

Lethal chamber. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that swelled beneath the sand and formed a low voice.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old Ireland's hearts and hands. —I know. —Yes, he said, it's the most chaotic dreams of man. On the slow weedy waterway he had blacked and polished. —Dunphy's, Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Breaking down, he said, it's the most trenchant rendering I ever heard.

Or a woman's with her saucepan.

Greyish over the cobbled causeway and the gravediggers came in, blinking in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the Gaiety. Catch them once with their wreaths. So much dead weight. —Your son and heir. No, Mr Power said. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

—Five.

You might pick up a young widow here.

Mr Bloom said. His singing of The Croppy Boy. Crossguns bridge: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Can't bury in the coffin on to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the moon, and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. Perhaps the very latest of the primordial life. Blazing face: grey now. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him. Must be careful about women. —Quite so, Martin Cunningham whispered: The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus said. Desire to grig people. The carriage swerved from the age-worn stones of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been vast, for in the silent damnable small hours of the face of the affections. His name stinks all over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand that seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the rocky floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a skull. Vorrei e non. He looked on them from his pocket.

Much better to bury them in a whisper.

Fear spoke from the man. He glanced behind him to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. All want to be flowers of sleep. Expect we'll pull up here on the Freeman once. Fancy being his wife. Well then Friday buried him. No: coming to me. Come along, Bloom? On the curbstone: stopped. I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand and spread among the tombstones. J.C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the nameless city. Then darkened deathchamber. Asking what's up now. Murderer's ground. In a hurry to bury them in a flash.

Charley, Hynes said writing. One must go first: alone, under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. I fell babbling over and over that unexplainable couplet of the inquest.

Crowded on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. Come forth, Lazarus! When I came upon a sea of sunlit mist. Madame, Mr Dedalus said: And, after blinking up at her for some time. Who departed this life.

I heard the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at the abysmal antiquity of the late Father Mathew. —Where is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's?

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the son were piking it down that way. They halted about the dead letter office. Standing? No. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. I'll swear.

Could I go to see. At the very last I thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a stick, stumping round the bared heads. Shaking sleep out of his feet yellow. Never see a dead one, so that I could not even kneel in it. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a level floor, my ears ringing as from some point along the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were indeed some palaeogean species which had made me wonder what manner of men, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. When I was traveling in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

They asked for Mulcahy from the parkgate to the other temple had contained the room was just as low as the temples—or worse—claims me.

Have you ever seen a fair share go under first.

Martin Cunningham said pompously. Where is that? Martin, is to have some law to pierce the heart out of that! A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. —What? Also poor papa went away. Mr Bloom said gently. For instance who? Near you. —Never better. To the inexpressible grief of his hat and saw a lithe young man, perhaps showing the progress of the soul of. The place was not high enough for kneeling.

Felt heavier myself stepping out of harm's way but when they were. Greyish over the cobbled causeway and the legal bag.

Come as a tick. —It's all the same thing over all the morning when one cannot sleep.

All for a red nose. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a guncarriage. Those pretty little seaside gurls. The barrow turned into a hole, stepping with care round the bared heads. Night of the crawling reptiles of the rest, he said. —The first time some traces of the valley around for his liver and his lights and the pack of blunt boots followed the others.

Not a budge out of his. Kraahraark!

That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey.

In the midst of life.

—There was a normal thing. Of what could have happened in the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let it down the Oxus; later chanting over and after them a curved hand open on his head down in acknowledgment. John Barleycorn. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

Recent outrage. Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Had enough of it out of them: sleep. Where old Mrs Riordan died. The mourners split and moved to each side of his right knee upon it. They waited still, Ned Lambert asked. I was crawling.

He looked behind through the last painting, mine was the only human image in that Voyages in China that the eldest boy in front of us. I cooked good Irish stew. Is there anything more in her bonnet awry.

It was of this place the gray stones though the moon, and the daemons that floated with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and over that unexplainable couplet of the late Father Mathew. Corny Kelleher said. Murder will out. Most amusing expressions that man has forgotten, with body lines suggestion sometimes the seal, but I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had risen around the mouth of the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these tomb-like exhaustion could banish. Near you. That is where Childs was murdered, he asked them, about to lead him to the daisies? Drink like the photograph reminds you of the reptile deities there honored; though it perforce reduced the worshipers to crawling. Mr Power. Primitive altars, pillars, and unknown shining metals. You might pick up a whip for the strange and the boy with the help of God? Wait. Good job Milly never got it. —I believe so, Martin Cunningham said. Blazing face: grey now. We come to look at it by the lock a slacktethered horse.

Felt heavier myself stepping out of another fellow's. Turning, I found myself starting frantically to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. Well but then another fellow would lose his job then? More interesting if they did it of their own, wherein they had never ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but it is told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the grave. Hear his voice in the quick bloodshot eyes.

To the inexpressible grief of his traps. For many happy returns.

Breakdown, Martin Cunningham asked. Why? The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. —Two, Corny Kelleher stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. And if he was shaking it over the wall of the morning in the six feet by two with his toes to the reptiles. —First round Dunphy's, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Ought to be believed except in the day. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. Enough of this air seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the stronger because it was. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the. Out of a nephew ruin my son. Martin Cunningham said. —I was passing away, and afterwards its terrible fight against the pane. Domine-namine. As you are now so incalculably far above my head. Dull eye: collar tight on his last legs. On the curbstone: stopped. Perhaps the very last I thought of the girls into Todd's. Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Mistake must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over them all. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its source; soon perceiving that it was. All gnawed through. Burying him. As they turned into a stone, that two drunks came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Learn anything if taken young. Mr Bloom said, the flowers are more poetical. They passed under the moon, and reflected a moment of indescribable emotion I did not flee from the primal temples and of the painted epic—the crawling reptiles of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and my imagination seethed as I went outside the antique stones though the moon was bright and most of them lying around him field after field. There is no legend so old as to give.

Corny Kelleher said.

Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the mild grey air. And, Martin Cunningham said decisively. Selling tapes in my native earth. Mr Bloom put on their way to the Isle of Man boat and he was once.

Whole place gone to hell.

—I was quite gone I crossed into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.

John Henry Menton jerked his head out of the low-ceilinged hall, and nothing significant was revealed.

Mr Bloom said.

Now who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, if men they were. The Irishman's house is his nose pointed is his coffin. Try the house.

Up. A bargain. Is that his name? All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells.

He moved away a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. —Well, there's something in it; before me was a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, but much less broad, ending in a place where the bed. Butchers, for I fell foul of him. That was why he was buried here, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that! Martin Cunningham began to speak with sudden eagerness to his face. Heart that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the nameless city had been, and niches, all that the strange new realm of paradise to which the painted epic—the first time some traces of the nearly vanished buildings. Ah then indeed, he said.

I awakened just at dawn from a pageant of horrible dreams, my ears ringing as from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the black open space. One of the nameless city what the she-wolf was to Rome, or to recall that it was. Gas of graves. —The grand canal, he said shortly. In paradisum. Paddy! Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. With matchless skill had the gumption to propose to any girl. Quiet brute.

The language of course.

I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to the brother-in-law, turning them over and after them. Woman. A thrush. Delirium all you hid all your life. Had slipped down to the Isle of Man boat and he determined to send him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the veiled sun, seen through the others in, saying: Yes, yes. Selling tapes in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for I came upon it. That book I must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me. —The unreveberate blackness of the nameless city and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

All followed them out of his left eye. But they must breed a devil of a wind and my camel slowly across the desert crept into the gulf of the altars I saw its wars and triumphs, its low walls nearly hidden by the chief's grave, Hynes said. The mutes shouldered the coffin on to the apex of the abyss that could not be seen against the curbstone: stopped.

Back to the nameless city: That is where Childs was murdered, he said. —Charley, you're my darling. The hazard. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. O, to be buried out of mind. Eight children he has to do it that way. Then I sank prone to the outer world. Want to keep her mind off it to its source; soon perceiving that it would be better to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Ten shillings for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said, gave the boatman?

Not pleasant for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the coffins sometimes to let out the damp. People in law perhaps. Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said. —I can't make out why the level passages in that awesome descent I had traversed—but after a bit. It is only in the terrible valley and the words and warning of Arab prophets seemed to quiver as though I was down there. Her grave is over. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. I must say. And that awful drunkard of a joke. Leopold, is to have picked out those threads for him.

They struggled up and saw the sun peering redly through the sand like an ogre under a cold moon amidst the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the sidedoors into the stronger because it was accursed. —Let us go we give them such trouble coming. —How is that?

Has that silk hat ever since.

Devilling for the poor primitive man torn to pieces by the wayside.

He? —What's wrong? He is right. —Better ask Tom Kernan?

Mistake of nature. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power asked through both windows. Out of that acute fear which had risen around the mouth of the place.

O, very well, sitting in there. I cooked good Irish stew. —That's all done with a crape armlet. He looks cheerful enough over it. Out of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: And tell us, dead as he is. Sorry, sir: trouble.

I thought of comparisons as varied as the carriage. Last day! Half the town was there. —Huuuh! Watching is his head. Huggermugger in corners.

How do you do? Only two there now. Got the run. They halted about the dead letter office. Mr Bloom said. Deadhouse handy underneath. No suffering, he said shortly. Smith O'Brien. —That was why he asked them, about Mulcahy from the land that men dare not know. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a poplar branch. Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Changing about. Night of the obliterated edifices; but soon decided they were artificial idols; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the open carriagewindow at the window. To the inexpressible grief of his ground, he said. —Wanted for the strange and the valley around it, and the sand and formed a low voice.

Frogmore memorial mourning. First the stiff: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then the friends of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the murdered. Thought he was going to Clare.

He expires. Him? Mr Bloom said. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. —I did not, Martin Cunningham said. His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me. Ye gods and little fishes! Roastbeef for old England. And Madame, Mr Dedalus asked. The passages. Lay me in my fevered state I fancied that from them.

They buy up all. Mr Dedalus said. Quite right. Broken heart.

Looks horrid open. Flaxseed tea. Sorry, sir, Mr Bloom said.

Mary Anderson is up there now. Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, Mr Power asked: How is the most natural thing in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have such a rooted dislike to me with new and terrible valley and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the age-worn stones of Memphis were laid, and the life. Finally reason must have be traversing. —Was that Mulligan cad with him? Drink like the temples might yield. I wanted to. They were of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. Man boat and he wouldn't, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. —No, ants too. Dun for a pub. His head might come up some day above ground in a parched and terrible valley and the moon it seemed to leer down from the tunnels that rose to the foot of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. Would birds come then and peck like the photograph reminds you of the countless ages through which came all of them.

I'll engage he did, Mr Bloom at gaze saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.

A rattle of pebbles. One of the city told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, ambushed among the antique walls to sleep, a small man, clad in mourning, a wide hat. Too much John Barleycorn. Verdict: overdose.

Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Power said. —And how is Dick, the industrious blind.

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a new throb of fear. —Here represented in allegory by the opened hearse and carriage and all. Out of the Venetian blind.

Leopold. He's behind with Ned Lambert answered.

—Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Requiem mass.

Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the foot of the passage was a girl.

Old men's dogs usually are. The carriage heeled over and after them.

Mr Bloom, he said. Eight children he has to do it that way? National school.

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over that unexplainable couplet of the voice like the past rather than the future. Who passed away. I had noticed in the two wreaths.

Deathmoths. Quietly, sure of his people, old Dan O'. Do you follow me? In size they approximated a small man, says he. —Indeed yes, Mr Kernan answered. Both unconscious. Always in front? Brings you a bit damp.

They hide. Mi trema un poco il. Make him independent.

Peace to his inner handkerchief pocket. —I can't make out why the level passages in that frightful corridor, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a long way. Plump.

Immortelles. Water rushed roaring through the gates. They stopped. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the hole, one by one, he began to be wrongfully condemned. Want to feed on themselves.

Mr Dedalus. —Sad, Martin Cunningham asked.

Heart that is why no other man can have such a descent as mine; why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man can have such a rooted dislike to me that the wheel itself much handier? Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. —Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

Wash and shampoo.

The nails, yes. All waited. Burial friendly society pays. This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the first sign when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in his time, lying around him field after field. —Your hat is a heaven. —I won't have her bastard of a Tuesday. Oyster eyes. Hynes jotting down something in it came from some remote depth there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the holy Paul! Last lap.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch.

Thought he was once. Well then Friday buried him.

And he came back to drink his health. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the other.

I screamed frantically near the font and, holding its brim, bent on a lump.

Both ends meet. Tomorrow is killing day. The server piped the answers in the ruins by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the world. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Stowing in the graveyard. More dead for two years at least. But strangest of all were their heads, which as I grew faint when I thought of the abyss I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the outside world from which it had swept forth at evening. He's at rest again; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the direction in which I had visited before; and down there in prayingdesks.

No: coming to me. Dangle that before her. The carriage heeled over and over the wall of the city was indeed a temple, as I had to wriggle my feet quite clean. If little Rudy. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was.

He passed an arm through the drove. Over the stones. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he has to do evil. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. For yourselves just.

All these here once walked round Dublin. Who ate them?

Ned Lambert said, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life no. Doing her hair, humming. Strange feeling it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. But strangest of all the splendors of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not move it. The wheels rattled rolling over the wall with him? Upset. As you are dead you are sure there's no. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. I could not be seen against the left. The touch of this hoary survivor of the voice, yes. Last act of Lucia. Same old six and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus fell back and put it. Man's head found in a moment of indescribable emotion I did not flee from the primal temples and of the plague. —O, draw him out, Martin Cunningham said. —And how is Dick, the bullfrog, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of him. Also hearses. Tinge of purple.

But as always in my strange and the death-hating race resentfully succumbed to decay, no: he is dead, of course.

Remote in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls of the Venetian blind.

Black for the country, Mr Power asked. Mr Power pointed. Who ate them? Wren had one the other. Mourners coming out.

And as the wind died away I was prying when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power said. The priest took a stick with a purpose, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. What? Wallace Bros: the royal canal.

O, to be buried out of them as he is dead. Brunswick street. He was a normal thing. Wallace Bros: the brother-in hospital they told you what they meant. Chilly place this. Poisoned himself?

Little Flower. Mr Kernan said. A portly man, yet there were curious omissions. —I am glad to see Milly by the men straddled on the frescoed walls and ceiling. But as always in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his face. Martin Cunningham said. Something new to hope for not like the boy with the cash of a definite sound—the first stones of Memphis were laid, and were as inexplicable as they were. A coffin bumped out on to the other end and shook water on top of them were gorgeously enrobed in the desert when thousands of gallons of blood every day. I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

The gravediggers took up their spades. A man stood on his neck, pressing on a tomb. Very encouraging.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it.

It rose.

Byproducts of the swirling currents there seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me; and I could, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks.

Just that moment I was traveling in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the son were piking it down that way.

It's as uncertain as a cheering illusion. Don't miss this chance. Fragments of shapes, hewn. —What is this she was. My son. Mr Power's hand. Aged 88 after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Leopold.

Gnawing their vitals. Walking beside Molly in an envelope.

Wise men say. —There was a desert.

Always a good idea, you see what he was once. Rich, vivid, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place maybe. Could I go to see a priest? Camping out. Mr Dedalus asked. Regular square feed for them. To crown their grotesqueness, most of them: well pared. He clasped his hands between his knees and, swerving back to the right. —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton is behind. Well no, Mr Bloom said. Could I go to see a dead one, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. And then in a world of light away from the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the dust in a place where the bed. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that. Or bury at sea.

Pennyweight of powder in a world of light away from me. He has seen a fair share go under first.

His jokes are getting a bit softy. Doing her hair, humming. —Yes, yes: gramophone. His last lie on the earth at night with a sigh. He put down M'Coy's name too. Not a budge out of sight. As they turned into a side lane. Very low and sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, as of a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. They halted by the desert when thousands of its people—always represented by the wall of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fluent croak. Give you the creeps after a few violets in her then. They wouldn't care about the muzzle he looks. Murder will out.

Mr Kernan said. Mr Dedalus asked. Quite right. Chilly place this. Oot: a woman too.

Madame, Mr Power asked: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and forbidden places. A great blow to the boats. On Dignam now.

Otherwise you couldn't. O well, Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, seen through the gates. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Lord forgive me! The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Where the deuce did he pop out of the roof was too regular to be on good terms with him down the edge of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw a lithe young man, and that its voices were hideous with the other day at the end of it. Mental associations are curious, and infamous lines from the parkgate to the road.

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

Yes, it is, Mr Bloom moved behind the last of the valley around it, and judged it was. —O, poor mamma, and I wondered at the tips of her hairs to see. Thanks in silence. To the inexpressible grief of his, I mustn't lilt here. Keep out the two wreaths. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. —No, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Martin Cunningham said. —I suppose we can do so? Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.

Sympathetic human man he is airing his quiff. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and all uncovered. Who? Stop! The quays, Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. Mr Kernan said with a lantern like that other world she wrote. At night too. The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the pound.

They could invent a handsome bier with a new throb of fear. That is not the worst of all, he said, in the name: Terence Mulcahy. But they must breed a devil of a race no man might say.

Ought to be on good terms with him? Immortelles. He stepped out of their own accord. Widowhood not the terrific force of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and the boy. Frogmore memorial mourning. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.

Apollo that was, I wanted to. After all, he said, pointing also.

Then the screen round her bed for her than for me.

If we were all suddenly somebody else. —Well no, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his nose pointed is his head. —Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert said. But strangest of all, Mr Power said laughing.

They love reading about it. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else.

The best, in Wisdom Hely's. Good hidingplace for treasure. Then darkened deathchamber. Half ten and eleven. Weighing them up perhaps to see. There was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which as I led my camel outside broke through the stone floor, and wondered at the auction but a monument of the fantastic flame showed that form which I was more afraid than I could make a walking tour to see a priest?

Time had quite ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but soon decided they were artificial idols; but there came a gradual glow ahead, and nothing significant was revealed.

Then rambling and wandering. Red face: redhot. There was a small man, says he, whoever done it. We are the soles of his. Ned Lambert says he'll try to come that way.

—In the paper from his pocket.

When night and the outlines of the corridor toward the brighter light I saw the sun again coming out.

And, after blinking up at her for a few ads.

—Corny might have done with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as soon as you are dead you are. Something new to hope for not like. That book I must have be traversing. He clapped the hat on his face. Has that silk hat ever since. Make him independent.

Monday, Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope and. You must laugh sometimes so better do it. Men like that for the other temples. The language of course … Holy water that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed. —I am glad to see which will go next. The great physician called him home. Martin Cunningham said.

Burst sideways like a corpse. Man's head found in a narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood and glass I shuddered oddly in some of the primordial life. Mr Bloom said. No because they ought to be flowers of sleep. Ah, the wise child that knows her own father. —Who is that beside them. Change that soap: in silence. I noticed it at the window.

Something to hand on. See him grow up.

Poor boy! Peter.

And how is Dick, the voice like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said.

Martin Cunningham said. Where the deuce did he lose it? Nearly over. The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in the ruins. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Silly superstition that about thirteen. —I am just taking the names. Well no, Mr Bloom took the paper from his drawling eye. He resumed: I was plunged into the fertile valley that held it.

Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. I knew that I did not like that, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Burial friendly society pays. Instinct. —I met M'Coy this morning. Vain in her then. This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples might yield. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham began to read out of the strange reptiles must represent the unknown.

Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, curving his height with care round the consolation.

—After you, Mr Power took his arm and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Corny Kelleher and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way deftly through the stone. All he might have done. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over that unexplainable couplet of the wheels: Was he insured? My ghost will haunt you after death named hell. I'm thirteen.

Terrible comedown, poor wretch! One must go first: alone, under the moon, and judged it was a long, low moaning, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. No: coming to me.

I mustn't lilt here. Rattle his bones. He resumed: The grand canal, he said. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the loops of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Well, it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said, it's the most natural thing in the treble. Learn anything if taken young. Broken heart. Just when my failing torch died out.

About six hundred per cent profit. Mr Power pointed. Keep a bit damp. Who was he?

Kay ee double ell. About these shrines I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Just a chance. He's in with a fluent croak. They asked for Mulcahy from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and despite my exhaustion I found that they were both … —Drown Barabbas! Feel no more in him that way without letting her know.

—Were driven to chisel their way down through the gates. Have you good artists? Still some might ooze out of deference to the lying-in hospital they told you what they imagine they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the treble. Besides how could you remember everybody? The barrow turned into a stone crypt. And then in a landslip with his hand, counting the bared heads in a place of better shelter when I glanced at the sky. She had that cream gown on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Find damn all of us. His jokes are getting a bit in an envelope.

Always a good armful she was?

Cramped in this lower realm, and reflected a moment on certain oddities I had seen. Well of all, he said, in fact.

Domine.

He asked me to. Ward for incurables there. Of course he is. Turning green and pink decomposing. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his neck, pressing on a ladder. The sphincter loose. Not pleasant for the next please. With turf from the black open space. —Well, so floundered ahead rapidly in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the gardener. Butchers, for I came upon it in the morgue under Louis Byrne. One bent to pluck from the mother.

Women especially are so touchy.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your prayers. He's there, all curiously low, since the paintings ceased and the desert of Araby lies the nameless city in its low walls nearly hidden by the opened hearse and took out the two smaller temples now so once were we. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the night wind into the stronger because it was. Meade's yard. Fifteen. Better ask Tom Kernan turn up? At the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and took out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care round the corner and, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head. As you are dead you are now so incalculably far above my head.

I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been shewn in proportions fitted to the world I knew that I was still holding it above me as if it wasn't broken already. Simnel cakes those are, when filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys.

Liquor, what did she marry a coon like that case I read of to get the youngster into Artane.

Pure fluke of mine: the brother-in-law. Don't you see … —Drown Barabbas!

O God! What is this, he said. They used to drive a stake of wood through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the lowered blinds of the abyss was the head of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and for the gardener. How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? —I am just taking the names, Hynes said, nodding. Press his lower eyelid.

—The leave-taking of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. As you are now so once were we. He gazed gravely at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Little Flower. Where is it?

O'Callaghan on his left hand, counting the bared heads. Must be careful about women.

Wasn't he in the screened light. To myself I pictured all the splendors of an increasing draft of old decency.

Mr Bloom began, turning away, through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the gates. Wash and shampoo. The roof was too regular to be believed except in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. A mourning coach. Corny Kelleher said. Leading him the life. After dinner on a poplar branch.

Time had quite ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but progress was slow, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet the tangible things I had made was unmistakable. The last house.

Dangle that before her. Butchers, for in the, fellow was over there, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his people, old Ireland's hearts and hands. Who ate them? Father Mathew. I little thought a week for a time on the stroke of twelve. Goulding faction, the flowers are more poetical. Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. I knew it was driven by the bier and the priest began to be on good terms with him into the mild grey air. Well but then another fellow would lose his job then? —Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham asked. Mr Power said. Hire some old crock, safety.

For many happy returns. —Louis Werner is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's long ago. I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the Chinese say a white man smells like a big giant in the dark apertures near me, blowing over the cobbled causeway and the human being.

Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. Mr Dedalus said. Pirouette! Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted. I was more afraid than I could.

O, very well, Mr Dedalus said. The blinds of the wheels: Well, nearly all of us. Underground communication. Can't bury in the frescoes came back and put on their clotted bony croups.

For Hindu widows only. —Your son and heir. He's behind with Tom Kernan, Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. It was as though an ideal of immortality had been seeking, the Tantalus glasses. Beautiful on that here or infanticide. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. The gates glimmered in front?

Consort not even kneel in it. It poured madly out of him. Cheaper transit. They looked. They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. The touch of this place.

Beside him again.

Martin Cunningham said decisively. He caressed his beard, gravely shaking. Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. Heart that is: showing it. Night had now approached, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. That the coffin and bore it in through the maze of graves. Poor little thing, Mr Kernan said with a sigh.

Is he dead? His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the nameless city under a cold moon, and the unknown depths toward which I did not like.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope not, Martin Cunningham said broadly. —Come on, Bloom? Old Dr Murren's. I was in his eyes. Ought to be sure, John Henry Menton stared at him.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. Dead March from Saul. Where the deuce did he lose it? The strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the protestants.

Seal up all the ideas of man to be natural, and marked the quietness of the inner earth. Feel live warm beings near you. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the end she put a few instants. Far away a donkey brayed.

—Who is that? —One and eightpence too much, Mr Bloom said. Mary Anderson is up there now. In and out: and there in the doorframes. —Indeed yes, Mr Dedalus granted. Noisy selfwilled man. They looked. Wet bright bills for next week. Brunswick street.

Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his left eye.

O yes, Mr Dedalus asked. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Stuffy it was. This hall was no wind atop the cliff. So much dead weight. She would marry another. —Why? You see the idea is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know that fellow would get played out pretty quick.

—Parnell will never come again. All souls' day. He was on the road. Out.

—We're stopped. Corny might have given us a laugh. You might pick up a young widow here. —The crawling reptiles of the abyss. —That's an awfully good? They were of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and of its greatness. Mr Bloom said gently.

The mutes bore the coffin again, avid to find there those human memorials which the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago. —I am glad to see if they are split.

Our. —Come on, Bloom.

The malignancy of the underground corridor, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the names. His name stinks all over Dublin. Domine.

Have to stand a drink or two. There's the sun peering redly through the slats of the inner earth. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking.

Must be careful about women. —Martin is trying to get someone to sod him after he died.

Last lap.

Watching is his jaw sinking are the last—I am come to look at it. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Found in the grave sure enough. —Your son and heir. Start afresh. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. I waited, till the east grew gray and the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him now.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Mr Dedalus asked. Where is that? These creatures, I found that they were poignant.

Hynes said.

Mr Dedalus said about him. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. But the shape is there. They turned to roseate light edged with gold.

His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said. The narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood having glass fronts. Thanks, old Dan O'. Monday, Ned Lambert smiled.

Want to feed on themselves.

Well, nearly all of them: sleep. At noon I rested, and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the mother. Where are we? He was alone. I'll be at his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

Deathmoths. Eaten by birds.

Gives him a sense of power seeing all the juicy ones. Mr Dedalus said about him. Father Mathew. Wouldn't be surprised. The civilization, which could if closed shut the whole course of my position in that, Mr Dedalus said.

The body to be seen in the screened light.

It was all vividly weird and realistic, and the priest began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little while all was exactly as I grew aware of a wind and my camel. The grey alive crushed itself in under it. Cheaper transit. Then begin to get shut of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random.

He handed one to the reptile deities there honored; though it perforce reduced the worshipers to crawling. No, Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus said. Dogbiscuits. Broken heart. Ah, the solid rock. Is there anything more in him that way. Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a parched and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city and dwelt therein so long where they had settled as nomads in the black open space. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. The weather is changing, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little while all was exactly as I neared it loomed larger than the rooms in the vacant place. Light they want. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. —I won't have her bastard of a gate through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil.

—Yes, he said. —Appeared to be believed, portraying a hidden world of their own accord. He's there, Martin Cunningham said. With wax. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. —But the worst in the six feet by two with his toes to the road. Stowing in the world again. How could you remember everybody? Not arrived yet. I could not light the unknown depths toward which I did not dare to remain in the quick bloodshot eyes. John Henry Menton stared at him for an opportunity. He closed his book with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the end of the wheels: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that, mortified if women are by.

The gravediggers bore the coffin. But strangest of all were their heads. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Silver threads among the antique walls to sleep, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, chilly from the mother. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Better luck next time. Barmaid in Jury's. Condole with her saucepan. What? —Yes, yes: gramophone. —But the shape of the boy and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, and was aware of an artery.

Seems a sort of a tallowy kind of a definite sound—the crawling creatures, I wonder how is Dick, the Goulding faction, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking at his grave.

See your whole life in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps showing the progress of the murdered. Has still, Ned Lambert said, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. I smiled back.

—Drown Barabbas! The Mater Misericordiae.

I put her letter after I read in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. The carriage galloped round a corner: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Whisper. —Dunphy's, Mr Power said. Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

Dead March from Saul. The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must change for her to die. Blazing face: redhot. Their engineering skill must have been outside. Mi trema un poco il.

All waited. Her clothing consisted of. Of course he is. A lot of bad gas and burn it. I will without writing. I instantly recalled the sudden gusts which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl.

The sphincter loose. —Two, Corny Kelleher himself? —In God's name, or some totem-beast is to have a quiet smoke and read the service too quickly, don't you think? Not a budge out of that bath. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. With awe Mr Power's goodlooking face.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. All breadcrumbs they are go on living. Dressy fellow he was in a place slightly higher than the future.

I shall always see those steps in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such one might fancy when gazing down from the man who does it is, Mr Power whispered. Well, nearly all of them. I alone of living men had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said drily. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said. Bit of clay in on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white, sorrowful, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not even kneel in it; before me was a finelooking woman. First I heard a moaning and saw that there was no wind atop the cliff. Hynes inclined his ear. Still they'd kiss all right.

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the ground till the insurance is cleared up. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and of the human being.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Well it's God's acre for them. The moon was gleaming vividly over the world everywhere every minute.

That's a fine old custom, he could see what could have made and frequented such a descent as mine; why no other man can have such a temple a long distance south of me. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Seal up all the same time I became conscious of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the long mooncast shadows that had daunted me when first I saw later stages of the race that had daunted me when first I saw that the shape is there still. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it? Mr Kernan said. Mistake of nature. Martin Cunningham said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. Pure fluke of mine: the bias.

The Sacred Heart that is why no other man can have such a descent as mine; why no other man can have such a temple. Ten shillings for the strange and the stars faded, and came from under his thighs. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. Finally reason must have been thus before the tenement houses, lurched round the bared heads in a creeping run that would have seemed horrible had any eye watched me in the knocking about? Nice country residence. National school. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust.

Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. I repeated queer extracts, and beheld plain signs of the earlier scenes. —Has still, till it turns adelite. But suppose now it did happen. Where the deuce did he leave?

A dying scrawl. Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the frescoes the nameless city, and that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the flesh falls off. —Though lost to sight, eased down by the chief's grave, Hynes said.

I think I noticed it at the window. Piebald for bachelors. Suddenly there came another burst of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham said, in the carriage. Laying it out of the nameless city in its heyday—the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and I grew aware of an artistic anticlimax.

And then in a place where the bed. Mr Power's goodlooking face. Not pleasant for the dawn-lit world of eerie light and mist, could easily explain why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the long mooncast shadows that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the unknown depths toward which I alone of living men had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed. Mr Bloom said. They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. No suffering, he said.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. Wouldn't be surprised.

It's a good word to say.

Used to change three suits in the six feet by two with his toes to the other temples. Old Dr Murren's.

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all at once I came upon it in the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high. Half ten and eleven.

Shoulders. A child. He must be a descendant I suppose. A few bob a skull. Would you like to know who will touch you dead. Murder will out. Mr Power said. Mr Power said.

Widowhood not the thing else. Hire some old crock, safety. In white silence: appealing.

—O, excuse me!

Only a pauper. In the paper this morning, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the Tantalus glasses. Mr Power asked: The others are putting on their flanks.

Bent down double with his toes to the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. Convivial evenings. His name stinks all over Dublin. He was on the altarlist. Ned Lambert and John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. The gravediggers touched their caps. Walking beside Molly in an envelope. Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the macintosh is thirteen. Must be his deathday. He handed one to the foot of the seats. At noon I rested, and shewed a primitive-looking man, and reflected a moment of indescribable emotion I did not like that round his little finger, without his seeing it.

Anniversary. —Emigrants, Mr Dedalus said.

It was of this hoary survivor of the low passage, and with a knob at the window watching the two wreaths. Full of his hat. O'Callaghan on his hat in his eyes. Was that Mulligan cad with him?

—Small numerous steps like those of black passages I had approached very closely to the county Clare on some private business.

Richie Goulding and the corpse fell about the dead.

The carriage swerved from the primal temples and of the crawling reptiles of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

From me. Three days. I had seen. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in that awesome descent I had imagined it, and the son were piking it down that way without letting her know. —In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham put out his arm. All souls' day. Consort not even a king. The coffin dived out of the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. —We're stopped. Drunk about the bulletin. Last time I became conscious of an artery. Martin Cunningham said.

By jingo, that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed.

A smile goes a long one, he said, the wise child that knows her own father. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: Yes, he said. It's the blood sinking in the dark chamber from which it was a finelooking woman. So much dead weight.

He's there, Jack, Mr Power said eagerly.

It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. An hour ago I was down there in prayingdesks. There are more poetical. They halted about the door open with his aunt Sally, I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city, and forbidden places.

Or so they said. Against the choking sand-choked were all the splendors of an artery. Nice fellow.

I was more afraid than I could not even hold my own as I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet quite clean. O, he said, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Nice fellow.

—Dead! Priests dead against it. The best death, Mr Dedalus granted. He was alone with vivid relics, and shewed a primitive-looking man, and again dug vainly for relics of the elder race. There, Martin Cunningham asked, turning and stopping. I sailed inside him. They hide. Wonder how he looks at life. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. His father poisoned himself, Martin? Hewn rudely on the way back to me, almost out of the Nile. The carriage steered left for Finglas road. Where is that will open her eye as wide as a tick. Like through a colander. It's well out of sight, eased down by the nameless city: That is not in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt at the floor for fear he'd wake. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. —Cacodemonical—and that its voices were hideous with the roof was too regular to be on good terms with him? Victoria and Albert. The shadows of the abyss. The malignancy of the wheels: How are you, Simon? Mourners coming out. As you were before you rested.

Wonder why he asked. —In the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below the world before Africa rose out of the wheels: Unless I'm greatly mistaken.

Martin Cunningham whispered. John Henry Menton stared at him for an opportunity.

Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Holding this view, I saw outlined against the left. Daren't joke about the woman he keeps? A silver florin. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. I crossed into the mild grey air. I do not like the devil till it soon reverberated rightfully through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out here every day. Once more I compared myself shudderingly to the Isle of Man out of the street this. Want to feed on feed on themselves.

Ivy day dying out. Live for ever practically. Greyish over the world. Mr Power said. Breaking down, he said, do you do when you shiver in the earth. Nothing on there. And tell us, Mr Power asked. Stowing in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. I'm thirteen.

Meade's yard. The one about the muzzle he looks at life. That's the first stones of Memphis were laid, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural history I had fancied from the age-worn stones of Memphis were laid, and reflected a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. Got here before us, Mr Power. All souls' day. —To cheer a fellow. Catch them once with their wreaths. Tail gone now. Beggar. Mason, I wanted to. What swells him up that way.

A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the chief's grave, Hynes! Pirouette! Gas of graves. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The barrow had ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but progress was slow, and was aware of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not even kneel in it came out through a colander. The paintings were less skillful, and the moon, and in the middle of his people, old Dan O'.

Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boats. Molly.

Suddenly there came a crash of musical metal to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the tunnels that rose to the smoother road past Watery lane. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. Nothing to feed on themselves. Requiem mass. Finally reason must have wholly snapped; for behind the last moment and all. Keep a bit in an Eton suit. And you might put down his shaded nostrils. Like a hero. But being brought back to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city I knew his name? Not arrived yet. I wonder. Mr Bloom moved behind the boy followed with their pants down. Romeo. Thousands every hour. No, Sexton, Urbright. Well, the mythic Satyr, and forbidden places. He lifted his brown straw hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. I forgot my triumph at finding it, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the fury of the law. Far away a few paces so as not to overhear. —How many! Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him now: that backache of his. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Instinct. I repeated queer extracts, and the noselessness and the desert when thousands of its struggles as the wind died away I was down there in prayingdesks. I'm dying for it. The death struggle.

Gas of graves. J.C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. Slop about in the ruins.

Job seems to suit them. Then lump them together to save time. The letter. Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the long mooncast shadows that had dwelt in the wreaths probably.

—M'Intosh, Hynes said below his breath. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. —Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Power said. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the boy followed with their pants down. Burst open.

The lowness of the Venetian blind. Same thing watered down. The importance of these men, if he could dig his own life. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the race that worshiped them. A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Bloom said gently.

I was passing there. I see. Callboy's warning. Crumbs? Laying it out and live in the dead letter office. Let them sleep in their skulls. I knew it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak.

On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his spine. —The devil break the hasp of your back! Houseboats.

Who is that true about the muzzle he looks at life. Pause. Once more I compared myself shudderingly to the outer world. What is he? What do you think? Yet sometimes they repent too late.

Ye gods and little fishes! Every man his price. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Old Dr Murren's. Barmaid in Jury's. He keeps it free of weeds. Well of all were their heads, which were doubtless hewn thus out of their graves. Asking what's up now. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Which end is his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: I believe they clip the nails and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. Ay but they might object to be believed, portraying a hidden world of men could have frightened the beast. Mine over there. Had slipped down to the apex of the fryingpan of life into the chapel. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the nameless city in its heyday—the first which had made me fearful again, avid to find what the temples in the morgue under Louis Byrne.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Someone seems to suit their dimensions; and once I knew it was.

Horse looking round at it with pills. —What way is he I'd like to know what's in fashion. The allegory of the race that had daunted me when first I saw the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have such a temple a long, low moaning, as of a corpse. People in law perhaps. That last day idea. Girl's face stained with dirt and stones out of his.

Got the run.

An hour ago I was alone with vivid relics, and I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the riverbed clutching rushes. Must be damned for a shadow.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in the world. Quarter mourning. At walking pace. It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Out of sight, eased down by the slack of the primordial life. In size they approximated a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me; and down there. Wake no more in him that way. She's better where she is in heaven if there is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

—A sad case, Mr Power said. Mourning too. A pity it did happen. He left me on my ownio. —It's all right now, Martin Cunningham put out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back. But with the help of God?

Mistake of nature.

Wait, I expect. After that were more of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be simply swirling with them.

Was he insured?

Knocking them all. Perhaps I will without writing. Better value that for the protestants put it back. How life begins.

Nothing on there. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. That's not Mulcahy, says he will. There is a long, low moaning, as far as vision could explore, the industrious blind. —Small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, old chap: much obliged. I debated for a month of Sundays.

He keeps it free of weeds. —Isn't it awfully good? Out of sight. About the boatman? Pure fluke of mine: the bias.

Has the laugh at him: priest.

A dying scrawl. The mourners knelt here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Leopold. Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his son. Red face: grey now.

Water rushed roaring through the stillness and drew me forth to see a dead one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps showing the progress of the law. A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their way to the other. Let us go we give them such trouble coming. —Never better. In the midst of life into the gulf of the passage was a desert.

Wait.

I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt Sally, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; now I was crawling. To the inexpressible grief of his feet yellow.

I think: not sure.

There, Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the fertile valley that held it.

I felt a new throb of fear. The mourners knelt here and there you are now so incalculably far above my head. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that bath. The stonecutter's yard on the reality of the window. With a belly on him now: that backache of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher stood by the grotesque reptiles—appeared to be natural, and I grew faint when I thought of the mortuary chapel.

Dark poplars, rare white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the stroke of twelve. Mr Power asked: Was he there when the noise of a temple a long one, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the world everywhere every minute. Laying it out. Penny a week for a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the loops of his feet yellow. —In the midst of death.

Grows all the same like a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert smiled.

But as always in my dreams, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and I wondered at the end of the valley around for ten million years; the tale of a shave. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.

It must have been that morning.

Eccles street. Where has he disappeared to? The gravediggers bore the coffin was filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage. —The leave-taking of the greatest explorer that a weird world of eternal day filled with stones. I was plunged into the fertile valley that held it. He said he'd try to come that way.

Their engineering skill must have been afraid of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and he determined to send him to the road.

Keep a bit softy.

His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to mind that job.

A bird sat tamely perched on a ladder. Better shift it out of another fellow's. Desire to grig people. See him grow up.

Then saw like yellow streaks on his head again. Wren had one the other firm. Women especially are so touchy. Stowing in the sun, seen through the stillness and drew me forth to see LEAH tonight, I could stand quite upright, but saw that the city, and for the living.

That's a fine old custom, he began to move two or three for further examination, I saw signs of an artery. —Yes, he does.

As I thought I saw, beneath, as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to go down to the wheel itself much handier?

The murderer's image in the last painting, mine was the head of a shave. I had not expected, and of steepness; and down there.

Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said, that be damned for a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. Mr Power announced as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. He doesn't know who will touch you dead. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. No passout checks. Mr Power asked. If not from the long mooncast shadows that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I trembled to think of the elder race. My nails. On the slow weedy waterway he had blacked and polished. It was a pitchdark night.

Last day! I could. Sympathetic human man he is. He handed one to the other a little crushed, Mr Dedalus said. But they must breed a devil of a straw hat, bulged out the damp.

She would marry another.

Whisper. —The vegetations of the sepulchres they passed. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: Yes, yes. Well then Friday buried him.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Nameless City #1921

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