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moth-song-archives · 3 years

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The Insatiable Flow of Time (1/8)

I remembered that I can make posts here too huh! Anyways, I wrote a post-MAG200 fic <3

I’ll reblog it again with the link to ao3 if you’d prefer reading it there :D

Rating: Teens and Up Archive Warnings: Choose Not To Use Categories: F/F Relationships: Georgie/Melanie, Georgie & Jon, Jonmartin (mentioned) Characters: Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Jonathan Sims, the Admiral, Basira Hussain (mentioned), Rosie Zampano (mentioned), Martin Blackwood (mentioned)

Additional tags: Diary/Journal × post mag200 × Post-Canon × Canon Compliant × Rated for swearing and me doing my best to write a fitting epilogue for my most fave story of all time × Bittersweet × Hurt/Comfort × Grief/Mourning × Gentle-Sad-Soft × Fluff × Non-Sexual Intimacy × Tenderness × Generally Hopeful Ending × Ambiguous/Open Ending × Catharsis × You know how TMA is a tragedy? ... yeah × Hope Punk × dealing with the fallout of surviving a literal apocalypse × Moving on and letting go × Trans Georgie Barker × Nonbinary Melanie King × Melanie uses any pronouns but needs to (re)discover this first × and is then mainly referred to with they/them pronouns for diary-simplicity × Melanie is ace in my heart ♡ × Jon is also enby but it only gets referred to in passing × Georgie has a Type™ × Character Study × i love them all so much × Nonbinary aspec author × it's very hope punk and somft BUT ALSO VERY SAD × in like a cathartic way × because i like causing pain :') × pre-written and updates every 2-3 days

I think I might use it to… rediscover myself. That’s what I liked about journaling in the first place, I think. Getting to think about things outside of my own head, putting it out there so I could move on? Maybe it’s time to return to old coping mechanisms and try again. Even if I haven’t really changed. Even if I should’ve changed. Right?

As the world tries to piece itself back together, Georgie grapples with her past, her present, and her future by keeping a diary. She also keeps having this strange, recurring dream that involves Jon. Post MAG200.

Finished at ~12k, will upload over the next couple of days <3

Day 3 - Evening

Melanie is sleeping. Basira is also sleeping, on the sofa in the living-room. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself, these days, so for now she’s staying with us.

I am not sleeping. I’m so far beyond tired that I can’t sleep anymore. It’s been... how long? More than a day, certainly. I’m at the kitchen table and the night outside is darker than any I’ve ever seen. There are no street lights and a million more stars than I could’ve ever imagined. I wish Melanie could see them too :(

Back before everything in my life went wrong, I used to be really good at this. I think I got my first diary when I was... seven, maybe eight? I used to be obsessed with it. I guess I stopped writing in college, after the incident, because it felt... wrong? Like I was lying to myself, trying to fabricate emotions that just weren’t there, keeping up with things that no longer seemed important or note-worthy. Mainly, I couldn’t make myself care about anyone or anything anymore.

I think I want to find that person again, now that it’s over. Try and… move on? And Melanie encouraged me :) I guess that’s the main reason. I found this notebook in one of the domains when we were rescuing people. I don’t know what I originally wanted to do with it, but I did end up forgetting about it until I went through my bag again today. It smells like fire and is a bit singed in places, but I kind of like that? I think I might use it to… rediscover myself. ...that sounds very pretentious, but this is just for me, so...

And I like that it’s just cheap paper scribbled on with a shitty biro. Maybe I’ll just burn it when all the thoughts are on the paper instead of in my head. When I can sleep again. And the prize for the most dramatic way of closure goes to Georgie Barker! But yeah. That’s what I liked about journaling in the first place, I think. Getting to think about things outside of my own head, putting it out there so I could move on? Maybe it’s time to return to old coping mechanisms and try again. Even if I haven’t really changed. Even if I should’ve changed. Right?

But I don’t feel any different. Shouldn’t I feel different, now that they’re gone? The entities, I mean, though Jon and Martin seem to be gone, too.

I keep remembering Martin’s expression when he told us to go early, how upset he was.

Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised. As long as I’ve known Jon, he’s always done what he thought best. It used to drive me up the walls, but I also admired it, I think? I never would’ve told him that, but… Well. He’s gone now.

It’s over, all of it.

And I still can’t sleep.

And Melanie is still blind, and I still feel empty, and my fear still hasn’t come back. Everyone who died is still dead, and the trauma is still there. There were angry mobs in the streets, and people got killed.

I can’t quite believe that Jon and Martin went with them. I can’t believe they left us behind to explain the entire mess.

We’re back in our old flat. It’s so weird to be back home. Everything looks the same, as though no time passed at all. Nobody knows what date it is. How long were we caught in there?

Outside, it feels like spring. There are birds everywhere, singing their hearts out. Sounds like more birds than there used to be, too. The trees are leafless and dead-looking, but Basira pointed out that they’re getting there... and it feels like spring.

I haven’t slept properly in 3 days because the questions keep me awake. It’s not that I’m worrying, really, just… thinking? I think I could sleep better if the worry had come back, but it hasn’t.

As far as we can tell, all modern devices are broken, too. Computers and phones and such, digital cameras, generators... we don’t even know what the rest of the world looks like. I hadn’t realised how much gets controlled by computers these days, we don’t even have central heating or water access in our flat. Rumours and news are spreading person-to-person, like in the Olden Days. We only have emergency systems that were installed in case of nation-wide blackout. I guess I’m glad we don’t actually have a blackout, we just need to get the computers back to work. (If I understood it correctly.)

Melanie thinks it’ll all come back to life in a few more days. I certainly hope so. I also hope I’ll stop feeling like this. Or rather, not feeling like anything. It’s so strange. Like in the first days after the incident, when I just felt numb?

They’re gone! I want to feel like a person again! What if I never get myself back?

They’re actually gone.

What will we do with our lives now? Basira isn’t the only one who feels uprooted. I think the whole world feels like that right now.

I hope my computer comes back soon. I miss music, and making things. My photos, all those memories.

I don’t want to lose all of that. I want to start fresh, but not without records of the past.

…I’ve had a lot of time to think about that, specifically. Records, and futures.

What the Ghost is done, right? There’s no fun in creepy ghost stories if you’ve been through an actual, living nightmare.

I think I want to start new with that, too. When everything works again, that is.

New world, new future, new podcast. I like that. I think. Make a record of what happened through eyewitness accounts? Or is that too similar to the Statements… then again, it’ll be more like interviews. And I think we shouldn’t forget.

We owe them that much.

I’ll have to talk it over with Melanie tomorrow. Maybe.

We’ll see.

God, I think maybe… maybe I can actually try and sleep tonight. Writing does seem to help.

Note to self: thank Laverne for suggesting it. (Also for being there for Melanie. And listening to us. And stopping with that culty nonsense. She’s the only one we found so far, but she actually listened to us. Strange to think that in this world, I have to be grateful for someone not worshipping me for some dumb reason?!)

Day 4 - Morning

So. Three things.

1) I did manage to fall asleep after all! I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, especially after the incident, so actually getting some proper rest felt really good.

2) I somehow woke up right as the sun went up! I think I’ve never seen a dawn this beautiful? I watched it from the bedroom window and I’ll definitely describe it to her in detail when she wakes up! The Admiral was sleeping on our pillow, right next to her head, snuggled up against the back of her neck and shoulder... it was so cute. I can’t believe my phone and camera still don’t work! Melanie has that old polaroid camera somewhere but we haven’t found it yet, and I wish my art skills were any better. I did draw a sketch of the two of them though. I’ll cherish it forever, no matter how shitty it is :’)

After everything that happened, the Admiral is still a bit weird around us. He started out really aggressive, calmed down a bit, and now… now he’s weirdly skittish? Meows a lot. Keeps walking around the flat. The only thing that even remotely returns him to how he used to be is tuna. It’s weird.

But seeing him like that, with Melanie? I love him so much.

I think he’ll be okay.

But before I forget, and why I actually got out the diary at this ungodly hour instead of trying to go back to sleep now that the sun is up…

3) I had a really nice dream. And... I don’t even know. I think I want to try and hold onto the feeling? I don’t think I’ve felt that… deeply… in a long while. Maybe the last time was before all this, when we decided to move in together. Before all of this happened.

For a moment, I felt like I was whole again :’)

It didn’t even have Melanie in it, which is very rude tbh. I think Jon was there? The Admiral, too. We were just chilling on the sofa, watching netflix I think... It felt so... mundane??? Casual, somehow??? Like it was normal to feel like that and I just... I want THAT. I want to feel like that again, instead of this weird… blank nothingness? I want that all the time, not just when I’m riding a high or feeling so terrible that it pierces through.

I don’t know if that makes sense but this is just for me anyway so I suppose it doesn’t have to.

I think I should feel bad about Jon being gone, but I still don’t even feel relief at it being over. Just this vague numbness.

I hate it so much, except I don’t, actually, I just know that I should?

Melanie keeps saying that I need a therapist but if we’re being honest here, I guess I need one the least? The whole goddamn world needs therapy right now. Including the therapists. And I’ve been dealing with this for a long time now.

I guess I keep hoping it’ll just go away somehow.

Anyways. Enough introspection, I’m going back to bed. I hope I don’t wake them! :)

Day 4 - Evening

It’s night now, the sun went down hours ago. We have a bunch of candles, but I’m trying to use them sparingly, so I just have one lit. I put a glass of water next to the candle so now the light gets magnified a bit more. It’s a weird atmosphere, but I kinda like it? Feels… cozy! :)

I’m still not over how everything looks the same, but nothing works like it did before, and there’s this… burden? This collective trauma everyone went through. It feels so surreal. So many things are still broken… it’s like we woke from a collective nightmare, but pieces of it still remain, floating around.

And we just sent it away with the tapes. I really hope those other worlds are doing better than us, but what else could we have done? I… try not to think about it. I know I should, but I still can’t really bring myself to care, or even feel overly guilty for that? …

Melanie fell asleep with her head in my lap half an hour ago. I was reading to her. She says she loves the sound of my voice, so I’ve started doing that in the evenings. (I still love that we had separate crushes from a distance on each other for ages because of youtube and WTG. We’ve been talking about that a lot, too.)

She still has nightmares, but apparently she’s also been having good dreams, and she looks so peaceful right now. The last few days have been a lot, but in comparison to before, and even before then…

It’s over. We made it out. We get to have a future together. I still can’t quite believe it. :)

I guess I’m writing again (despite already having done so in the morning) because it somehow helped yesterday and I’m hoping to replicate that. And I have a lot to think about. It’s been a long day.

Basira is still out there, helping out where she can. I think she feels guilty. Melanie says she doesn’t because there was no other choice, but I know her, and I know that she’s lying.

There’s always another choice. We just say that to make it easier to bear.

I hope she knows she can come talk to me when she feels ready to tackle it.

I hope I ever feel able to tackle it myself. No. I will talk to her when I’m ready.

We did talk a bit about things, of course. Melanie doesn’t really remember her dreams, most of the time, but apparently she’s been alternating between horrifying nightmares and a really nice, recurring one that sometimes happens after the nightmares. She doesn’t really remember much of it, but she mentioned it after I told her about the Jon dream. Not what it was about, just… in general.

From the way she talked about it, I think her dad might have been in it? I’m actually not sure, but the way she smiled…

She has that little smile on her lips again, even now, dreaming. The soft one she gets when she talks about good things. About him.

About me.

(I still can’t believe she chose me. How impossibly lucky? How did I ever deserve her? But then, it’s not about that, is it? She is mine, and I am hers, and… life will be good. I know it will be.)

She’s been smiling a lot more, these past few days.

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crystalmaster333 · 4 years

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@angev2n ‘s imagined future

year 2026 and i'm removing soy tuna from the fridge and eating it with a bamboo fork, while drinking an enriched brazil nut milkshake (the flavouring is made from 4 types of tree saps and 3 sugar alcohols) and i've removed a dessert from the freezer which is avocado and soy-based coconut milk with carob nice-cream and my hollow, sunken face and bloated Kwashiorkor-stomach pivots towards the camera compulsorily installed in my cramped apartment, whose walls are but one layer of plasterboard sound-and-scentproofed by a charcoal-gel filling which compensates for the lack of air-conditioning or heating. it deafens the screams and shrieks of my neighbours who twice weekly participate in violent and sadistic sex rituals with other consenting neighbours on the same floor, organised through the location-based social app Nawti and heightened by the use of Krokodil and other over-the-counter nootropics. It takes me a few moments to register that any prolonged period of eye contact with the camera initiates a pre-programmed alert response, and immediately my cracked phone-screen fills with push notifications from competing mental health and wellness companies suggesting a variety of services like ASMR Google hangouts somatic therapy or a discount on the purchase of a compact at-home, self-regulating sensory deprivation tank.

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mouthwashjukeboxgasoline · 2 years

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Chapter 2

Wyatt finally manages to get to Cedrick's place; an old house at the edge of the forest, not unlike his own. Except the one he and his mom lived in is at least fully intact. Cedrick has to live with various holes that leak when it rains. Luckily, it doesn't rain often here. Orre is pretty arid, for the most part. He walks up and knocks on the door after parking his bike against the dilapidated railing of the front porch.

It takes a moment for Cedrick to get to the front door, but when he does he practically yanks the rusty, dented metal door off its hinges with the sheer level of enthusiasm he has. "There you are! What took you so long?", he asks, jokingly.

Wyatt gives the dirty blonde-haired guy an unamused look as he continues to catch his breath, leaning against the porch railing as he does so.

"You, uh.... you need a glass of water or something, dude?" He moves out of the doorway, gesturing for him to come inside. "By all means, come on in."

Wyatt straightens up and makes his way inside. "Just get to the good part. What is this genius plan of yours, exactly?", he asks, making his way across the mostly-unadorned living room with a single couch, small coffee table with an equally-small TV resting on it into the kitchen, grabbing a clean glass from the drying rack next to the sink and pouring him a glass of tap water. He cringes a bit at the bitter, mineral-laden aftertaste, but at this point he's thirsty enough to simply not care.

"So, I was hanging out at the pier, seeing everyone come and go, y'know? And I overheard someone talking about a ship stopping by with goods from almost every region. Apparently the goods are special or something because neither of the guys talking about it would go out and directly say what the ship was carrying, but they both seemed pretty excited. It's currently docked and should be leaving sometime early this morning, so we have about six or so hours to scout it out and find a way onto the ship itself. It unloaded a bunch of cargo to sell in Orre, probably luxury goods that they can sell for a profit here, meaning there should be plenty of empty crates and such to stow away in."

Wyatt thinks for a moment. "So, what, we just hole away in a shipping crate until it stops somewhere else and sneak off?"

"Yeah, that's the idea. I've got a bunch of pre-packaged food and water to tide us over until we're able to leave. Enough to last us at least a month, so long as we ration it out properly."

Wyatt frowns. "Alright. One small issue, though; last time I checked shipping crates don't have bathrooms installed in them....."

"Don't worry, I brought some sealable plastic containers for that. We can dump them out every so often-"

Wyatt laughs abruptly, almost choking on the second glass of water he poured for himself. "Really? Chamber pots? If there was ever any doubt in my mind that you weren't serious about this, that doubt is now gone."

"Yup! I am absolutely serious about this. And to show you just how serious I am...."

He pulls out two hefty backpacks from under the coffee table, both filled to the brim.

"Here's the rations for the two of us. They should last us each about 30 days, so long as we eat and drink as little as possible." He hands one of the backpacks to Wyatt.

"Wow, these things are heavy!", he says, struggling to hoist his up.

"Yeah, man! It's a month's worth of food and water! I struggled enough getting it all into one convenient package."

Wyatt puts the massive backpack down on the ground, already loathing the idea of carrying it with him. It's almost as big as he is, and feels every bit of 50 pounds. A faint sloshing sound can be heard as he plops it down.

"Hey, be careful with it. Most of it is water in cheap plastic bottles. I don't know how well they'll hold up to being squashed."

Wyatt crouches down to open the top up, curious to see what's all inside.

"Makes sense. Hopefully I didn't puncture anything...."

He pulls out a lot of cans; mostly pork and beans, along with some canned tuna and various fruits and vegetables.

"I did my best to put together a balanced diet. Wouldn't wanna get scurvy, y'know?", Cedrick says.

Wyatt continues pulling things out, doing his best to make sure nothing was damaged.

".....also, it was relatively cheap, and easy to buy in bulk. Don't worry, I got a can opener for each of us, along with some silverware in one of the side pouches. It should be pretty warm on the ship, so we should be relatively fine without any blankets."

"Probably won't be comfortable, though. Are you sure we'll be on there a month before we find a decent stopping point?", Wyatt asks, putting the items back in once he confirms none of them are damaged.

"No, that's just the worst-case scenario. Apparently the average time for a boat trip from Orre to Kanto, the furthest region from here, is about a month, so I packed accordingly."

"So, you're saying we probably won't need all of this.", Wyatt says, looking down at the intimidatingly heavy backpack.

"Hey, it's better to have too much than too little."

"I guess....." Wyatt looks to the front door. "In that case, maybe we should leave now? That way we'll have plenty of time to rest after hauling all of this to the pier."

Cedrick smiles. "Sounds good to me!", he says as he dons his own massive pack laden with food and water, grunting a bit as he fits his arms through the shoulder loops. His well-worn olive-colored jacket with fraying edges is very similar in color to the massive backpack; even the texture of the cloth matches.

"Alright, let's go.", Cedrick says, making his way out the door. He pulls a bike of his own out from under the porch. He grabs a bottle of machine oil he keeps stowed away next to the bike and begins greasing the rusty chain.

"I can't believe that thing still works.", Wyatt says, half-jokingly.

Cedrick shrugs. "It's not as bad as it looks. So long as I keep her well-oiled, she runs fine. Once we finally step foot in a real region, like Kanto or Unova, we'll be able to catch some pokemon, and make some real money. Then, maybe we'll be able to afford new stuff.....", he says, already letting his mind wander as he pulls the bike up.

"It's high time we head off!", he says, pedaling the bike with enough force to make it rev up on the dry, dusty dirt below it before speeding off down the bumpy dirt path in front of him.

"Hey!" Wyatt hurriedly grabs his bike and follows suit. While he knows exactly where the pier is, he doesn't want to lose sight of Cedrick, lest he get himself in trouble. He's always had to look after Cedrick, keeping him from getting into too much trouble, and usually getting dragged into whatever he was cooking up in the process. Not that he really minded, even if his constant bickering suggested otherwise. Cedrick quickly caught onto this, figuring if he was really fed up with it all he would have stopped hanging out with him long ago. He was initially worried that this whole plan of his was crossing a line that should never have been crossed, and as such he was very relieved when Wyatt decided to go along with it. He wasn't sure if he had the courage to go through with this on his own.

"Is it just me or are our bikes going faster now that we have these backpacks on?"Cedrick asks as he speeds down the dirt road, Wyatt close behind him.

"Probably due to the extra momentum from all this weight on our shoulders. Be careful when we go downhill; the added weight will probably make it much more difficult to stop."

"Right. I, uh, totally knew that.", Cedrick says, slowing down a bit. The two of them continue their journey in relative silence, aside from the occasional joke.

------------------------------------------------------

".......Alright, Taral, we're here!" The young man is wrenched from his scenic daydreaming, blissfully immersed in a scenic mindscape where it's just him and some friendly pokemon. No frustrating tests, no lofty standards to hold himself to, just him and the peaceful wildlife.

His mother's voice, and the sudden jostle as the carriage stops pull him back to reality. He sighs a bit as he opens the door to get out, the hustle and bustle of the portside merchant town already a bit overwhelming for him.

"Your father and I are going to do some shopping. We'll meet back up at the carriage here in a few hours.", she says, grabbing an almost comically large amount of empty bags and giving them to his father.

"And make sure to be here ten minutes early. We don't want to be late to the party.", his father says as he folds the bags up into a neat pile to make them easier to carry.

"Of course. I promise I'll be responsible, as always.", Taral says, eager to break off from them and check out the merchant district on his own. The cobblestone streets twist and meander across the hillside, a multitude of stalls and huts packed on either side. Plenty of people can be seen mulling about, mostly in standard peasant attire, such as farmer's overalls and basic, unadorned clothing. Taral always felt sorry for them, having to live their rough lives while people like him were draped in soft, lavish clothing and ate expensive delicacies every day. He didn't understand it.

"Hmm....." He quickly gets tired of looking on his own, and asks a nearby shopkeep. "Has there been a shipment of contemporary goods recently? Specifically capture balls?"

The elderly man gets real shifty when the term 'Capture Ball' is mentioned. "......and why would a kid like you be wanting a thing like that?", he asks, in a hushed tone.

"......because I want to capture a pokemon? Why else would I want one-"

"SHH!" The merchant harshly cuts him off. "It ain't wise to go asking around about those things. They're cursed with foul magicks!", he says, deathly serious.

Taral rolls his eyes and simply keeps on walking. "It's called 'technology'!", he mumbles under his breath. He continues to check around, but finds little success. He is heckled by particularly pushy merchants on multiple occasions, mainly by ones that sell luxury goods such as fine clothing and jewelry, but he quickly and politely brushes them off.

Eventually, he comes across a small shack with various paintings, all of which are breathtaking depictions of natural scenery in the region. However, the art isn't what initially draws his attention; it's the Smeargle being scolded by the shopkeep behind the display area. Judging from the discounts on all the paintings currently for sale, it probably has something to do with how well the Smeargle's art is selling.

"......rent's due in a week and we've barely made enough to put food on the table! If you don't make something that sells soon, I'll......"

The elderly man sounds more panicked than anything else, but the Smeargle keeps their head down, clearly ashamed of themselves.

Taral, seeing an opportunity to lift an abused pokemon out of a bad situation, steps in.

"Hey, uh, if it's money you need then maybe we can strike a deal. I'm currently looking for a pokemon to buy." He pulls out his hefty pouch of coins.

"I'm willing to pay upfront-"

"No! Absolutely not! She's my primary source of income! Just because we're going through a bit of a dry period isn't reason enough-"

The old shopkeep stops for a moment, training his eye on the young man's fine clothing and overall courtly demeanor.

"......are you attending that party the Feng family is throwing?"

"Yes, actually!" It's why my family and I are here."

The old man rubs his chin for a moment. "....tell you what. I've been trying to sell my business to the Fengs for a while now. It's easily worth 100,000 Yen, which would be plenty for me to live off of. If you can convince them to buy, then you've got yourself a deal."

"Alright, deal! I presume they're familiar with you already, since you've tried to sell your business to them in the past?"

The old man nods. "A fair amount of the art they have hanging on their walls was made by this Smeargle, here. Although, most of our income comes from tourists stopping by on their fancy cruise ships. Unfortunately, due to the Crusades, we haven't been getting nearly as many tourists as we used to. Damn shame, too. Used to be good money." He looks down at the Smeargle, who is touching up one of her existing paintings.

"......but times change, I guess."

Taral thinks for a moment. (Crusades? Does that mean there's a war happening? I'll have to inquire about if I get the chance to at the party.....)

"Well, in that case, I'll see if I can't drum up some interest in her art among the other party goers. If the Fengs see that there's a demand for your art amongst their peers, then maybe they'll reconsider."

"Good idea. Let me know if they change their mind."

Taral turns to leave, but stops for a moment and asks; "Do you have a Capture Ball for her?"

He nods. "Got her from a tourist as a baby. Noticed there was a demand for her art, and, well, here we are."

Taral sighs in relief. (Well now I won't have to worry about finding a way to smuggle her back to the estate.)

"I'll let you know what their response is once the party's over." With that, Taral makes a beeline towards the textile-centric portion of the district, figuring that would be the best place to look. It only takes a few minutes to find the two of them, his father bogged down with so many bags full of clothes and trinkets that it's a wonder how they'll fit it all in the carriage.

"Oh, honey! Did you find what you were looking for?", his mother asks.

(Damn! Forgot to grab a journal on my way back!) "Um, not quite yet. I was hoping for one of the fancier journals with lined paper but it seems many of the imports have ceased due to the 'Crusades.' Do either of you have any relevant context on that?", he asks.

"Oh, it's some big kerfuffle between Emperor Nobunaga and one of those blasted tech corps from overseas. Which one was it, dear? I believe it started with an 'A'?"

"Aether Foundation, is the one. From what I've heard, the corporation tried to do something to his partner pokemon, Zekrom, which sparked a war between them.", his mother says as she picks out yet another dress to add to her massive collection.

"Perhaps I should have focused more on current politics during your classes, now that you bring it up. We'll get you up to speed before the party begins."

Taral rolls his eyes behind his father's back, but does not protest.

#fanfiction #pokemon

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ericgamalinda · 4 years

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Sod Manila!

From EMPIRE OF MEMORY, 1992 / 2014

AT HALF PAST THREE in the afternoon of July 5, 1966, a mob hired by President Ferdinand Marcos chased the Beatles out of Manila International Airport. I remember the jittery footage of the scene being replayed over and over on The News Tonite on Channel 5. A grim-looking commentator was saying the Fab but Discourteous Four had shamelessly humiliated the First Lady and her children by refusing to pay a courtesy call at Malacañang Palace. Imelda Marcos herself hastily issued a statement saying the Beatles were to be treated humanely despite the snub, but this was said after the fact—after the Beatles had been kicked, spat at, cursed, and chased into a waiting jet.

Julian Hidalgo, known by the nickname Jun, took me and my sister Delphi to the Beatles’ concert at Rizal Memorial Stadium. At that time he was courting my sister and was hoping to win me over by playing the older brother. They were both nineteen, and the rituals of this older generation meant nothing to me beyond free passes to a number of movies, where I had to chaperone Delphi. The three of us would witness, not by accident, the Beatles being beaten up at the airport, and for some time we would bond in a special way—conspirators mystically united by an adventure whose significance would only dawn on us long after the event had passed. Jun explained a few details about this incident to me eighteen years later, when, in the ironic twists of fate that coursed through our lives during the dictatorship, he and I became colleagues once again in the censorship office in Malacañang. But in 1966 we were young, brash, and bold with hope, and like the entire country, we seemed on the verge of a privileged destiny.

Three days before the concert, Jun rushed to our house with three front-row tickets. Delphi’s eyes widened like 45s. “Where did you get the money this time, ha?” she asked incredulously. “The First Lady gave them to me,” Jun said proudly. And, in response to our howls of disbelief, “Well, actually, this reporter from the Manila Times gave them to me. The First Lady was giving away sacks of rice and tickets last week. This reporter owed me for a tip I gave him years ago, the one that got him the Press Club award. He wanted the rice, I asked for the tickets. He was one of those Perry Como types.” Imelda Marcos had flown in friends and media to celebrate her birthday on her native island of Leyte. There was roast suckling pig and a rondalla playing all day. She herself obliged requests for a song with a tearful ballad in the dialect, “Ang Irog Nga Tuna,” My Motherland. To commemorate the sentimental reunion, each guest went home with the rice and tickets. “Now that’s style,” Delphi said. Then, upon reflection: “They won’t let Alfonso in.” “Of course they would!” I protested. I was just thirteen but I was already as tall as she was. “That’s not the point,” Jun said impatiently. “I’m going to get myself assigned to cover the Beatles and we can talk to them ourselves.” “All the other reporters will beat you to it,” I said. Jun was stringing for the Manila Times and was convinced that getting an exclusive interview would land him a job as a staff reporter. “All the other reporters listen to nothing but Ray Conniff,” he said. “Besides, nobody knows where they’re staying. But I do.” Jun’s modus operandi wasn’t going to be that easy. He managed to get stage passes for the three of us, which turned out to be inutile. It was the official pass, printed and distributed in London, that we had to wangle if we were to get near the Beatles. “Go ahead and do your job,” Delphi told him icily. “We’ll see you at the stadium.” “I can still get you the pass,” Jun said. “Somehow.” He was beginning to realize that concert security would directly affect his personal relationships. But not even his religious coverage of pre-concert press briefings seemed to help. Local promoters announced that the Beatles’ only press conference was going to be held at the War Room of the Philippine Navy headquarters, and that the concert was being staged, not by coincidence, on the fourth of July as a birthday gift to the Republic (July 4th) and the First Lady (July 2nd). Other questions were left unanswered. Had the Beatles secretly arrived by submarine? “That’s confidential.” Were they actually going to stay at the Palace? “That’s confidential.” In the end somebody asked if the Beatles actually existed, and the joke was that that, too, was confidential. The excitement was further fueled by a series of wire stories the dailies ran on page one, including coverage of the Beatles’ world tour, warnings of possible riots all over the world, and a rare discordant moment in Tokyo, where a reporter asked the group, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” The reply: “If you grow up yourself you’d know better than to ask that question.” Radio stations kept playing the Beatles’ hits (most requested: “Yesterday” and “Help!”), and DZUW, Rainy Day Radio, preempted everyone and began playing the new single, “Paperback Writer.” The Philippine Security Corporation created the biggest stir when it insured the Beatles for a million pesos. Two hundred Philippine Constabulary troopers, seven hundred policemen, detachments from the Pasay City and Parañaque police, the Civil Aeronautics Administration, the Bureau of Customs, and the Marines were on red alert. The First Lady bought fifteen hundred tickets and distributed them to volunteer recruits to Vietnam, who were going to be the show’s guests of honor. Pro-Beatle fan clubs were staging rallies, counterpointed by anti-Beatle demonstrations where placards said, “No one is more popular than Jesus!!!” Government bureaucrats had to drive away contractors who were bribing them with concert tickets. On the eve of the Beatles’ arrival, a young colegiala threatened to jump off the roof of the Bank of the Philippine Islands building unless she was granted a private audience with the band. Backstage at the Rizal Memorial Stadium, an air-conditioned dressing room was hastily installed a day before the concert, complete with state-of-the-art TV monitors and audio equipment. Quarter-page ads appeared in the dailies for a week, announcing concert schedules and sponsors. Finally, on July 3, the day of the Beatles’ arrival, a full-page splash appeared in all the dailies:

LIVE! THE BEST IN THE WORLD! THE BEATLES IN MANILA With Asia’s Queen of Songs Pilita Corales Carding Cruz and his Orchestra The Wing Duo The Lemons Three Dale Adriatico The Reycard Duet and Eddie Reyes & The Downbeats!

Early that morning, Jun called us up. “Get dressed, both of you. We’re meeting the Beatles at the airport.” “What do you mean, we?” Delphi asked. “I told you we’d talk to them, didn’t I?” Jun said. “Did I ever break a promise?” On many occasions, yes, but this was one promise for which Delphi was willing to risk her life—and mine, if need be. She drove our parents’ 1964 Ford to the airport as though she wanted to mow down everything in our way, laughing as irate motorists yelled obscenities at us. When we finally met Jun at the parking lot, he handed us a pile of obviously used porter uniforms. “I paid the guy twenty pesos to rent them,” he said proudly. “Does this guy know what you’re renting them for?” Delphi asked, crinkling her nose as she daintily held her uniform away. Jun held up a bootleg 45, pressed in Hong Kong, in red vinyl. “If I get an autograph, we get a refund.”

THE CATHAY PACIFIC jet swooped in at half past four. The airport was jam-packed with the biggest crowd I had ever seen in my life: girls in bobby socks and leatherette miniskirts and boys in seersucker suits, all perspiring and scrunched against a chain-link fence. This was definitely the wrong place to be. As the jet taxied in, we tore ourselves away from the crowd and wormed our way to one of the departure exits, just in time to catch a baggage trolley rattling toward the plane. Jun hopped on, and Delphi and I awkwardly clambered after him. I was afraid Delphi’s bobbed hair would spill out of the cap she was wearing and blow our cover. But, having regained her composure, she stood handsomely in the last car, gripping the rail; it was no wonder Jun risked life, limb, and career for her. The trolley rattled past armored cars, fire trucks, riot squads, and troops of motorcycle police who were wearing special cowboy hats for this occasion. As soon as the trolley cranked to a stop under the jet, Jun hopped off. He was about to head toward the stairs when a limousine careened and cut him off. Three official-looking men dressed in formal barong Tagalog got off the limousine and rushed up to the plane. What followed was an interminable, bated-breath pause. Jun walked up the stairs and saw the officials arguing with passengers near the plane’s exit. Somebody was saying, “Is there a war going on?” Finally, one official tentatively walked out of the plane. This was enough to excite the increasingly impatient crowd, and immediately a cacophony of screams burst from the viewing deck. The screams grew louder as other officials and soldiers walked out of the plane. By the time Brian Epstein groggily stepped out, the screaming had reached earsplitting level—no matter that the soldiers surrounded the Beatles from jet to limousine and we caught glimpses of them only through spaces in the cordon sanitaire: George Harrison, his hair tousled by the humid wind, his red blazer flashing like a signal of distress, Ringo Starr in peppermint stripes and flapping foulard, Paul McCartney, round-eyed and baby-faced, and John Lennon, hiding behind dark glasses. Jun hurried down the stairs and motioned for us to follow him. “What happened in there?” Delphi asked him. “I don’t know,” Jun said. “All I heard was a lot of words your folks wouldn’t want you to hear.” “What does that mean?” Delphi asked. “Nothing we can’t find out,” said Jun.

THE MANILA TIMES ran a story about the press conference at the War Room. Jun fumed over his colleague’s story, saying, “This idiot did little more than transcribe the Q&A.” It turned out, however, that the Beatles’ replies would be uncannily prophetic.

THE BEATLES! YEAH! By Bobby Tan

When did you last get a haircut? In 1933. Would you be as popular without your long hair? We can always wear wigs. How much taxes do you pay? Too much. What attracted you to your wives? Sex. Do you feel you deserve the Order of the British Empire? Yeah. But when you’re between 20 and 23, there are bound to be some criticisms. How will you solve the Vietnam War? Give it back to whoever deserves it. What’s your latest song? “Philippine Blues.” Mr. Lennon, what did you mean by Spaniard in your latest book? Have you read it? No. Then read it. If there should come a time when you have to choose between the Beatles and your family, whom would you choose? We never let our families come between us. What is your favorite song? “God Save the King.” But it’s the Queen now. “God Save the Queen” then. What will you be doing ten years from now? Why bother about ten years from now? We don’t even know if we’ll be around tomorrow.

ON THE EVE of July 4, Philippine-American Friendship Day, President Ferdinand Marcos urged Filipinos to “recall the lasting and valuable friendship between America and the Philippines” and issued a statement saying a revamp of the government bureaucracy was imminent. “Heads Will Roll!” the dailies shrilled, their bold prediction thrust audaciously by homeless street children against car windows along Highway 54. At the Quirino Grandstand the next day, the President sat in the sweltering heat as troops paraded before him. Three stations covered the Friendship Day rites, but Channel 5 ignored it completely, running instead a 24-hour update on the Beatles. Marcos seethed on the grandstand, and cameras caught the expression on his face that might have said: Damned Trillos, they really get my goat. The Trillos owned the Manila Times and many broadcast stations and refused to accommodate the First Family’s whims. But Marcos had the last laugh. On this very afternoon, back at the Palace, Imelda and the children would be having lunch with the Beatles. All television stations and newspapers had been invited for a five-minute photo opportunity—all, that is, except the Trillo network. Marcos tried to stifle a smirk as he saluted the troops. Proud and dignified in his white suit, he stood out like some sartorial titan: people said you could tell he was going in for a second term.

CALLA LILIES were brought in at nine by Emma Fernandez, one of the Blue Ladies, so-called because Imelda Marcos had them wear nothing but blue. The flowers adorned the corridors of the palace all the way to the formal dining hall, where about a hundred youngsters, ages three to fifteen, listlessly waited for the Beatles. Imee, the eldest of the Marcos children, sporting a new bobcut hairdo, sat at the head of the table. Her younger sister Irene sat beside her, reticent and uncomfortable in Sunday clothes. Ferdinand Junior, master Bongbong to one and all, was wearing a bowtie and a starched cotton shirt, and his attire apparently made him restless, as he kept sliding off his seat to pace the floor. Around them were children of ministers, generals, business tycoons, and friends of the family, sitting under buntings of red, white, and blue and paper flags of the United States and the Philippines. Imelda Marcos walked in at exactly eleven. Emma Fernandez approached her, wringing her hands, and whispered in her ear: “They’re late!” Imelda brushed her off, an imperceptible smile parting her lips. She kissed the children one by one, Imee dodging and receiving instead a red smear on the ear. She inspected the cutlery, the lilies, the nameplates: two R’s each for Harrison and Starr, check; two N’s for Lennon; and no A in Mc. She scanned the room proudly, deflecting the grateful, expectant faces, the small fingers clutching cardboard tickets to the concert. At half past eleven the children began complaining, so breadsticks and some juice were served. Imelda walked around the hall, stopping to strike a pose for the palace photographers. “Good shot, Madame!” The photographers were the best in the field, plucked out of the newsrooms to accompany her on all her itineraries. They had been sufficiently instructed on which angle to shoot from and which side to take, and anyone who took the wrong shot was dismissed posthaste, his camera and negatives confiscated. The children were more difficult to shoot: bratty and impatient, they always came out pouting, with their chins stuck out. It was always best to avoid them. Unknown to this gathering, a commotion was going on at the lobby of the Manila Hotel. On hand were Brian Epstein and members of the concert crew; Colonel Justin Flores and Captain Nilo Cunanan of the Philippine Constabulary; Sonny Balatbat, the teenage son of Secretary of State Roberto Balatbat; Captain Fred Santos of the Presidential Guard; Major Tommy Young and Colonel Efren Morales of the Manila Police District; and local promoter Rene Amos. “We had an agreement,” Colonel Flores was saying. “We sent a telegram to Tokyo.” “I don’t know about any fucking telegram,” Epstein replied. “The First Lady and the children have been waiting all morning.” “Nobody told them to wait.” “The First Lady will be very, very disappointed.” Brian Epstein looked the colonel in the eye and said, “If they want to see the Beatles, let them come here.” At the stroke of noon, Imelda Marcos rose from her chair and walked out of the dining hall. “The children can wait,” she said, “but I have more important things to do.” As soon as she was gone, Imee pushed back her chair, fished out her ticket, and tore it in two. The other children followed, and for a few seconds there was no sound in the hall but the sound of tickets being torn. Bongbong hovered near the plate that had been reserved for John Lennon. “I really much prefer the Rolling Stones,” he said. Photographers caught the young master at that moment, his eyes wide and blank. Imee looked at him and remarked, “The only Beatles song I liked was ‘Run for Your Life.’” She looked around the hall defiantly. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. People always said that among the three Marcos children, she was the sensitive one. That morning she seemed she was about to cry.

The Beatles: Mass Hysteria! By Jun Hidalgo

Eighty thousand hysterical fans cramped into Rizal Memorial Stadium to watch the Beatles, the largest crowd Manila has seen since the Elorde-Ortiz boxing match in the same stadium. While traffic snarled to a standstill along Dakota Street, 720 policemen, 35 special detectives and the entire contingent of the Manila Fire Department stood guard as the Liverpool quartet performed their hits before thousands of cheering and screaming fans, many of whom had waited to get inside the stadium since early morning…

WHEN THE GATES finally opened, all hell broke loose. I held on to Delphi, who held on to Jun, and the three of us braved the onslaught as we squeezed past security and found ourselves, miraculously intact, on the front row beside the Vox speakers. “I don’t want to sit here,” Delphi protested. “We’re going to blast our ears off!” “Relax,” Jun said. “Everybody’ll be screaming anyway. We have the best seats in the house.” Everyone in the stadium was a mophead, except the Vietnam volunteers sitting in our row, whose heads had been cleanly shaved. They were young men plucked from the provinces, and many of them were never coming home again. I was so relieved I had grown my hair longer that summer. My hair was a clear sign that, despite my young age, I had gained honorary membership in the exclusive cabal of this generation. You could tell who the pigs were: they were the ones who roamed around, their ears pink and their heads shaved clean like the Vietnam volunteers. Some of them had guns under into their belts; they had been warned that a riot could break out.

…Soaked in sweat, Beatles fans impatiently heckled the opening acts, and emcees had to threaten the crowd that the Beatles would not perform until the audience simmered down.

And when the Beatles finally opened with “I Wanna Be Your Man,” you could feel the excitement ripping through you, a detonation of such magnitude your entire being seemed to explode. I couldn’t hear anything except a long, extended shrill—the whole stadium screaming its lungs out. I looked at Delphi. She was holding her head between her hands and her eyes were bulging out and her mouth was stretched to an 0, and all I could hear was this long, high-pitched scream coming out of her mouth. I had never seen Delphi like that before, and I would never, for the rest of her life, see her as remorselessly young as she was that afternoon.

THE MORNING AFTER the concert, Jun asked Delphi if we could take the Ford to Manila Hotel. “Why do you have to take us along?” Delphi asked him. It was clear that for her the concert had been the high point of our adventure. “We still have to get that interview, don’t we?” Jun reminded her. “Besides,” he added, “I need you to cover for me,” Jun said. “Cover?” asked Delphi. “As in war?” “Looks like war it’s going to be,” said Jun. Jun had bribed someone from room service to let him take a snack to the Beatles. I was going to pose as a bellhop. Delphi was going to be a chambermaid. Apparently our plan was to swoop down on them in the name of impeccable service, with Jun secretly recording this invasion with the help of a pocket-sized tape recorder. As usual, he had the uniforms ready, rented for the day for half his month’s wages. “The hotel laundry boy’s a childhood friend of mine.” “You’re the company you keep,” Delphi teased him, because she knew it tortured him whenever she did that. I wore the monkey suit perfectly, but somehow it still didn’t feel right. I looked at myself in the men’s room mirror and knew I was too young for the role. And Delphi looked incongruous as the chambermaid: her bob cut was too in. As it turned out, all my misgivings would be proven true. We crossed the lobby to the service elevator. Jun walked several paces ahead of us, nonchalantly jiggling the car keys, but I kept glancing nervously around. “Hoy, where you going?” Jun didn’t seem to hear the house detective call us, or maybe the detective didn’t notice him walking past. I felt a hand grab my collar and pull me aside. Immediately, Delphi was all over the detective, hitting him with her fists: “You take your hands off my brother or I’ll kick your teeth in!” Struggling out of the detective’s chokehold, I could see Jun hesitating by the elevator. I motioned for him to go. The detective dragged Delphi and me out to a backroom where several other detectives were playing poker. “Oy, got two more right here!”

AS HE RECALLED LATER, Jun wheeled the tray into Suite 402 expecting to find telltale debris of a post-concert party (and hence an excuse for us to mop up). What he came upon was something less festive. “Compliments of the house, sir,” he announced cheerfully as he came in. George Harrison and Brian Epstein were sitting on the sofa, and Paul McCartney was precariously perched on the TV set, brooding. The three of them apparently had been having an argument and they all looked up, surprised, at the intruder. “All right,” Epstein said, curtly. “Bring it in.” “I’ll have to mix the dip here, sir,” Jun said, to prolong the intrusion. “House specialty.” Nobody seemed to hear him. George Harrison continued the conversation, “We came here to sing. We didn’t come here to drink tea and shake hands.” “That’s precisely the reason we’ve got to pay customs the bond for the equipment,” said Epstein. “Let them keep the money then,” Paul said. “Everyone says here come those rich mopheads to make more money. We don’t care about the money.” “We didn’t even want to come here,” George reminded them. “The only reason we came here,” added Paul, “was because these people were always saying why don’t you come over here? We didn’t want to offend anyone, did we? We just came here to sing. You there,” indicating Jun, who jumped with surprise. “Do you speak English?” “Fairly well,” replied Jun. “Does the government control the press here, as they do the customs people, the airport managers, and the police?” “Not yet,” said Jun. Paul then observed that everything was “so American in this country, it’s eerie, man!” He also remarked that many people were exploited by a wealthy and powerful few. Epstein wanted to know how he knew that, as the others had simply not heard of the country before, and Paul replied that he had been reading one of the local papers. “What are we supposed to do?” he asked. “Show up and say, ‘Well, here we are, we’re sorry we’re late!’ We weren’t supposed to be here in the first place. Why should we apologize for something that’s not our fault?” At that point John Lennon and Ringo Starr, who had been booked in the adjacent suite, walked in. Ringo, sweating and tousled, plopped into the sofa between Epstein and George Harrison. John Lennon, wearing his dark glasses, walked straight to the window and looked out. “We’ve got a few things to learn about the Philippines, lads,” he said. “First of all is how to get out.”

THE MANILA HOTEL DETECTIVES deftly disposed of Delphi and me with a push via the back door, where a sign said THROUGH THIS DOOR PASS THE MOST COURTEOUS EMPLOYEES OF MANILA. We walked back to the Ford in the parking lot and waited for less than an hour when Jun, struggling out of the hotel uniform and back to mufti, sprinted toward us and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Get in!” he shouted. “We’re going to the airport!” “Did you get the interview?” Delphi asked. “Better,” Jun said. “The Beatles are going to try to leave this afternoon. They’re paying something like forty-five thousand dollars as a bond or something. Customs is charging them so much money in taxes for the concert.” “Wait a minute,” Delphi protested. “Is that legal?” “Who cares?” Jun said. “All I know is they’re paying the bond and now all they want to do is to get out. But they think something’s going to happen at the airport. There’s been talk of arrest and detention.” “Who said that?” Delphi asked. “John Lennon, I think. I don’t know. I was mixing that stupid dip.” We were driving toward the south highway now, past the mammoth hulls of ships docked at Manila Bay. “You know all those people who’ve been trying to get the Beatles to go to the palace? You know why they were so keen on bringing the band over to Imelda’s luncheon?” “Can’t waste all that food, right?” Delphi said. “Bright girl, but no. There’s going to be a major revamp soon. It’s all over the papers, if you’ve been paying attention. All these guys are going to get the top posts. Well, most of them were, until the Beatles screwed everything up.” “What guys? Who?” “That Colonel Fred Santos, the one who led the group to talk to Epstein, he’s being groomed to head the Presidential Guard. Real heavy-duty position, accompanying the First Family all over the world, luxury apartment at the Palace, the works. There’s one Colonel Flores, Justin Flores I think, who’s bound to be chief of the constabulary. Then there’s Colonel Efren Morales, most likely head of the Manila Police.” “But these are junior officers,” Delphi said. “Marcos can’t just promote them to top posts.” “That’s the point. Marcos is going to bypass everybody and build up an army of his own. All these new guys will be licking his boots and there’s nothing the generals can do about it. That young mophead, the son of Balatbat, he was there for his father, who’s going to be reappointed secretary of state. And if I’m not mistaken, Salvador Roda, the airport manager, wants to take over customs. The man’s going to be a millionaire, kickbacks and all.” “How do you know all that?” Delphi demanded. “Homework,” Jun said, swerving the car toward the airport, his reply drowned out by the droning of jets. “I’m the best damned reporter in the city, and everybody’s going to find out why.”

SALVADOR RODA was briefing the press agitatedly at the VIP lounge of the airport that afternoon, explaining why the republic was withdrawing security for the Beatles and why customs had slapped a hundred-thousand-peso tax on Liverpudlian income. “Too much Filipino money wasted on such a paltry entourage, gentlemen of the press, and not one centavo of the profits going to the nation. Puta, that doesn’t make sense, di ba?” We walked up the escalators to the second floor to change into our porter uniforms, which we had lugged in backpacks. “This airport gets worse every time I come here,” Delphi complained. “Nothing’s working.” “And there’s nobody around,” observed Jun. The entire second floor was deserted. “Lucky for us,” he said, pushing Delphi into the ladies’ room and then pulling me into the adjoining gents’. We changed into the uniforms and stuffed our clothes above the water tanks. “You think there’s going to be trouble?” I asked Jun. “Will you guys back out if I told you there might?” I had to give that some thought. In the past Jun had taken Delphi and me on some insane adventures, mostly juvenile pranks that left us breathlessly exhilarated, but with no real sense of danger. For the first time I was afraid we were up against something, well, real. “We’ll stick around,” I said, tentatively. He put his arm around me and said, “Kapatid! That’s my brother!”

JULY 5, 2 P.M. THE BEATLES arrived at the airport in a Manila Hotel taxi. They weren’t wasting any time. They ran straight up the escalators, their crew lugging whatever equipment they could carry. At the foot of the escalators a group of women—society matrons and young college girls—had managed to slip past the deserted security posts and, seeing the Beatles arrive, they lunged for the group, screaming and tearing at the band’s clothes. Flashbulbs blinded the band as photographers crowded at the top of the stairs. It would have taken a miracle for the band to tear themselves away from the mob and to reach, as they did in a bedraggled way, the only booth open for passport clearance, where Roda had been waiting with the manifest for Flight CX 196. “Beatles here!” he hollered imperiously, and the band followed his voice meekly, almost contritely. Behind the booth a crowd that had checked in earlier restlessly ogled. “Those aren’t passengers,” Jun observed as we stole past a booth. “They look like the people we saw earlier with Roda.” “Beatles out!” Roda boomed. And then it happened. As the Beatles and their crew filed past the booth, the crowd that had been waiting there seemed to swell like a wave and engulfed the band, pulling them into an undertow of fists and knee jabs. There was a thud—Epstein falling groggily, then being dragged to his feet by security police. Someone was cursing in Tagalog: Heto’ng sa ‘yo bwakang inang putang inang tarantado ka! Take that you m*#f@%ing*@^*r!!! Paul McCartney surfaced for air, his chubby face crunched in unmistakable terror. He pulled away from the crowd, and the other three staggered behind him. Somebody gave Ringo Starr a loud whack on the shoulder and pulled at John Lennon, who yanked his arm away, tearing his coat sleeve. That was when we started running after them—the three of us, and the whole mob. The crowd overtook Delphi, who was shoved aside brusquely. They were inching in on me when the exit doors flew open into the searing afternoon. From the view deck hundreds of fans who had been waiting for hours started screaming. The band clambered up the plane. I kept my eye on the plane, where Jun was already catching up with John Lennon. “Please, Mr. Lennon,” he pleaded. “Let me help you with your bags!” At the foot of the stairs a panting John Lennon turned to him and said, “A friendly soul, for a change. Thanks, but we’re leaving.” “I’m sorry,” Jun said, trembling. John Lennon bolted up the stairs. At the top he stopped and took off his coat and threw it down to Jun. “Here,” he said. “Tell your friends the Beatles gave it to you.”

A FEW WEEKS after the Beatles’ frantic egress from Manila, Taal Volcano erupted, perhaps by way of divine castigation, as happens often in this inscrutable, illogical archipelago. The eruption buried three towns and shrouded Manila in sulfuric ash for days. A month later a lake emerged from what had been the volcano’s crater—a boiling, putrefied, honey-yellow liquefaction. The Beatles flew to New Delhi, where they were to encounter two figures that would change their lives and music: the corpulent, swaying Maharishi, and the droning, mesmerizing sitar. Back in London later, a swarm of fans greeted them carrying placards with mostly one message:

SOD MANILA!

Manila’s columnists took umbrage, and the side of the offended First Lady. Said Teodoro Valencia, who would later become the spokesman of the Marcos press: “Those Beatles are knights of the Crown of England. Now we have a more realistic understanding of what knights are. They’re snobs. But we are probably more to blame than the Beatles. We gave them too much importance.” And columnist Joe Guevarra added: “What if 80,000 people saw the Beatles? They’re too young to vote against Marcos anyway!” Imelda Marcos later announced to the lavishly sympathetic press that the incident “was regrettable. This has been a breach of Filipino hospitality.” She added that when she heard of a plot to maul the Beatles, she herself asked her brother, the tourism secretary, to make sure the Beatles got out of the airport safely. But her magnanimity did little to lessen the outrage. The Manila Bulletin declared that Malacañang Palace had received no less than two hundred letters denouncing the Beatles by that weekend. Manila councilor Gerino Tolentino proposed that the Beatles “should be banned from the city in perpetuity.” Caloocan City passed an ordinance prohibiting the sale, display, and playing of Beatles records. And Quezon City passed a law declaring the Beatles’ music satanic and the mophead hairstyle illegal. Jun Hidalgo wrote his story about the Beatles’ departure, with insider quotes taped, as an editor’s introduction to the story revealed, “while undercover as a hotel employee.” A few weeks later he was accepted into the Manila Times, where he played rookie, as was the custom then, in the snake pit of the local press: the police beat. He gave John Lennon’s coat to Delphi, who dutifully mended the sleeve, and they went steady for a while. But like most youthful relationships, the series of melodramatic misunderstandings, periodic separations, and predictable reunions finally ended in tears, and many unprintable words. My sister, older and more healthily cynical, later immigrated to the United States, from where she sent me postcards and books—and once, a note replying to one of my continuous requests for records, saying she had lost interest in the Beatles when they went psychedelic. I myself, being the obligatory late bloomer, only then began to appreciate the magical, mysterious orchestrations and raga-like trances of the band. Delphi left John Lennon’s coat with me, and I became known in school as the keeper of a holy relic. Like the martyrs, I was the object of much admiration and also much envy. One afternoon, armed with a copy of an ordinance recently passed in Manila, directors of the school rounded up several mophead boys, including myself. In one vacant classroom we were made to sit on hardboard chairs as the directors snipped our hair. I sat stolidly under the scissors, watching my hair fall in clutches on the bare cement floor. Back in my room that evening, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Then I folded John Lennon’s jacket tightly, stuffed it in a box, and tucked it under my books and clothes. I felt no bitterness at all. I knew that something irrevocable in my life had ended.

#johnlennon #empireofmemory

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inferusrf · 5 months

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350 words done for Purple-White Irises chapter 2.

Prepare for a bit of Second Eruption parallels, only that the Herrscher is a complete dork that wouldn't hurt anyone.

#space colony au #fic stuff #This is what happens when you pre-install the Tuna

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poppyscastle · 6 years

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Kitchen & Benchtop

10th Jan 2018

We had our kitchen bench top installed on the week just before Christmas, the stone mason was really busy so the install was quite rushed and there’s still a few places that needs fixing.

For the rear benches we went for a cheaper white engineered stone, its like Caesar stone but without the brand name. This was super cheap, only about $600 per slab. For the rear kitchen bench, butlers pantry and the laundry, we needed 3 slabs all up. I think a similar grade of Caesar stone will cost about $1000 per slab.

For the Island Bench, we went with a piece of marble. We originally weren’t going to go with marble, but we were hooked after seeing a piece in the showroom. To top it off, real marble was actually cheaper than a marble look Caesar stone. The marble costed around $1800 but premium Caesar Stone was over $2k. We figured we’ll save on the back benches and splash out on the island, which will be a main feature of the room.

This piece was actually not the one we originally chose. While on holiday a few days before the install, we were told the marble we ordered had a massive scratch on it. We basically had to chose another piece of marble on the phone, we’re so glad the marble looked great in real life.

The installation of the engineered stone was quick and easy, they are quite light and quite strong. The 3 benches were installed under 2 hours, we went with over mount sinks, so all the holes were cut on site.

Under mount sinks looks great, but it’ll be a hassle later on when we decide to change sinks etc...

The kitchen rear bench is about 4 meters long, so we needed to join 2 slabs together. They pre-cut a joint in the factory and its glued together onsite. It’s then polished and you’ll be left we a fine line which is not too noticeable.

Unfortunately, they forgot to polish this joint and will be coming back to finish it off.

Originally, we weren’t going to do a waterfall in the island, but the marble slab was actually big enough for the waterfall. We’ll be wasting the marble if we didn’t do it, but the damage was extra $1000 in manufacturing costs.

The marble was actually really hard to handle and the 3 meter slab was super heavy. It look 5 people to lift it and it could easily snap if we put the our weight at the wrong points.

The cost of manufacturing the waterfall was so high because of these mitered edges. The stone mason cuts them at the factory and they are adjusted on site.

Unfortunately, because the marble is so brittle at edge, part of the miter got chipped.

The stone mason color matches some putty, sticks the chipped piece back on and polishes it. You don’t really notice it, even if you you go looking for it.

We finally removed all the blue protective stickers and this is what our cabinets look like. I thought removing the stickers would be really satisfying, but it was actually really hard work and got annoying pretty quickly.

The marble looks beautiful, but its so hard to handle and we didn’t really think about the maintenance side of things.

The marble is already sealed in the factory, so hopefully it’ll cope with the daily grind. However, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be doing most of the prep work in the rear bench and this Island is all for show.

Hopefully we made the right choice, but I guess only time will tell.

I also cut up the cover boards under the wall cabinets and embedded a LED strip. My wife was super proud of me and she was also impressed with how the the range hood was perfectly level with the wall cabinets :)

I used the IKEA Algot shelf system to fit out my walk-in Pantry. For a wall hanging shelf system, this is superior to the Bunning’s stuff in every way. Both quality and price. I only realized after I fitted out my walk in wardrobe with the Bunning’s stuff :(

Haha, its a lot of storage space for a few cans of tuna!

The manufacturing and install of the Bench tops was around $4k, so all up the benchtops costed ~$8K. We spent just under $8K on the cabinetry, so our kitchen, pantry and Laundry was under $16,000. Well within budget!

The only thing left to do in the kitchen is covering the back of the island in matching floorboards(I think we can do with some contrast) and the tile splash backs using leftover subway tiles from the bathroom.

The house is essentially done, we’re just waiting for Jemena to supply our gas and we’ll be able to get our Occupation Certificate.

#poppyscastle #Ikea Kitchen #marble #benchtop #engineeredstonebenchtops #metod #new house #Architecture #home & lifestyle #Sydney North #ikea algot #walk in pantry #butler's pantry #laundry

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1989dreamer · 7 years

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I Scream God Forgive Me Please--4/4

Title taken from of Verona’s Dark In My Imagination

Warnings: Underage (between Peter & Corrine and Derek & Kate), Dubious Consent/Rape-Noncon Themes, Language, Themes Rate Explicit, Read with Caution. Full warnings and tags listed on AO3.

Summary: Fifteen year old Peter enters a relationship with Corrine (aka the Desert Wolf) which results in the conception of Malia. Talia intervenes, as alphas are wont to do, and the family is able to live relatively happily for ten years. Then, history tries to repeat itself when Derek, now fifteen, takes up with Kate Argent.

Note: the Sex Ed teacher, Coach, is the Basketball coach, Owen Bonaheim.

Cover

AO3

Warning: Derek briefly self-injures himself during a conversation with Peter. Starts with “Do you want me to?” and ends with “And you did,” Peter breathes...

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Part the Fourth (2005)

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Peter loves his new apartment.

It’s spacious, large, empty, and all his.

Of course, he lets Derek stay with him sometimes.

And sometimes Derek brings that infernal Sammy with him.

Talia always calls on the landline she insisted Peter install, asking if her son is coming home today or not.

More often than not, Peter lies and says Derek is staying the night. He doesn’t know where the boy goes, nor does he care right now.

He’s been meeting Corrine for coffee after school, and by the time he gets back, his apartment smells like Derek and spunk and that Sammy kid and some light, flowery perfume he doesn’t recognize offhand and guesses belongs to Paige the cellist. But, it’s always empty.

Derek picks up after himself because Peter finds the empty cans in the recycle bin and the dishes are always wet in the drainer but the boy himself is never there on weekdays.

Corrine claims that he has another new friend around school but she refuses to tell him who. Instead, she talks about the baby she gave up for adoption.

Peter’s baby. The miracle baby that proves Corinne wasn’t infertile and that Peter definitely wasn’t sterile.

“Your sister made me,” she says once. “Made me carry to term and then put the baby up for adoption. She never told you about her and she wouldn’t let me abort her.”

Peter can’t get her to talk about what it felt like carrying his child, knowing that if Talia hadn’t wiped his memories he probably would have ripped her throat out for threatening his blood.

Hell, he should have ripped her throat out for what she did to Derek.

Instead, she talks about the girl’s new family and how best to get to the now almost-ten year old. Honestly, Peter doesn’t listen to half her crazy rambling. She’s still a good fuck and he’s gotten better in the years since she first took his virginity—even though mostly he just practiced with his own hand or improvised toys. Besides, if she really were still a threat, Talia wouldn’t let her exist in her territory.

He does agree to accompany her to the Tate home to see if the girl looks like him.

On a whim, he asks Derek to accompany him, dropping down at the school to catch the boy.

Derek stares morosely at his tuna sandwich while Peter steals his homemade potato chips. The cellist isn’t at her usual table, and if Peter concentrates, he thinks his nephew smells off, like sadness dipped in extra strength. Come to think of it, Derek’s smelled wrong for about two months now.

“It’ll be fun,” Peter cajoles. “Just like old times.” Derek doesn’t look up.

“Maybe it’ll help take your mind off Paige?”

At that, Derek does look up, the anger rolling off him in waves and that strange sadness spiking. And his eyes turn blue.

Blue, blazing blue, just like his father’s when he was forced to put that poor beta of the neighboring pack down.

“Derek, where is Paige?”

His nephew drops his sandwich and pushes away from the table. He stomps away, heading for class but Peter can smell the guilt.

He calls Talia and demands an answer.

He doesn’t get it.

The perfume smell is stronger in Peter’s apartment, and he searches until he finds the source, a spilled bottle of Ecstasy in the guest room. Derek is there, head hanging off the bed, his friend Sammy thrusting lazily into his throat. Derek is naked while Sammy is still fully clothed.

Derek either hears or smells Peter enter the room, and tilts his head farther so he can open electric blue eyes to stare at his uncle. Sammy takes it as some kind of challenge and begins thrusting in earnest, choking Derek on his dick.

His nephew isn’t hard, but he is leaking fluid, streaking his thigh with clear pre-ejaculate.

“Out,” Peter orders Sammy, grabbing the boy by the back of his neck and jerking him away from Derek.

“Hey, we’re okay, we’re cool,” Sammy protests. Peter does not care. He throws the kid out into the hallway with his dick still sticking out and cooling from Derek’s saliva.

When Peter gets back to the bedroom, the door is locked and he can hear Derek struggling with the window.

A light shoulder tap and the door opens.

“Sit.”

Derek turns back from the window and perches on the edge of the bed. He’s still naked. Peter scoops up his t-shirt and throws it in his face. Sullenly, Derek pulls it on.

They stay in silence for nearly ten minutes before Derek finally manages to make eye contact with Peter. A muscle jumps in his jaw and he runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up like hedgehog spikes.

“Are you going to tell my mother?” Derek asks. Despite his werewolf healing, his voice is still rough-sounding, revealing just how hard or long Sammy was in him.

“Do you want me to?”

Derek glances away, flexing his hands, digging claws into his knees.

“I killed Paige,” he says instead. “The Amos alpha bit her and it didn’t take.” Strips of flesh peel back with his fingers. Bone shows through. Peter reaches out and touches his hand, stopping the path of destruction. Derek looks up, eyes shining with unshed tears. “She was in so much pain. She begged me to end it.”

“And you did,” Peter breathes, pulling Derek into a tight embrace. He is his father’s son through and through. Peter only hopes that he doesn’t keep following in his father’s footsteps and kill himself. “Where is the girl?”

“In the root cellar. Mom knows about her. I couldn’t keep the change a secret.”

Peter doesn’t doubt that Talia has already taken care of the girl’s body. What he wants to know is why his nephew is seeking out destruction in the form of punishing sex. Why doesn’t his mother tend to him now?

“Where does Sammy fit in this?”

Derek shrugs, picking at the dried blood on his fingers. “He offered to help me lose my virginity so that the teacher would leave me alone.”

A cold shock sits in Peter’s stomach. “A teacher?” he asks. A new friend, he thinks. Corrine knew and she didn’t do anything about it because…because this teacher was exactly like her: fucking an underage kid that could get her sent to prison.

He glances at the perfume. Derek tracks the motion and frowns. “It was Paige’s,” he explains. “We use it to help mask that Sammy smells like me when he leaves.”

Peter ignores that. Instead, he demands, “Which teacher?”

Derek shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I liked Sammy’s cock better than her pussy. I don’t think she took it well.”

“Derek, who is she?”

“The new swim coach.”

The phone in the other room rings, and Peter points a finger at Derek. “Do not move,” he says sternly.

“Can I at least put on pants?” Derek asks.

Peter doesn’t respond, leaving the door open. “Hello?” he says into the phone even though he knows there’s only one person in this forsaken town that actually knows and calls his landline.

“Where is Derek?” Talia demands.

“He’s here. He’s fine.” He hopes she can’t hear the way Derek’s heartbeat is stuttering badly from the doorway. Peter glares at him to remind him he told him not to move.

“I’m on my way to get him. Do not do anything to him.”

“I won’t,” Peter says, aggravated. “Why do you always think I do something to him?”

“Because I know you, Peter. I know the things you do and think about doing.” She hangs up and Peter cradles the headset.

Peter has never done anything to his nephew that warrants her suspicion. If anything, she’s done worse things, like steal his memories and cover up the cellist’s murder.

“Her name is Kate Argent,” Derek says suddenly. “The teacher.”

“I know who the new swim coach is,” Peter snaps. “You actually slept with an Argent? Are you stupid?”

“No,” Derek says defensively. “She pressured me, and I thought it would be okay but it hurt and I didn’t like it.”

“Wait, what? I thought you said you penetrated her. Why would that hurt you?”

Derek shrugs. “The condom hurt. It…burned. And it made me rash up. Sammy thought it was a venereal disease so we got it tested. Acute aconite poisoning.”

“She put wolfsbane in the condom? Are you okay?”

“’m fine.”

“Listen, you need to tell your mother about Kate Argent. It’s important. The Argents are hunters, and since your eyes are now blue, that means that you’re their target.”

Peter smells the moment Derek understands just what kind of trouble he’s in. It’s the same moment Talia bursts into the apartment. She inhales deeply and growls, eyes going red, claws coming out.

“I’ll kill you.” She lunges at Peter, but Derek gets in her way, wraps his arms around her, and holds on tight. Peter stares in semi-awe. When did Derek grow taller than his mother? How, as a beta, is he able to hold back his alpha?

“It wasn’t him,” Derek says. “My friend and I, we’re together.”

“He’s been targeted by an Argent,” Peter says. As much as he trusts Derek to protect him, he trusts Talia’s instincts as a mother and a werewolf more.

“An Argent?” Talia pulls back to study her son’s face. “Derek, honey, why is an Argent after you?”

Derek looks to Peter for advice and Peter nods at him.

“She wanted to sleep with me but she tried to poison me.”

“She’s the new swim coach,” Peter adds. “I only found out about this myself.”

“We have to get back to the house. It’s not safe out here. Peter, take Derek. I’m going to patrol, to make sure that bitch isn’t anywhere near our family.” She leaves as quickly as she came.

Peter sighs. He’s still an omega, still apart from his pack. He’s surprised Kate didn’t come after him first. But, then he remembers, one of his coffee dates with Corrine, a grinning blonde with too much chlorine clinging to her skin for her scent to be read. She’d approached and struck up a conversation, but Peter was in the middle of listening to Corrine talk about the fact that she’d had his baby and he’d ignored her.

That was Kate Argent, he’d bet. And she did approach him first. When he wasn’t available, she went after the next male Hale. And with Derek’s dad’s death, that left just Derek.

Oh god, this is his fault.

He’d even noticed her sitting at the teacher’s table when he would go talk to Derek.

If he’d been less wrapped up in Corrine, he would have been able to see what was going on with Derek.

“It’s not your fault,” Derek snaps, in the middle of stuffing shirts and pants and undergarments into a suitcase. He ducks into the bathroom and comes out with a handful of soaps and shampoos and Peter’s toothbrush. “I was stupid, you’re right. I let her get to me. I let Sammy get to me.”

“Sammy pushed you to have sex?”

“He put me on a ledge but I jumped of my own volition.”

Peter stops Derek and wraps him in another hug. “Just because you jumped, it doesn’t mean it’s your fault either.”

“I know,” Derek says, but his scent and heartbeat betray him. All Peter can do is hug him tighter.

A few days after Talia found out about Kate Argent, the woman is run out of town, kicked out of the school and forced to make a tactical retreat.

No one believes for a moment that this is the end of it, but it’s nice to see Derek go from a pinched, angry face back to his somewhat normal self.

Of course, Peter thinks that’s because he’s regularly getting a good fucking from his friend. Talia allows it only because Sammy is the same age as Derek, maybe a few months older at the most. They still use Peter’s apartment, but at least they don’t do it when he can catch them. Not that he spies on them at all.

A few days after that, Corrine corners Peter at their old coffee shop. She chatters incessantly about their daughter and her right to raise her and blah blah blah. Peter stops her, says, “You wanted an abortion, remember? At least this family loves her. Leave them alone.”

Corrine slaps him with weaker than he remembers strength and storms away.

Peter lets her go and doesn’t miss her. He visits the Tates on his own, gets to know the girls, his daughter’s name is Malia and she’s nine and a quarter. Her younger sister is shy but allows Peter to play tea with her and her dolly. It reminds him of when Derek went through a phase like this.

The Tates encourage him to seek a relationship with his daughter and he reassures them at every turn that he doesn’t want to take her away from them. He does warn them about Corrine, but it appears that she’s disappeared too.

Derek shrugs and says they have a new teacher for her too. And he says the vodka-soaked chemistry teacher smells like secrets.

Things are normal, things are good. And then it all goes to shit again.

Everyone is here. Everyone except Derek and Laura who are at the high school where Derek has a game.

Even Tommy and his wife and two sons drove up from Phoenix for this, this funeral of sorts. The real funeral was yesterday, and Peter still feels numbed. He knows the only reason Derek went to the game was because Sammy was playing and as his boyfriend, he has to support him. Peter wishes Derek would have chosen him instead.

Talia settles Peter into a chair and lets her clawed hand hover over the back of his neck. The family gathered around them gasps lightly, awed at witnessing a ritual rarely seen. Peter wants to snap at them.

“Don’t do this, please,” he begs his sister. He doesn’t want to forget his child. He doesn’t want to forget that Corrine succeeded in killing her own daughter. Peter saw the car, heard the children screaming, and then go silent. Could smell the death under the blood.

He didn’t see his sister rip out Corrine’s throat, but the scent of blood on her clothes was a good enough indicator of what she’d done.

Peter wishes she’d let him take his revenge.

“Please don’t take my memories,” he says, softer. Talia’s claws enter his neck, and he goes rigid, hissing in pain as she probes.

He sees Malia’s face, sees Corrine’s face, sees Sammy fucking his nephew, and then they’re gone, and he’s back in the chair blinking tears and sweat from his eyes. He knows he just lost a piece of himself. He wants to attack, but he’s just an omega and Talia has proven time and again that the only reason he is still alive is because she doesn’t want to kill one of the only things her son loves.

“I hate you,” he tells her.

“I know.”

The others are silent now, and between breaths and heartbeats, Peter hears a crackle.

“What’s that?” he asks Talia.

She cocks her head and scents the air, her eyes widening. “Fire!”

After that, it’s a mad scramble. All the doors on the first level are blocked shut and no matter how much strength he or Talia or Tommy expounds, they cannot open them. A solid mountain ash barrier lies across the stairs, blocking the werewolves from going upstairs, and it is nailed down so the humans can’t remove it.

Peter shares a look with Talia. The basement. It’s their last hope.

But, as soon as they all crowd down there, heading for the tunnels, Peter realizes it was a mistake.

The door has been replaced with a mountain ash one and the tunnels are blocked with mountain ash barriers. Through the little grated window, someone, a hunter, probably Kate Argent herself, pours an accelerant down into the room with them, a flare following quickly.

Fire. Flames and smoke and fire and heat and pain. And the screams start.

Peter frantically scans the room. There has to be a way out. They can’t die in their own house on their own land. They did nothing to these hunters.

Even Derek with his misguided help for the cello-girl did nothing to these people, these murderers.

It takes minutes but feels like hours for the screaming of his family to cease, for them to realize that no one is coming to rescue them, that they are going to die here.

Selfishly, Peter crowds by the window. The residue of the accelerant sticks to him, and he thinks there must be wolfsbane in it because it burns with a different kind of pain than the flames.

Through the bars, Peter can hear Laura yelling, fighting the deputies’ hold. Beside her, sobbing uncontrollably is Derek.

The last thing Peter sees before he passes out is his sister, Talia, engulfed in flames, settling down into her full shift, waiting for death as an old friend.

If only he could be so gracious to accept its willing embrace.

Peter wakes up in the hospital one thousand five hundred and seventeen days later and wishes he hadn’t.

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Fin

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#Teen Wolf Fanfiction #Teen Wolf #Peter Hale #Derek Hale #Talia Hale #Kate Argent #Corrine (Desert Wolf)#Canonical Deaths #My Story/My Writing

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printingproducts0318 · 4 years

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pouches: as pouch use increases, more narrow web converters are turning to this market as a way to grow their businesses.

A few years ago, in a grocery store in Missouri, a manager Bags and boxes next to each other. The two packs contain the same number of Teddy Grahams, but the packaged products are 10 percentage points more than the boxed ones. When the sales are calculated, the result shows this. [ Slightly] Illustrations Gary Gates, CEO of Garron Group Inc. , said: \"The volume of bags sold exceeds the box, about 6 to 1 . \"in Monroe, NC. \"It\'s convenient to be able to re-seal it, it\'s a brand new look. This is something different. \"For other companies, the products converted into the pou mouth are not only for the sake of beauty and convenience for consumers. This is also a problem with product freshness. This is the case with StarKist Tuna, whose Tuna is popular in delicious fresh bags --to- In the previous research by consumers When combined with an active advertising campaign promoting the benefits of the new packaging, the market share of this pouch rose from zero percentage before its launch in June 2000 to 2. 5% by mid- November of that year Today, poches accounts for about 10% of the tuna market, with StarKist\'s share between 80 and 82%. Add another advantage: cost. \"Bags are cheaper than rigid containers,\" said Sonay Karamanci, plastic sales manager for forPolinas, USA, in Fort Lee, New Jersey . \". \"Beyond that, flexible packaging creates an incredible cost advantage in warehousing and shipping. \"With all the benefits of using the pouch, the use of the pouch is now increasing. According to a study released by Freedonia Group, US demand for mail bags is expected to increase by 6 in 2006. 9% per year by 2006. More specifically, yes. Upward bag is expected to rise by 16. 6% pass 2006 per year. \"For a number of reasons, we believe the pouch market will grow at an annual rate. Some of the reasons will be to shelve the appeal and the reduction in graphics, convenient packaging and packaging materials, \"said Fred ZPR & Publicity GiDue public relations representative in Oxon, UK. For a long time, pouch printing has been the dominant printing machine for the World Wide Web. These presses are economical for long-term printing work and are able to be printed on a wider substrate. But like any industry, the bag market is changing. Demand for sprints has increased. High-end graphics are popular. Narrowweb is increasingly gaining a place in the growing pouch market. With the pressure-sensitive industry remaining neutral over the past few years, many narrow network converters are starting to look for new markets. \"The phenomenon of narrow network market --- Always sensitive to stress. - It has reached the point where profits are so tight. \"While stress-sensitive markets are still growing and will continue to grow, people are looking for things that contribute more to profits,\" Gates said . \". The search for a more profitable market has led to converters in various directions, one of which is the pouch market. At present, the number of narrow-net printers printing small bag materials is very small, but the number is growing. \"I believe that this growth is almost exponential,\" said Cathy kmpton, technical support for the MACtac at Stow. \"Narrow network printers see flexible packaging as a way to expand their business and provide more value to their customers. \"For multiple reasons, narrow and wide-web printers tend to approach the pouch market in different ways. First of all, most narrow net converters involved in the pouch market purchase pouch Materials and Surface printing that have been laminated together. This is different from the World Wide Web converter, which is mainly reverse printing. \"MACtac specifically provides flexible packaging designed by curwoo for surface printing. After printing the film, printercan can apply varnish or a very thin laminate layer on it when needed, \"klipton said. Additional layers can add additional costs, but this can be overcome from the perspective of short run, lower setup costs and sometimes lead time. For the few narrow-net converters that venture into the world of stacked and reverse printing, there are differences in ink and adhesives used by wide-and narrow-net converters. A wide range of network converters typically use solvent-based inks and adhesives. Water-based converters are often used for narrow networks. This can be a challenge for narrow net converters. [ Slightly] Illustrations \"Once you laminate, you actually seal everything between the two structures that don\'t actually have any air. When you stack everything up- When you try to do everything online, it\'s one of the obstacles to narrow nets --- Before these two structures are laminated together, everything has to be cured or installed, \"said Frank Vacca, president of EagleFlexible Packaging in western Chicago, IL. How to dry ink and adhesive quickly is the key to the success of reverse printing. \"There is a lot of research and development. You have to work closely with your ink and adhesive staff. The other thing is the dryer system. \"You have to have a system to adjust the incoming air so that no object in the air enters the surface of the material. \"While Narrow Web faces challenges that some world wide web does not have, narrow web has advantages in some areas. Perhaps the most powerful is the ability of the narrow web service to request short-term. Demand for short-term jobs is growing for multiple reasons. \"As with other packaged apps, for the short term and/or just-in- Time items such as regional promotional specials, test market launches, etc. Here, the versatility of narrow web media meets the requirements. John Price, president of Apre-Karlville development, said: \"There is a lot of demand for short-term work now. In Miami, FL is a distributor of bag equipment. \"If you have a Wrigley press, your plate costs and installation costs are much lower than those of people who own a world wide web machine, and you can be more effective in terms of price, in terms of response, a lot of times. \"There are also advantages in printing quality. Bruce Riddle, vice president of Spectrum label technology development at Hayward, California, explained that the quality of the network width of all print and print presses can be achieved \"aesthetically equal \". \" [ Slightly] Illustrations However, \"compared to any web flexo central printing press, the quality of any narrow web flexo inlinelabel press is greatly improved. Today\'s narrow-net flexo label printing machine can print close to or equal to the quality of both flat and concave printing machines, while traditional wide-net Center printing machines cannot. Having said that, the quality of the world wide web printing machine has improved significantly since 1980; Just four- \"The color is not equal to a concave or flat print,\" he said . \" Given the advantages and limitations of narrow web applications compared to the World Wide web, narrow web has a certain market potential, while others do not. Narrow-net printers are primarily geared towards markets that require short-term operation and/or high quality graphics. The example includes the following :[ Slightly] Illustrations * Beauty and personal care: \"narrow web printers usually serve more professional markets such as cosmetics, health and beauty products, gary brocade, vice president of marketing and sales at Glenroy, said it is based in WI Menomonee Falls. * Samples: \"Especially in the field of sampling, there is an increase in demand for poches. \"The main reason is the requirement for higher quality printing and graphics, fast turnaround, and excellent accommodation in flexible packaging structures,\" Bobko said . \". Especially in the personal care market, samples are becoming a more and more popular marketing tool. * Dry, powdered goods: \"Traditionally, the narrow net business we do on the substrate of the paper surface is stronger and easier to print. They usually have more dry powder and dry content, \"said saysChris Mitchell, product manager at WI Neenah Avery Dennison. Examples of dry powder include a mixture of gravy and soup, spices and some nutritious foods. * New product launches and promotions: This covers a wide range of industries, which is often a temporary business for narrow network printers. \"Some jobs are done by people, and they will eventually fail. It\'s going to go to the wide web because it\'s going to get longer, \"said Danny McKee, sales manager at Comco, mark Andy division, Milford. While narrow nets have made progress in many areas, the rest of the pouch market has not played the role of this industry. \"A project with a very large running order of 300,000 or more is likely to be more suitable for World Wide Web printers,\" said Riddell . \". \"On the contrary, having a very large run of 300,000 or more for 10 projects or more is likely to fit a narrow web printer. We are competitive on smaller runs because the cost of setting up these wideweb presses is much higher. \"The width limit also prevents narrow network converters from coming into contact with larger bags. \"Some narrow network printers, such as those under 18, will encounter difficulties in printing a network of some flexible bags, mainly because of the corner brace,\" Vacca said . \". In other words, if the bag is 9 \"high, it\'s right there, you have 18\", plus, usually you have two 3 feet corner support plates at the bottom [stand-up]pouch. So now, for the a9 \"high pack\" they actually need a 21 \"width to hold the corner brace. \"The last area that a narrow web printer usually does not display is a custom order. This can be traced back to common practices in surface printing. \"If it\'s new, it\'s never been pou\'s mouth, or it\'s a product that\'s hard to keep, it needs to be developed most of the time,\" Mitchell said . \". \"Narrow websites usually buy pre- Constructed bag material that has been put together. They don\'t have that much mixing and matching power according to the product. \" Labels vs. The packaging converter that switches from the top of the printed pressure sensitive label cannot expect a seamless transition. There are many differences between the two disciplines. \"Narrow mesh converters are very knowledgeable about adhesives, Surface inventory, cutting, and everything related to making alabaster,\" said Riddell . \". \"But they are not as familiar with the packaging requirements as their world wide web counterparts. \"In some ways, the world of pouches requires a completely different set of expertise. The converter has encountered new problems such as sealing strength, compatibility and contamination between the product and the package. \"The key to narrowing people\'s entry into flexible packaging is to understand the substrate, the ink, the adhesive and its relationship with the final packaging,\" said Dan Doherty, vice president of operations for Prairie State group at Il Franklin Park. \"Unless they take the time to learn the material structure, learn the app, and understand what they can do with their devices, it\'s not easy to get into the market,\" said McGee . \". \"Before they hang a sign that says they make bags, they need to know and understand the market. \"One difference between PS label printing and pouch printing is the thickness of the substrate. In the film, the thickness of most PS structures is about 7 miles. However, most of the stacks of these films are between two and a half to four, \"said Mitchell of Avery Denison. \"When the product is PSsubstrate, you don\'t necessarily pull it like you do because you only have half the thickness. It stretches if you pull too tight, so you have to have some tension control. \"Due to the thin material used, the converter must also be vigilant about the heat and registration challenges of the stretch film. In addition to the substrate, there are also differences in the performance features of inks and adhesives used in the printing market. For example, Jarek Sliwinski, narrow net and energy curing technology manager at SICPA North America, MN Brooklyn Park, said that ink for bags containing food should follow the following guidelines: * Low migration and low odor materials should be used in the formula; * Pigments should be applied to pasteurization and food packaging; * The ink should have excellent adhesion and pasteurization with the substrate; * Hot sealing ink with heat resistant pigment should be used when heat sealing. The adhesive must also comply with strict performance guidelines. For example, \"many narrow mesh converters use UV stacks or uv Adhesives. You have to forget this when you are dealing with food packaging. \"They have to look for different ways to see what adhesives are acceptable to the food environment,\" said Doherty . \". In addition, the pouch usually requires a hot seal adhesive, which is present in the laminate when a narrow network converter is purchased. Still, the product \"requires a lot of testing. \"Narrow Network converters bought the product, but then they will have to test its personal application,\" said Dave Elliott, Craig adhesive label production manager in Newark, New Jersey . \". Problems that may arise when using the wrong adhesive for a particular application include weak sealing and surface contamination. Finally, the small bag printing adds additional responsibility on the narrow net converter. Testing becomes critical because the converter is responsible not only for the label, but now for the entire package. \"The difference between packaging and labeling is packaging, and you have the responsibility. \"It\'s in your package,\" McGee said . \". \"On the label, you are responsible for the label, but you may not ruin the product. Related articles: Pre- In the process of looking for a new market, many narrow network converters have been used to print mail bags. But there is another potential market for narrow network converters lurking in shadows: Forming bags. To be sure, the market is very small at present. John Price of KarlvilleDevelopment, a distributor of the water line Ritebag bag converter, said he only knew about two narrow net converters with this capability. Pre- However, the technology of bag making is very advanced, and it is worth studying at least. The waterline machine \"allows you to register two nets and insert them into the bottom,\" Watersprice said \". So if a narrow network converter prints a network of 18 \", he or she can create a bag of 18. In addition to opening up narrow network converters to new markets, the terminal also has additional benefitsuse customer. \"Machine for filling apre Bags made are much cheaper than tables, filling, sealing and easier to replace -- \"It\'s over, it\'s more versatile,\" said GaryGates of Garron group . \".

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inferusrf · 4 months

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More Space Colony AU backstory stuff: Purple Kia does not escape the horrors by pre-installed Tuna.

The AU's counterpart of Babylon Labs does happen (despite not happening on the spacestation named after it, but a different lab 2 years prior to her and Bella arriving there), and things... go a lot differently.

Instead of her going Hov and murdering all of the staff, the lab suffers an outbreak. Infection, zombies and honkai beasts all over the facility. So you have a scared Siriana having absolutely no clue of her abilities, hiding from monsters and trying to find her way out.

also homebrewing some Zombie/Honkai beast types :)

TLDR: The laboratory turns into a Lethal Company session.

#honkai impact #space colony au #kiana kaslana #Sirin #fic stuff

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cat0620 · 4 years

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pouches: as pouch use increases, more narrow web converters are turning to this market as a way to grow their businesses.

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paper1125 · 4 years

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pouches: as pouch use increases, more narrow web converters are turning to this market as a way to grow their businesses.

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littlecat0520 · 4 years

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pouches: as pouch use increases, more narrow web converters are turning to this market as a way to grow their businesses.

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sere22world · 4 years

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pouches: as pouch use increases, more narrow web converters are turning to this market as a way to grow their businesses.

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