#alternatively- you only see the mouth when the shade does its noticing you animation

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

important question: which of these would you be more okay with seeing in game-

gotta balance out knight ford's adorableness with a splash of horror

(let me know if i need to tag any warnings! i wasnt entirely sure with this one)

#alternatively- you only see the mouth when the shade does its noticing you animation #they look a tad blurry cause i sized them up- they look a lot better in the sprite sheet dont worry! #also unfortunately making the shade less. idk spooky? unsettling? is not an option #shades are at one point described as stains of regret upon the world and i want to kinda emphasize that aspect #and anyway if youre staring down your own ghost i feel like it should be a little unsettling #oh right yeah tags #ford pines #aaaaaaaaand #hollow knight skin

[whenisitenoughtrees]

to be honest, capable (of holding you) (part 1/3)

He walks forward, crouching over the snake, and when it doesn’t stir at all, he works up his courage and pokes it, just a little. Its scales are warm and smooth under his fingertip, and he resists the urge to stroke them. He doubts he could get away with that.

“Janus?” he asks, trying to keep the somewhat hysterical laughter from his voice. “That you?”

Thomas didn't know that Janus could turn into an actual snake, but he's glad to hang out with him regardless. More than glad; ecstatic, even, because he's been trying to figure out how to befriend him for ages, and this seems like a good first step. What he can't figure out is why human-Janus is being so weird about it.

(Alternatively: Janus doesn't trust easily. He wishes he could stop trusting Thomas— it would be so much less terrifying.)

Chapter Warnings: brief fear of strangulation (no actual strangulation occurs)

Chapter Word Count: 2,926

Pairing: platonic Thomceit

(part 2) (part 3)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

It starts with the snake in the sunshine.

Thomas supposes that’s not entirely right, because in order to be truly accurate, he would have to acknowledge that ‘it’ started a long, long time ago, when he was a kid, or perhaps even when he was a baby. He’s not certain; he’s never thought to ask any of the sides when, exactly, they developed. And he’s also not certain when they became… the way that they are, instead of just being regular, non-sentient parts of his personality like literally everyone else on the planet is made up of, when his heart became someone called Patton, his logic someone called Logan, and so on. But he doesn’t think that any of that is particularly relevant for this specific situation, so for all intents and purposes: it starts with the snake in the sunshine.

He spots it when he’s coming down the stairs, and promptly stops up short on the third to last step, because, snake. In his apartment. And he knows that things like this happen in Florida, knows that wildlife has a tendency to encroach on human settlements (and he has heard enough horror stories about alligators in people’s backyards to last a lifetime, thank you), but it’s never happened to him before, and he’s not sure what to do about it.

It’s lying in the sunlight slanting through the window, coiled tightly, unmoving. It is white, with dappled yellow patterns all across its back, though there appears to be some kind of black marking on its head. It’s fairly large, too, far larger than any snakes he’s seen outside of a zoo, and he briefly entertains the notion that this might be a zoo escapee, though he’s not certain of how that would have happened. Or of how it got into his apartment in the first place. He definitely would have noticed it sneaking through the door, right?

He manages to overcome his initial fear, carefully dismounting the last few steps and approaching cautiously, sure to stay out of striking range. He doesn’t know much about snakes, doesn’t know how to tell if this is a venomous one or not, and he’s not taking any chances. Though, isn’t it something to do with the shape of their heads? Don’t venomous snakes have pointed heads? That sounds right. And this snake’s head doesn’t look particularly angular, so perhaps he’s safe, though he still doesn’t want to get bitten, venomous or not. The next step should probably be to call animal control and let them handle this.

Something about it seems off, though. Something in its markings, perhaps, that particular shade of yellow, or that odd blot on its head—

Wait. That can’t be right.

He stops. Takes a few steps forward, squinting. Goes so far as to rub his eyes, because perhaps there is a spot in his vision, fooling him into seeing something that doesn’t exist.

But no, it’s still there.

The black spot on its head isn’t a natural marking at all. He’s still not entirely sure his eyes can be trusted, but for all the world, it appears as though there is a tiny black bowler hat perched between this snake’s eyes.

And just like that, everything clicks. All the fear rushes out of him at once, leaving him breathless with relief. He can’t say that there is no apprehension about this new set of circumstances, and a healthy dose of confusion is steadily building, but this is far better than there being an actual, real snake in his apartment.

He walks forward, crouching over the snake, and when it doesn’t stir at all, he works up his courage and pokes it, just a little. Its scales are warm and smooth under his fingertip, and he resists the urge to stroke them. He doubts he could get away with that.

“Janus?” he asks, trying to keep the somewhat hysterical laughter from his voice. “That you?”

Slowly, the snake lifts its head, looking up at him with slightly glassy eyes. For a few seconds, they both participate in what has to be the strangest staring contest of Thomas’ life. Thomas loses, because the snake that is probably-almost-definitely-Janus doesn’t seem to blink.

Snakes don’t have facial expressions. Thomas is fairly certain of that. And yet, he gets the distinct impression that Janus is waiting for something; it’s in the gleam of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head, almost like he’s issuing a challenge.

“It’s totally cool if it is,” he clarifies, raising his hands. “Uh, you can feel free to stay there as long as you want. But uh, I just wanted to make sure that it was you and not some random snake.” He smiles, casting about in his mind for something to say. He’s not yet sure how to talk to Janus, not sure how to interact with him now that he’s offered up his acceptance, but he’s certainly going to try his best. He wants to get to know him, wants to understand him better. He deserves nothing less. “There’s only room for one snake in this apartment.”

Janus stares at him for a while longer, and then nods, a fluid, intelligent motion that is slightly disturbing coming from something that looks like an animal, but Thomas can deal. If his sides can shapeshift into his friends, and puppets, and giant frog monsters with abs, he can cope with his snake-like side becoming an actual snake. It’s hardly the weirdest thing he’s ever seen.

Janus returns to his coiled up position, apparently intent on taking a nap, and frankly, Thomas can’t blame him at all. A nap sounds great right about now. He’s not entirely sure why Janus has chosen to do so here, rather than in the mindscape; he’s certainly never seen any of the other sides sleep in his apartment. But he’s hardly about to make Janus leave, even if he’s bemused and a bit discomfited, so he wanders off to grab a snack and get back to editing, leaving Janus to sleep in the sunlight.

He’s gone by evening, and Thomas isn’t entirely sure when he left. It’s a few days before he shows up again, in the exact same spot, in the exact same sunbeam, and Thomas greets him but otherwise leaves him be.

From then on, it sort of becomes a thing. On cloudless days, Janus pops up as a snake to sun himself in the living room. Sometimes Thomas will chat with him, making idle conversation that he’s not sure is listened to, and sometimes he stays silent, content to do his own thing while Janus does his. It turns into a comfortable habit, on his end, at least, and he hopes that Janus is comfortable with it too. He thinks he is; at least, he never gives any indication otherwise.

He’s still not sure why exactly this is happening, but he hardly feels the need to complain.

But then, Thomas walks downstairs one day to find Janus staring directly at him.

He pauses, thrown by the change to their routine. Most of Janus’ body is curled in on itself, like usual, but his head is reared, and as Thomas watches, he sways back and forth slightly, a constant, seemingly automatic motion. His tongue flickers in the air, but he makes no sound, neither hissing nor speech, and though Thomas isn’t sure that he’s capable of talking while he’s like this, he’s heard him hiss a few times, so this silence is unnerving.

“Hey,” he says uneasily. He gives a half-hearted little wave, which he regrets almost instantly, feeling like an idiot. “Uh, is something the matter?”

Janus looks pointedly to the window behind him, and then back to Thomas again. It only takes Thomas a few seconds after that to realize what the issue is.

It’s raining.

And not a light rain, either, not the kind that casts grey shadows over the world and taps gentle, soothing rhythms against the windowpane. This is a storm, dark and furious, wind whipping and tearing into the trees and sending gust after gust of the torrential downpour against the glass. It is late afternoon, but it may as well be night for how dark the sky is. There is certainly no trace of sun poking through, and thus, no light for Janus to lie in.

He walks closer, though hesitantly. “I’m not sure what to tell you, buddy.” He winces as soon as he says it; ‘buddy’ doesn’t fit Janus at all, feels too presumptuous, like he’s assuming a closeness that doesn’t yet exist. He’ll keep trying. “I can’t control the weather.” He pauses, looking back to the snake, who has drawn up slightly, his head now almost level with Thomas’ waist. “Um, is there not anywhere in the mindscape that you could find some sun?”

Janus hisses, loud and sharp, opening his mouth to flash some fang. Instinctively, Thomas takes a step back.

He’ll take that as a no.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’m not sure what to do, then,” he says. “It’s supposed to be like this all day.”

Snakes cannot look disappointed. They cannot glare. They are literally incapable of those facial expressions. So how Janus is managing to convey angry dejection is absolutely beyond him. And he doesn’t know how to comfort him, doesn’t know if comfort would even be welcome; in a way, Janus is a lot like Virgil, not that he would ever dare to speak that opinion out loud. They present themselves entirely differently, but at their core, they are both proud, stubborn and guarded, if in varying ways. Thomas has learned Virgil fairly well by now, knows how to slip past his walls, but Janus is a different story.

But still, seeing him so disappointed doesn’t sit right with him. So he reaches out on instinct, running a finger down the scales just past his head in an attempt to offer comfort through touch, and he doesn’t realize that this may have been a mistake until Janus stiffens, going completely rigid and still. He pulls his hand back hastily.

“Sorry!” he says. “I should’ve asked first, I’m sorry.” He frowns, glancing from Janus to his finger and back again. “You’re really cold. Is that normal?”

Snakes are cold-blooded. He does know that much, knows that they rely on external factors in order to maintain their body temperatures. He just never thought that such a restriction would apply to Janus, considering that he is, in fact, an imaginary snake and not a real one. But if he’s wrong, if Janus truly does need an outside source of heat in order to stay warm himself, then that would explain his distress.

Janus hisses at him again and ducks back down, curling into himself until he resembles a convoluted knot, his head nowhere to be seen. It’s almost upsettingly cute, not that Thomas would risk voicing such a thought. He crouches down instead, considering his options. Would Janus accept his help, if he offered it?

There’s only one way to find out.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Um, look, I can’t turn on the sun for you, but you look super uncomfortable, so if you wanted, you could… wrap around my arm, or something? Body heat would help, right?” He hesitates; Janus is fairly long, probably about five feet, possibly a bit longer, so the logistics might be a bit tricky. But he’s sure they could figure it out, if Janus would be amenable. Slowly, he stretches a hand out again, placing two fingers on Janus’ scales and stroking them with a feather-light touch. He really does feel cold.

Janus uncoils himself, hissing loudly, but he leans into the contact in a way that almost seems like desperation, like he’s trying to steal all the warmth he can from Thomas’ fingertips. And after a moment, the hissing stops, and he regards Thomas with an almost wild stare.

“Really,” he presses, unsure of what Janus is thinking. “I wouldn’t mind. Unless it’s not something you’re comfortable with, in which case, that’s fine, we could figure out something else. I… might have a heated blanket?” He casts back in his mind, trying to figure out if he does, in fact, possess a heated blanket, or if he just used to have one and is remembering incorrectly. If he doesn’t still have it, he’s not sure that he owns anything else that would help; snakes like heat lamps, he thinks, but he definitely doesn’t have one of those. Could he turn on the oven and set Janus in front of it? Would that work?

He is jolted out of his thoughts by the sensation of Janus’ head rubbing into his hand, like a cat seeking attention. He freezes, and so does Janus, and for a long moment, they have another one of those staring contests. Then, Janus sets his head primly on the back of his hand, still staring, as if asking for permission. Something bright and warm blooms in Thomas’ chest, and with his free hand, he gestures to his arm, trying to suppress the grin that wants to spread across his face.

Janus hesitates for a second longer. Then, he slithers up and around Thomas’ arm, and Thomas shivers at the sensation of frigid scales sliding across his skin. At first, it seems as though this won’t work, that Janus is simply too big to settle comfortably, but Thomas watches in fascination as Janus begins to shrink, landing on a much smaller size, perhaps two feet long, a length that can wrap around his arm with ease. Somehow, throughout the process, the tiny bowler hat remains perfectly balanced.

And just like that, there is a snake looped around Thomas’ arm.

“Alright,” he says, trying not to sound as giddy as he feels, because this is the closest he feels like he’s gotten to making a personal connection to Janus in months. “Okay, cool. Um, I was planning on getting some more editing done, so you can just hang out while I do that, I guess. Feel free to hiss at me or something if you get uncomfortable.”

Janus remains silent, which he will take as a good sign. In fact, he remains silent for the better part of an hour, lazily regarding the computer screen as Thomas attempts to wrangle his filmed material into something worth posting. He ends up doing most of the work with one arm so as to disturb Janus as little as possible, but he finds that he doesn’t mind. After a time, he almost forgets that Janus is there at all, becomes accustomed to the chilly weight of his scales on his arm, the slight movements as he shifts in place every now and again.

But then, those slight movements become bigger movements, and Thomas stills, tensing as Janus uncoils and begins to slither his way up his arm and under his shirtsleeve. His breath catches, and chills shoot down his spine; Janus is warmer than before, but still cool, and the sensation as Janus moves across his shoulder and emerges from his shirt’s collar is odd, unfamiliar. He exhales shakily as Janus continues to move, looping himself around his neck several times, just tight enough that Thomas is very aware of his presence, of the fact that there is a snake coiled around his neck, and as much as he knows that Janus will not physically harm him (and probably couldn’t, even if he tried), there is an element in his hindbrain that is gibbering at him, insisting that everything about this situation is a very bad idea, and that he needs to remove the threat.

God, he hopes Virgil isn’t paying attention to this. Except, judging from the way he’s feeling right now, judging from the almost audible oh god oh god get him off get him off, he definitely is, and Thomas is very surprised that he’s held back from showing up in person.

And then, Janus lets out a whistling breath and tucks his head between the coils and Thomas’ neck, and all the tension leaks from Thomas’ body as his rational thinking catches up to the situation. The way Janus is gripping him is nowhere near tight enough to cut off his airflow, and it never was, even though he seems to be pressing up as close to his skin as possible. But why--?

Was his arm not warm enough?

“You good there, Janus?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He receives no response, neither a hiss nor any additional motion, so he tries again. “Are you, uh, asleep?”

Again, no reply, so it’s probably safe to assume. He smiles, wide and unrestrained, and powers down his laptop. The storm outside has calmed to a softer rainfall, pattering against the windows, and other than that, the world seems quiet and still. It’s earlier than Thomas usually goes to bed, but he actually feels like he might manage to fall asleep if he tries, and a little bit of extra rest never hurt anyone. He’s been working in bed already, thankfully, so while he can’t lie all the way down without dislodging Janus in some way, Logan won’t lecture him too much if he falls asleep where he sits.

He reaches over to the lamp at his bedside and turns off the light.

“Goodnight, Janus,” he murmurs. Predictably, he receives no response, but Janus’ scales still press against him in the dark, a comforting presence as he drifts off.

------

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157 @ldavmp4 @a-ghostlight-for-roman @sammy-is-obsessed @imlovethomassanders

As a note, I am willing to have a separate taglist for this fic if you just want to be tagged for the other two chapters. So if you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask! But please do specify which taglist you would like to be added to.

#sanders sides #ts sides #platonic thomceit #character!thomas #janus sanders #ts janus #my fic #i'm not gonna lie this whole fic is an excuse to get c!thomas to hug janus

[girlsbtrs]

How Being a Woman in Hardcore Helped Me Learn to Love Myself

Written by Jen Moglia. Graphic by Laura Cross. 

Since this is my first piece written for Girls Behind the Rock Show, I figured that I should introduce myself; hi, my name is Jennifer, but most people call me Jen. I live on Long Island in New York, and my favorite things include my cats, the color pink, giving gifts to my Animal Crossing villagers, and watching sports. Above all else, however, I love music.

I frequently refer to music as the love of my life. It somehow plays a role in everything that I do. I got my first iPod when I was five years old, stacked with everything from Miranda Cosgrove and Avril Lavigne to Tool and Deftones. Some of my favorite memories growing up are sitting in my pink and purple bedroom singing and dancing along to Paramore’s crushcrushcrush and Fall Out Boy’s Thnks Fr Th Mmrs on the local alternative radio station. I danced for 12 years, played cello for seven, and am currently a wannabe ukulele rockstar after buying one on impulse and starting to teach myself how to play four years ago. Even on the simplest, barely noticeable levels, music has been everywhere in my life for as long as I can remember; even now, I can’t complete a basic task without a song playing in my headphones.

Music became an even bigger part of my life when I started attending live shows. I went to my first concerts at age 10, seeing my two favorite artists - Nickelodeon boy band Big Time Rush and classic progressive rock band Rush - within one month of each other. By the time I was 15, I had been to my fair share of arena/seated shows with one or both of my parents, from Fifth Harmony to Fitz and the Tantrums to Alice in Chains. My first general admission show was seeing the Foo Fighters at Citi Field with both my mom and dad when I was 12, but my first pop-punk general admission show (yes, they’re different) came a few years later. I had the typical list of favorite bands that you would expect from a young teenager getting into alternative music: Neck Deep, Knuckle Puck, Real Friends, and State Champs. 

In late 2018, I was able to see all four of these bands for the first time, and I am a firm believer that it changed the course of my life. I met, cried-during, and eventually got the setlist for Neck Deep at Stereo Garden on Long Island in September. I sang all of “Untitled” at the barricade for Knuckle Puck at SI Hall at the Fairgrounds in Syracuse in October. I had my first minor concussion scare (yay!) before Real Friends’ set at Irving Plaza in New York City in November. Finally, I crowd surfed for the first time during State Champs’ anniversary show for The Finer Things at House of Independents in Asbury Park in December. After just a few shows, I had fallen in love with this new brand of live music that I had just been introduced too. There was something so magical to me about skin covered in sweat and Sharpie marks, feet hurting from dancing in the pit all night, and meeting strangers on line outside the venue who would become your best friends and know your deepest secrets by the end of the night.

After making some friends at all of the pop-punk shows I was going to, they started to tell me that I should get into hardcore music. I was hesitant at first - the heaviest thing I had listened to at that point was nowhere near the snippets of hardcore that my friends had played for me - but, eventually, I decided to give it a chance. I was bored and home alone with nothing to do one night over the summer of 2019 when I listened to my first hardcore album, Laugh Tracks by Knocked Loose. Immediately, I got that gut feeling that you have when you know you’ve heard one of your favorite bands for the first time. I knew that this was something special that I was meant to find at this point in my life. For the rest of the summer, I worked my way through the rest of my friends’ hardcore and hardcore-adjacent recommendations, with Cost of Living by Incendiary, Stage Four by Touche Amore, You’re Not You Anymore by Counterparts, Time & Space by Turnstile, Springtime and Blind by Fiddlehead, Smile! Aren’t You Happy by Absence of Mine, Bad to my World by Backtrack, and Reality Approaches by Harms Way being some of my favorites. By the time the next school year started, I was hooked, and I already had tickets to my first few hardcore shows in the fall.

My first hardcore show was in November 2019, seeing Knocked Loose at Webster Hall in New York City - fitting, right? They were on tour supporting their new record A Different Shade of Blue, which I had become obsessed with the minute I heard it for the first time. Although I was ridiculously scared of getting stepped on and breaking all my bones (yes, that was an actual fear of mine), I had the time of my life at that show. There was something about this newer kind of live music that prompted a cathartic release, one that I hadn’t found anywhere else before. As soon as the show was over, I was counting the days until my next one.

My love for live hardcore music (and live music and hardcore music in general) has only grown since then, and that story sort of ends there. However, I want to go back to that first hardcore band that I listened to, Knocked Loose, and the album they put out that first summer that stole my heart. I was taken by storm as soon as the first notes of A Different Shade of Blue rang through my headphones, but something was different about the third track, A Serpent’s Touch, particularly the ending; I heard a voice that sounded a little bit more like my own.

This song features Emma Boster, who does vocals for one of my favorite hardcore bands right now, Dying Wish. When I heard A Serpent’s Touch for the first time, though, I had no idea who she was. I was used to the aggressive vocal delivery of frontmen in hardcore, particularly that of Knocked Loose’s Bryan Garris, but hearing it come from her changed my perspective on a lot of things. It’s not like the song was super angry and changed its tune to be lighter once the token girl came along; in her verse, Boster sings, “I watched the venom / Overcome your spirit / Jealousy holds you now / Distorting your appearance / Bleed out.” These were lyrics that held the same intensity that the lines screamed by the men held, and they sounded just as cool coming out of her mouth. As cheesy as it sounds, it had never even occurred to me that women had a place in this new world that I had discovered. The audiences in the live videos I watched (and eventually at the shows I attended) were made up of mostly men who looked bigger and older than me. When I did start going to shows, most of the non-man population consisted of my friends and I. Emma Boster, along with so many others, began to open my eyes to the fact that a place for people like me existed in this community. It didn’t matter that I had bright red hair or liked butterflies or wore pink - I was just as much a part of this magic as the men multiple feet taller than me with tattoo-covered arms, and I belonged there just as much as they did.

As time went on and I got more involved in the genre’s music and community, I discovered more bands with women in them, and it only fueled this fire of empowerment inside of me. When I felt insecure, I’d watch live sets from Krimewatch, a hardcore band from New York City, just half an hour away from my hometown. They have multiple women as members, including their energetic badass of a vocalist, Rhylli Ogiura. Year of the Knife became one of my all-time favorites, and their bassist Madison Watkins became a serious inspiration to me; the way that she can balance killing it on stage and running the cutest, most pink apparel brand I’ve ever seen (aptly titled Candy Corpse) amazes me. Even some of the bands I’ve found more recently have had an impact on me. I started listening to Initiate last year when their EP Lavender came out, and their beautifully colorful cover art caught my eye before I had heard any of their songs. Their vocalist, Crystal Pak, is also a woman, and she’s insanely talented. Discovering this kind of representation in this new universe that I had come to feel so at home in introduced me to a world of confidence and determination that I had never known before.

When people ask me why I love hardcore so much, I often give the easy answer; “the music sounds good.” If the person allows me to ramble on for a little longer, the answer becomes much more emotional and cheesy. Hardcore taught me that speaking up for what I believe in is important, and if there’s something I’m passionate about, it’s worth shouting about. I became familiar with this when listening to one of my favorite bands ever, Incendiary (the second hardcore band I ever checked out), before quickly realizing that politics are a pretty common topic within the genre - it’s what this music was practically built on. The first time I heard their vocalist Brendan Garrone singing about police brutality and injustice on songs like Force of Neglect and Sell Your Cause, I realized that there is so much more to music than just sounding good.

However, at its core, the thing I love so much about hardcore is what it taught me about being a woman. Growing up, I was the loud girl with the personality bigger than the room who always had something to say and had a never ending supply of excitement about just about everything. As I got older, I was taught that this was not okay. People didn’t like how enthusiastic I was about everything, or that I constantly had new ideas and new discoveries I wanted to talk about. As cliche as it sounds, I felt like everyone around me was trying to dull my sparkle, especially some of the men that I was encountering on a day-to-day basis. Even when I started to come to terms with my big and bright personality, in turn also coming to terms with my own femininity, I was told that this wasn’t how girls acted. I had to pick one - I could watch Disney princess movies and wear Hello Kitty hair clips, or I could be outspoken about my beliefs; but never both. The women that I mentioned earlier, along with so, so many more, helped me unlearn these toxic mindsets. Seeing someone like Emma Boster take the stage and scream ferociously for a full set helped me see that I could be a girl and still be a powerhouse. Following Madi Watkins around on social media showed me that I could love bands like Year of the Knife and also love heart-shaped purses and wear pink from head to toe. My aggression and passion didn’t make me any less of a woman, and my femininity didn’t make me any less of a force to be reckoned with. 

So, at the end of this love letter to hardcore and the women who run it, I say this; thank you for teaching me that I don’t have to shrink myself anymore. It has made a world of a difference.

#jennifer moglia

[sickstarlight]

E5 from the prompt list?

I’m sorry, my stomach feels funny… can we go home?

(warning in this one for reference to emetophobia!)

--

When he first starts to feel off, he tries his best to ignore it, chalks the uneasy feeling in his gut up to nothing more than nerves. He always does get a little anxious before a date, after all - and it doesn't help that it's a little weird, thinking of this as a date.

But he's never been the type to let his nerves get the better of him, so he pushes down the butterflies in his stomach and keeps getting ready, trying not to think too hard about it. There's no reason it should be different from any other date, with any other handsome, disheveled bastard he'd met any other way.

By the time he gets to Seaside, though, the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach hasn't subsided, and he's beginning to worry it might be more than anxiety that's making him feel a little ill.

Royce, it turns out, is already there when he arrives, sitting out on the patio overlooking the bay, a cigarette in his mouth, his fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of the table. Auden breathes a sigh of relief, glad he's not the first one there, and hurries over to the table.

"Hey," he says, trying to sound casual, and pulls out the chair opposite Royce. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Oh, oh, ah, hello, hi," Royce says as he looks up, clearly flustered. "Please, um, have a seat, yes."

At least he's not the only one who's nervous, Auden thinks, though it doesn't make him feel much better. He sits down, leaning against the table for support and hoping Royce can't tell. "How are you doing?" he asks, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette of his own.

"Fine, yes, fine," Royce says, fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat. "I'm, ah, quite alright, thank you." A faint smile flickers across his face, one corner of his mouth turning up slightly before he looks away, his cheeks a little flushed.

Auden grins back, his discomfort momentarily forgotten amidst the satisfaction of getting Royce to blush. "Glad to hear it," he says, fishing his lighter out of his pocket with one hand while he rests his chin against the other.

"And you, yourself, how are you doing?" Royce asks after a moment, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

Auden laughs and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Not bad," he says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Good to see you."

"Yes, it's, ah, it's -" Royce stammers, still avoiding his eyes. "Good to see you, too, very good."

Auden's started to feel better after all by the time they've ordered lunch, and he sips slowly at his drink while they wait for their food to arrive. Maybe he'd just needed some fresh air, he thinks, relieved; fresh air and the sound of the water always does help clear his head. "So, what have you been working on lately?" he prompts, breaking the comfortable silence, and sees Royce animate instantly, his eyes lighting up as he leans forward against the table. Auden can't help grinning, settling back in his chair to listen as Royce starts to explain his current project.

He doesn’t feel iffy again until after he’s started eating, but a third of the way through his lunch, he realizes that the grilled seafood he’d ordered seems awfully heavy in his stomach. Slowly, he sets his fork down to nibble at his side of toast instead, hoping it’ll help settle his uneasy belly. A burp bubbles up into his throat, and he covers his mouth with one hand to stifle it.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly when Royce pauses, and rubs the back of his neck. “Guess I are a little fast.”

It’s a good thing Royce is more than happy to talk about his work uninterrupted, he thinks, because he’s not too sure it’s a good idea to talk too much himself right now. Instead he just listens intently, nodding to let Royce know he’s still paying attention, and alternates taking bites of his toast and small sips of water. He’s only half finished with the whiskey lemonade he’d gotten, but he doesn’t think any more alcohol is going to help settle his stomach.

The toast and water don’t really seem to be doing that, either, though; he can still feel his insides churning, and it’s making it hard to pay attention to what Royce is saying. He tries to be surreptitious as he slips one hand under his shirt to press against his gut, hoping maybe he can soothe the bubbling feeling in his queasy belly.

He’s so focused on calming his stomach that it takes him a second to notice that Royce has lapsed into silence. “Huh?” he asks, looking up as he realizes how quiet it is. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re, ah,” Royce says, watching him intently. “You’re not.... enjoying this. Not having a good time.”

“I am!” he says quickly, his eyes going wide. “Of course I am, that’s not...”

“You don’t seem.... interested,” Royce adds, and looks away, his fingers tapping the table restlessly.

The guilt that sinks into the pit of his stomach does nothing to make Auden feel better. “It’s not that,” he says with a sigh. “It’s just - I’m sorry, my stomach feels funny.” He swallows hard against a wave of nausea and bites his lower lip until it hurts. “Can.... can we go home?”

“Oh,” Royce says, his face going a shade paler. “You, you never, you didn’t say anything, could have said something about it before now...”

“I didn’t wanna freak you out,” Auden mumbles, hunching his shoulders. “And I was kinda hoping I’d feel better.”

"I - ah - well," Royce falters. "I appreciate... your concern. Though if you'd said, we could have, lots of other things we could have done, rather than lunch if you're, ah, if you're feeling poorly, and I can't imagine the drinks have helped. Can't imagine that's helped, much, at all."

"Not really," he admits, wishing Royce hadn't reminded him as a quiet burp forces its way up and brings the taste of alcohol back into his mouth. "Sorry, Royce, I didn't wanna let it mess up our date, but--"

He breaks off with a wince as his stomach gurgles loudly; he can feel everything he's eaten shifting uncomfortably in his gut, threatening to come back up if he makes a wrong move. Sweat beads up across his brow and prickles at the back of his neck.

"You, uh," he manages weakly, and swallows hard. "You should probably go."

“I don’t, ah, don’t, don’t want...” Royce stammers, and hesitates. “To leave you... alone. If you’re not... well.”

“Real sweet of you,” Auden says, “but I - urp - I think I might throw up, and I know you’re not gonna want to be around to see that.”

“But, trying to get home by yourself, that seems,” Royce says slowly. “Well, not very wise, I’d say, wouldn’t you? Not... the wisest decision you could make.”

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Auden groans, clutching his upset stomach. Discomfort has swelled into full blown nausea by now, and he’s not entirely sure that just getting to his feet won’t be enough to make him spew his lunch all over the paving stones. Still, he grits his teeth and grabs the edge of the table to help pull himself upright, and manages to keep himself together despite the acidic taste crawling up the back of his throat.

“Let me - help... you,” Royce says uncertainly, stepping in to take his arm. “You don’t look, ah, don’t look very steady, wouldn’t want for you to fall.” He manages a nervous, shaky laugh, and adds, “Just do... try to warn me, alright, if you’re about to...”

"Do my best," he agrees through gritted teeth, and starts walking towards the open gate to leave the patio.

It’s usually a ten minute walk back to his place, but he walks slowly right now, hoping that he can keep the contents of his stomach under control if he just moves carefully enough. It’s a losing battle, though, and they’ve barely made it two blocks when a wave of nausea makes him double over, clutching his stomach.

“Oh,” says Royce, his voice strained. “Do you, ah, do you need to...?”

“I need to sit down,” Auden groans, his legs going weak as his stomach churns unhappily. Without waiting for a reply he sinks to the ground and leans forward to put his head between his knees, trying very hard to keep his breathing steady.

A sick gurgle starts deep in his belly, and crawls upward as a bubble of sour air forces its way up his throat to come out as a wet, queasy belch. No matter how carefully he tries to breathe, he’s pretty sure he’s going to puke any second now. He lets his mouth hang open while he waits, saliva pooling under his tongue until it fills his mouth and drips to the ground at his feet. Another watery belch escapes him, followed by a stream of thin brown liquid that spatters onto the pavement.

“Sorry,” he manages weakly, and spits on the ground, trying to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Before he can recover, though, his stomach heaves again and he’s burping up a thicker stream of sick onto the street between his shoes, choking a little as the masticated remains of his toast makes a reappearance.

“You, ah, you don’t - have - to apologize,” Royce says, though he sounds a little ill himself. When Auden dares to lift his head a little, he sees Royce with his back turned, head tipped back to avert his gaze from the ground entirely.

“Think I’m alright now,” Auden manages weakly, though he’s not sure how long the reprieve will last. “Just.... just give me a minute.”

“Do you, ah, do you need... a hand?” Royce offers, chancing a wary glance in his direction. “If you do need, a little help, I can...”

“I’m okay,” Auden says, trying to reassure him. Royce doesn’t look reassured, but Auden manages to get back to his feet, careful not to step into the pool of vomit on the ground between his shoes. He doesn't feel quite as nauseous, but his legs feel like jelly, and he finds himself, without thinking about it, holding onto Royce's arm for support. Royce, to his surprise, doesn't pull away.

"Alright, then, come on, come on," he says, waiting for Auden to steady himself before he starts walking again. "Let's get you home, hurry up and get you home where you can rest."

#this got so much longer than i meant it to annd editing it on mobile fucked it up so badly #i fixed it but G-D!!! #transicktor #emeto fic #sickfic #no one on earth ships this but me and my qp and his bf but thats just alright.

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 19

Chapters: 19/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18]

"It’s skew.”

“Come and straighten it, then.”

“I’m spotting, you’re hanging.”

Gerry growls at him. Jon looks rather pleased about it.

Martin, who doesn’t want Gerry to hit their infuriating lover with a hammer, goes over to where he’s hanging the massive painting and tilts it minutely to the left. “Better?”

“Perfect!” Jon pronounces, clapping his hands.

Through some sort of witchcraft, the artist has hung the painting in such a position that it emulates where a window would be in a traditional room. It opens up the space in such a way that it seems less like a store room, and far more like a creative space that someone would actually enjoy spending time in.

The lightning helps too, warm light filtering from the ceiling and corner lamps, and LCD strips illuminating the bookshelves from inside.

All in all, considering this was a utilitarian storage space just a few weeks ago, it seems like a downright miracle.

The three of them lean back against Jon's desk, free of clutter for the first and only time in its life. The bookshelves are empty, and except for his new painting, so are the walls.

The piano occupies one wall, and Gerry hopes to hear it being played often.

Jon reaches out and takes Gerry's hand, drawing them close together affectionately. "How long have you been planning for us to move in?"

"Well, I wasn't planning, per se. Only considering the possibility." Gerry smirks confidently. "I know we're all a little bizarre, but this is the course of most relationships, and we could only spend so much time sleeping over before paying for three flats became superfluous."

"Besides," Martin continues for him. "There's no harm in planning for something you hope will happen eventually. Especially when your new flatmates will be this wildly good looking."

He gestures to himself dramatically, doing a small turn in place. Gerry and Jon laugh with him happily, until he stumbles back into Gerry's side, where he gets wrapped up under an arm.

"So do you like your new space, Jon?" Gerry cuddles around him, twisting the three of them into an odd sort of snuggle pretzel.

"I absolutely adore it." Jon utters happily, sighing in contentment as they all lean there together.

***

At the end of June, Jon hands over his keys and the three of them officially live together.

There's still a lot of settling to be done, even though they've been moving in together for almost six weeks by that point. The boxes are unpacked, but they still need to make it a comfortable home for all of them, a certainty that comes only with time.

Martin and Jon both love their studies, a matching pair that look and feel completely opposite.

Martin opts for a small bedroom, keeping the bed from his old flat, his painting hung opposite. He finds an antique writing desk at a charity store, and installs it for writing poetry or working on his laptop in the evenings.

He adorns the walls with pictures and posters, and random pieces of poetry and music that he loves.

It's a cozy space that he adores, even though he opts to sleep in the master bedroom almost always. The option makes him feel like he has his own breathing room, even if he rarely needs it.

Jon's is more of a true study, with a large desk taking up the majority of the space. His walls are lined with shelves, and he promptly fills them with books and knickknacks. The odd collection includes first edition classics, next to mass market paperbacks and music books, with non-fiction nature and animal books scattered throughout. These are interwoven with seashells, tiny mechanical statues and several flowers preserved in resin, gifts from Martin throughout their relationship.

On the wall above the piano, he hangs framed photos of his parents, himself with Gerry as a teen, and all three of them together as adults. The photo he once took of Martin, Gerry and Tim hangs right in the centre, all his favorite humans in one frame. He hangs the sketch of him and Martin in the park from when they were all courting, as well as the others he has stolen from Gerry over time.

Gerry embraces the chaos and upheaval as if it's all he ever wanted, and really, it is. A home, with the people he loves, noisy and frenetic, loving and comfortable.

In the middle of July, he quits his job at the bar in the middle of a shift, with very little contemplation or preamble.

He smiles at his lovers radiantly when he comes through the door several hours early to find them watching a movie.

"What happened?" Martin queries, clear concern lining his expressive face.

"I quit." Gerry flops down between them, snuggling down immediately.

"But why?" Presses a sleepy Jon, trying to hide a yawn behind his hand.

Gerry shrugs. "I got the job because I was bored, essentially. I wanted to interact with interesting people and I didn't know anyone in London anymore. But tonight I realized how badly I wanted to be right here, with you two." He smiles at them, trying to explain without conveying too many of his sappy emotions. "l honestly couldn't think of one reason to be working at midnight on a Saturday, instead of at home, or out on a date, or literally anything else we could be doing together. So I quit."

"Oh Gerry." Jon whispers, both of them carefully tuned to his moods, regardless of his attempts at seeming unconcerned.

"I don't feel the need to fill my time and chase inspiration anymore. I just want to be with you. Both of you." He kisses first Martin's hand, then Jon's, grinning at them all the way.

"I love you. I'm happy you're home." Jon whispers to him, sleepy and content.

Martin hums an agreement, squeezing his hand and smiling down at him lovingly.

They watch their movie and then go to bed all together, and Gerry knows he's made the best choice of his life.

***

Gerry finds himself with an odd amount of time on his hands while his partners go to work during the day, like normal people.

He decides to take on several art commissions from clients he's actually interested in working for, which thrills Gertrude. He doesn't think it entirely makes up for his boyfriend hitting Peter Lukas in the middle of a showcase, but it's a start.

He also indulges himself and buys a new tattoo machine.

He's not really interested in taking clients again, but… well, he wants it and so he gets it. If it's only to use on himself or the occasional visitor, then that's fine by him.

"You have everything you need to give tattoos now, right?" Martin asks him one early morning.

Gerry is still mostly asleep, clutching a cup of tea and petting Saturn where he perches on his lap. He blinks at Martin, confused.

"I think so. I mean, I haven't used my machine yet, but there's really only one way to test it out." Gerry tilts his head curiously, sunlight glittering in his hair, dyed back to its original black. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you want to give me one?" Martin grins at him a bit shyly.

Gerry sits up straight, instantly wide awake. "Yes. So much."

Martin laughs warmly. "You have the same look on your face that Luna gets when we take out the catnip toys."

Uncaring about how eager he might look, Gerry shoos Saturn to go over and kneel by Martin. "I would be honored to have your tattoo virginity. Do you want me to draw something?"

"Yes," Martin tells him with a grin, "that's exactly what I want. A Gerry Delano original, right on my skin."

"What do you want it to be?" Gerry's teal eyes are bright and slightly manic, and Martin glories in the sensation of producing a new reaction in his lover.

"It's entirely up to you." He responds, pressing a firm kiss to Gerry's mouth. "I want to see what makes you think of me."

"Oh, I like it." He declares, jumping up and going off to find a sketchbook.

Martin sips his tea and smiles to himself, very pleased indeed.

***

"You're just going to let him give you whatever he wants to?" Jon blanches when Martin tells him.

"Relax Jon, it's Gerry, not some evil mastermind. He'll draw something I like. And if I don't, it's not hard, I just tell him no."

Jon, who rather considers that Gerry is an evil mastermind, does not look convinced. "But…"

"Hush, love." Martin tells him firmly.

Gerry, drawing under the window nearby, takes no notice of them. He has a focused frown on his face as he concentrates on the careful lines appearing on his page.

Martin considers it a rare pleasure to just watch him draw, and tries to guess what might be forming on the page before him.

He completely trusts that Gerry knows him exactly well enough to draw him the perfect tattoo. And then he can have his own piece of Gerry, inked right into his skin.

When he sits back down with Jon and Martin a little later, he has a smudge of charcoal above his eyebrow, and Martin gently rubs it away before Gerry has a chance to start talking. He blushes quite uncharacteristically, and Martin knows it means he's been swirling in the frantic rush of his own creativity.

"So I have a proposal for you." Gerry starts, body humming with excitement. "A tattoo in two parts, if you will."

"Yeah?" Martin encourages him, just as interested.

Gerry collects Martin's hand in both of his own, running a thumb over a spot on his wrist. It's the same place that Jon has his own tattoo, which immediately makes Martin pleased. "A small crescent moon, right here. The placement to match with Jon, the symbol for Luna."

Gerry pushes a scrap of paper forward, an elegant crescent moon filling space.

"For the other…" Gerry turns over the larger page, handing it to Martin.

There's an immeasurable beat of silence as Martin contemplates the design before him. A set of waxing and waning moons, connected by a series of dots, lines and more dots making a background of geometric shapes.

He… feels it. He understands now, what Jon had meant, when he described seeing the inspiration for his own tattoo for the first time. It's a representation of some inner part of himself, normally hidden from the world, but carefully unearthed for his lovers, over the course of many months and endless intimacy.

"Martin?" Gerry entreats, leaning minutely closer to him.

"I love it." He whispers, pulling the goth over to kiss him fiercely. They tangle together pleasantly, for several moments, everything else falling away as they get absorbed in each other.

"Not that anyone asked me, but I like it as well." Jon informs them pertly.

"Your opinion is as important to us as ever, baby." Gerry replies, grinning proudly. He turns back to Martin. "Where do you want it?"

Martin considers for a moment, before getting up and pulling off his shirt and jumper, leaving himself bare from the waist up. He still feels a small pang of shyness to be naked in any way, but confidence born of time and perspective drown most of it away now.

He and Gerry stand facing each other. Martin lifts the other man's hand, placing it on his sternum, over his softly pounding heart.

"Right here?" Gerry asks, voice soft.

"Right here." Martin affirms.

***

In the end, Gerry takes them over to Melanie's tattoo shop to work on Martin. He lists a number of reasons, but really, he finds a certain amount of comfort working under the stark lights and amid the buzzing of other machines.

They do the small tattoo first, and Martin sits for it exceptionally well.

Before Gerry starts the sternum piece, an endeavor of several hours, Georgie arrives and drags Jon off to drink coffee and catch up in a nearby coffee shop. Melanie goes into the next room to take another client, and Gerry and Martin are left alone together.

"Ready, love?" Gerry asks as he finishes placing the stencil, bisecting his chest.

"I'm nervous," Martin confesses softly.

Gerry doesn't move his gloved hands, not wanting to contaminate them, but he does press their foreheads together gently, taking a moment to sooth Martin with his companionship.

"Do you want to take a break? You can just sit with the stencil for a while." Gerry leans forward and places a swift kiss on Martin's nose, before retreating from his personal space.

"No, I'm ready." He smiles, biting his lip a little. "I just- I feel like this is a big moment, you know?"

"It is. You're embracing who you really are." Gerry runs a finger along one of Martin's chest scars, considering. "You're choosing to love yourself instead of just tolerating him."

"How can you always tell?" Martin whispers the words, voice heavy with emotion. "How can you put things into words like that, so simply."

"I know you. You think I don't see when you avoid looking in the mirror. You hope I don't notice that you used to hate being naked, even with Jon and I." Gerry pauses, tripping Martin's head up with the tip of a finger, minimizing contact still. "But I see you, Martin. I love you just the way you are. And I want you to love yourself just the same. I'll tell you everyday, show you constantly, if I need to."

Martin is crying for real now, tears streaming down his face. Gerry abandons his sterility, pulling Martin into his arms. He rocks his lover gently, and they are just together for a moment, no need to rush, no distractions. Just them, and the comfort they find in each other.

"I love you too." Martin tells him simply, when they pull apart.

"Good," Gerry grins, kissing him thoroughly, the taste of salty tears on his lips. He stands, pulling off his ruined gloves and going to wash his hands again.

Martin takes a sip of the tea Jon made him before he left, smiling because Jon always makes it with a little more sugar than he allows himself. "I'm ready."

When Jon returns, they're just finished up, the last few moments of buzzing filling the air. He watches them together, artist and canvas, and loves them fiercely.

"How was coffee with Georgie?" Martin queries, taking his offered hand.

Jon relays the details as Gerry finishes, and then cleans up.

Jon and Gerry stand on either side of Martin in the mirror as he looks at it for the first time. Martin nods wildly, when Jon asks if he likes it, and they hug him from either side as he sheds a few more tears.

Jon had once thought that tattoos seemed very boring in comparison to Gerry's normal work, but seeing the design come alive on Martin's skin, full of feeling and depth, he can't help but think of it as the best thing his lover has ever done. Gerry can't help but agree.

"Let's go to the park!" Martin exclaims as they leave, after saying their goodbyes to Georgie and Melanie.

"The park?" Jon asks, laughing. "It's so windy."

"I don't care, I want to feed the ducks and eat ice cream with my boyfriends." He insists, giddy with happiness and adrenaline.

"Okay, but you're picking the flavours this time." Gerry says, taking one of Martin's hands. Jon takes the other.

"Deal."

***

Jon and Gerry find themselves watching Martin once again feed ducks as they sit beneath a tree, more than a year after the very first time.

"Why don't we come to the park more often?" Jon asks from where he reclines between Gerry's long legs.

His arms snake around his waist, and Jon feels very content and comfortable, despite the cutting wind.

"Because," Gerry kisses under an ear softly, "we live in England and it rains more than 100 days a year."

"He looks so happy here." They watch as Martin stoops to offer a piece of bread to a curious toddler. The child is inordinately pleased, and her mother watches on gratefully from nearby as they feed the rowdy birds together.

"Are you happy?" Gerry asks him, unexpectedly serious. "With your life, with me?"

"Gerry! Of course I'm happy with you." Jon sits up, turning in the tangle of Gerry's limbs to face him.

"I'm only checking on you." He runs a gentle finger down Jon's face, then cups his cheek affectionately. "I know how much stress work puts you under and I hate that for you."

Jon looks away from his intent gaze, fiddling with his fingers nervously. "Well, yeah. My job sucks. The worst part is, I love being a librarian! Being surrounded by books, helping people choose something to read or guiding them with their research. But that's so little of my job now, and Elias just finds new and interesting ways to put pressure on me. But I'm not qualified and I know I probably won't get another job in a library, especially not without a glowing recommendation from Elias-"

"And we both know that's never going to happen." Gerry finishes for him.

Jon nods and they just sit together a moment. Gerry lifts one of his hands and kisses each of his fingers and then his palm, until Jon blushes and smiles at him.

"I know you think it's annoying, so you keep your feelings about work inside, a lot of the time. I don't want you to do that anymore, okay? If you have a terrible job, then we all carry that."

"But-"

"Nope, no buts. We are all partners. That means more then dinner dates and living together and sex."

"And punching rich fuckers who hurt our Martin."

Gerry laughs, still reveling in Jon's unexpected protectiveness- and the violent manifestation of it. "Yes, that too. There will be other jobs, for all of us, probably. But our relationship, the three of us. We're forever."

"Like those tattoos that you gave Martin today?" Jon asks, pert glint in his eye.

"Yes, much like that." He smirks brazenly back. "And the one I gave you, and the ones I've given myself, over the years."

Gerry continues, squeezing Jon's hand, "I know that the idea of not being able to provide for yourself scares you, but we're in this together now. You don't have to cling to a job that you hate in case you're left without one at all."

"I-" Jon looks away, uncomfortable to be so well understood. Gerry stits with him, energy easy between them, just holding his hand, loving and supportive.

"I have been considering, that is, maybe becoming a school teacher." The confession is halting, and he offers it with a small shy smile.

"I think that's a wonderful idea." Gerry responds, gentle encouragement colouring his voice.

"I would probably have to go back to school for a year. Get a post-grad in Education. I wouldn't be working for most of that time, and my savings will only go so far, even without having to pay rent." Jon whispers, as if the words will be any less offensive to him if they are quiet.

"You know I can float you, especially for just a year. And Martin too."

"It just doesn't seem fair to burden you with that."

"It's not a burden, it's a part of life. You think you're so old, that you should be settled, but you're barely 30, Jon. You still have time to make new life choices occasionally, and the point of being in a relationship is that you let us support you every now and then." Gerry is earnest and focused, and Jon can't help but believe him, long fingers cupping his face and teal eyes holding his gaze.

Martin arrives then, plonking down next to Jon and giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"What are we talking about then? Such serious faces."

Gerry nudges Jon, who haltingly offers Martin the same idea he told Gerry.

“Oh, I think that’s a great idea.” He says, eyes alight. “Like, high schoolers, right?”

“Yes, of course. Anyone under 10 is an alien and I don’t want to hear any arguments.”

They laugh at him, their contentment surrounding him warmly.

"You don't have to quit right away." Martin offers. "There are plenty of part time degree programs, and you have to apply first. It all takes time."

"You seem pretty clued up about it." Jon observes, narrowing his eyes at Martin suspiciously.

"Well, if you must know. I've been thinking about getting a business degree."

"Oh my God! Martin, how is this the first we're hearing about this?" Gerry demands, sitting up straight.

"I didn't want it to be a thing until I was sure, and the move was over." He confesses, "It's gonna take a lot of my free time and I wanted to discuss that with you both carefully."

"I'm gonna be living with two thirty year old students." Gerry mutters, shocked. He leans back against the tree again, running his fingers through his long hair.

"I haven't agreed yet-" Jon starts.

Martin speaks up at the same time. "You could get a degree too. We could all be students together."

"No, but thanks anyway." Gerry shudders, grimacing. He perks right back up. "I'll be your sexy study partner though."

"Gerard!" Jon cries, scandalised.

Gerry shakes his head. "As if I've never felt you up while you were trying to study for a test."

"Exactly!" Even Jon struggles to keep up his prim expression at that, and they tumble into pleasant laughter together.

"So," Martin hazards, "are we gonna do this?"

"Well, if you're going to. I suppose we should both get it done at the same time." Jon responds, still hesitant but clearly warming to the idea. "You're really okay with this, Gerry?"

Gerry beams at them both, a soft, special look in his eyes. "I'm more than okay with anything you want to do with your lives. In case you haven't noticed, I'm really very fond of you both."

Jon leans forward in the circle of Gerry's legs, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss, before turning back to lay against his chest.

Martin shifts around to lean into his side, and Gerry tucks one arm around him, the other around Jon. Jon reaches out to take one of Martin's hands, and the three of them sit wrapped up together.

As ever, their own mutual magnetism draws them forever closer and closer, binding them to one another in an inexplicable tangle of love and affection.

"Do you think it will always be like this, between us?" Martin whispers gently, as the sun begins to set and the landscape sets ablaze before them.

"Probably not," Jon responds, voice warm and content. "Life will keep shifting like a tide, and we'll move with it, but the great thing about us is- we're moored together. Nothing can keep us apart, because what we have is stronger than whatever shifts and eddies might try to take us away."

"The gravity between us is fiercer than any storm, any disaster that might try to shake us." Gerry picks up Jon's train of thought, pulling them both minutely closer.

"Good," Martin says simply, fiercely in love and the happiest he's ever felt.

They watch the sun as it drops below the horizon, sometimes quiet and occasionally sharing some errant thought or another.

They eat ice cream on the way home, holding hands and laughing.

It's warm, and soft and peaceful.

And they're all, finally, home.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

[impracticaldemon]

The Blue Thread of Fate

IIkemen Sengoku fanfiction byimpracticaldemon for @rierru drawer of fine chibis! I hope you enjoy this!

Words: 1900    Rating: Mild T

Summary:  It’s going well being princess-chatelaine of Azuchi castle, and even better as Masamune’s lover.  Unfortunately, a delegation from the imperial (I’ve used royal) court of Kyoto threatens to disrupt things, since one of the high-born ladies of the court has a long-standing crush on Masamune.

Blue Thread of Fate * * name taken from the popular belief of a red string of fate binding destined lovers together forever

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey! That was–”

It was a warm summer day, but that’s not why I was feeling hot under the collar.  Or rather, collars, since Sengoku-era dress included an under-collar, if not a whole extra under-kimono plus under-collar.  The reason for my rising temper was a thin, extremely well-dressed young woman, who was walking around my favourite clothiers handling the displayed cloth, and clothing, with a bored look of disdain.  Worse, she’d just reached around me and taken the spool of blue embroidery thread I’d been about to pick up.

“Is there a problem Princess-Chatelaine?”  The woman’s rather high-pitched voice held the distinct accent of the Kyoto upper class–the royalty and near-royalty, in fact.  Not that I would have known that, a week ago, but I did now, after spending four days catering to the needs of a whole group of them, not to mention their servants, their children, and their animals.

With all the deference I could muster–and that wasn’t much, by this point–I smiled with false sweetness at Lady Okano, murmuring, “No problem at all, my lady.  I just wished to let you know that I have already arranged to buy that thread from the merchant.”  I shot a pleading look at the merchant, who knew me well, and he immediately backed me up.

“The Princess-Chatelaine is indeed correct, my lady.”  The man bowed deeply.  “I had only put that spool of thread on the display table so that she might examine it for any defects in colour or strength.”  That was an outright lie, but not a flicker of it showed in the merchant’s face or voice.  The members of the royal party from Kyoto had not made themselves popular in town, and only esteem for Nobunaga had prevented outright ill-will.

Lady Okano shot me an unpleasant look, and held the spool up to the light.  She made a point of unravelling more than was necessary for a test piece, and then tugged on it sharply.  Fortunately, it didn’t break, and the lady’s patent disappointment helped me to hold my smile.

“I suppose it is to be expected that the Princess-Chatelaine purchases a great deal of this particular hue, since I hear she is the mistress of Lord Date Masamune.  He favours this shade of blue, does he not?”  She set down the thread, not deigning to actually hand it to me.

I felt a severe eye-roll coming on, but was saved from reply by a familiar, and much-loved, voice.  I whispered a silent thank you to the gods of not slapping arrogant ladies-in-waiting.

“I do favour that shade of blue, Lady Okano–how very observant of you!  I see that you are rightly famed for being like a hawk when it comes to noticing things about others.”  Masamune strode jauntily into the shop, somehow navigating the crowded space without mishap, despite his swords.  Mind you, the swords accessorized well with the sharp smile he wore, which didn’t reach his blue eye.  It reminded me more of Mitsuhide than Masamune, which wasn’t a good sign.

“Masamune!”  I grinned up at him, as he placed a light kiss on my forehead.  Lady Okano would no doubt pretend to be scandalized, but my beloved was not one to avoid public displays of affection.  It set him apart from others, and probably would even in modern times.

“Hideyoshi said you’d gone shopping, Kitten,” he told me.  “I figured there was a good chance you’d be here.”  Turning to face Lady Okano, whose carefully rounded brows had risen almost to her hairline, he added, “I’m afraid you’ll have to work a little harder to be as well-informed as Hideyoshi, my lady.  Though I suppose you’ll get better with practice.  It takes a real knack to know how to stand outside people’s doors with just the right amount of friendly concern, after all.”

Masamune had all but run over Lady Okano when he’d left my room this afternoon–we’d been sharing tea, and possibly one or two kisses–and he wasn’t impressed.  He accepted that the nobility spied on each other as a matter of course, but she’d been too obvious, and she’d let her dislike for me show a little too clearly the night before.  Mitsuhide had already had a word with me about her just after her arrival, to let me know that she had a thing for Masamune, and probably wouldn’t be thrilled to find me occupying his time.  The way he’d pronounced ‘time’ had been a masterpiece of innuendo, of course.

“Although perhaps you don’t mind sharing, little one?” he’d murmured, amber eyes glinting wickedly.  “After all, you are famed for your generous spirit, and it might be an interesting experience.”

My attempt at a death glare had made him laugh, but his warning had been apt.  If the royal party as a whole were pains in the behind, then Lady Okano was more of a pain in the everything.  She wasn’t bad when Nobunaga was around–in fact she was silent, as a well-behaved princess should be–but otherwise, she was–  Well, in short, Mitsuhide was right that she wasn’t ready to give up on Masamune without a fight.  I was starting to contemplate the old ‘poisoned-pin-in-the-collar-of-the-haori’ trick.

Masamune himself had tried to be clear with her, within the bounds of semi-politeness.  He’d told me himself that she was pretty, but not the kind of pretty that he kissed.  When I’d demanded more specifics, he’d shrugged and said: “She kissed me, lass, and I may have kissed her back–the first time.  After that, I took her measure and stayed clear.  She’s a creature of politics and poison, and I don’t need that in my life.  I’m just sorry that she might cause trouble for you.”

And so here we were, in my favourite shop, and my temper was rising.  Masamune could probably shield me, and the shop-keeper was obviously prepared to collude with me, but this was the kind of thing I wanted to be able to deal with myself.  I glanced up at Masamune, and saw his edged smile turn more roguish, as his eye met mine.

“Lady Okano,” I began, stepping away from Masamune a little, “you look quite unwell!” I crowded into her space, trying to channel my inner Mitsuhide.  “I do believe the heat is too much for you.”

“Princess-Chatelaine–I assure you–”

“No, no, I won’t hear a word!”  I peered into her face, feigning concern.  “You look quite red, even under your perfectly applied make-up–which is rather overdone for shopping in Azuchi Castle Town, if you don’t mind just a little word of friendly advice.”

“Really!”

I clasped her hands in mine, and she tried to shrink away.  Quite ineffectively, as it turned out, since I was significantly stronger than she was, if only a little taller.

“Masamune, dear, would you please call Lady Okano’s maid, and her servant–they’re just outside, no doubt you saw them.”

“Right away, Kitten.  She’s always so kind to others, Lady Okano…”  Masamune looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I am quite well, Princess-Chatelaine!” Lady Okano’s eyes were brilliant with embarrassment and anger.

I quickly glanced around, and saw that the shop-keeper had prudently made himself scarce.  I brought my mouth a little closer to my would-be-rival’s ear–quite à la Mitsuhide, I thought–and said gently, “You are not well, my lady.  If you were, you would have noticed that Lord Masamune is no longer available.  Not only that, but surely you realize by now that I have Lord Nobunaga’s favour–as his chatelaine–and not even your own family truly wishes to offend him?”  I’d been in the Sengoku long enough to learn at least some of its ways, thanks to Masamune, Mitsuhide, Sasuke, and all the others.

Lady Okano was furious, but she’d stopped trying to move my hands, which were still clasped tightly around hers.  “You’ve made a bad enemy in me, Princess,” she hissed threateningly.  “I hope you don’t mind looking over your shoulder every day after this outrage–”

“Ha!”  Masamune’s puff of laughter held real amusement.  He stood in the entrance to the street, hands on his hips.  “Are you trying to threaten my lass?  Oda Nobunaga’s court is hardly a place for those who aren’t familiar with assassination attempts. Besides, she’s stopped two of them herself already–and has even tackled an armed daimyo who tried to flee after plotting treason against our lord.”

“You always bring that up!”  My mock glare up at Masamune was more of a loving twinkle, I suspected.

“I can’t help it!”  His grin was infectious.

I turned my eyes back to meet Lady Okano’s, and let go of her.  “I think you will find it much more comfortable to allow the castle staff, and your own servants, to attend you in your room for the remainder of your stay–don’t you, my lady?”  Before she could reply, I called to her maid-servant, who was hovering behind Masamune’s tall form.  “Sachi?  Please come look after Okano-dono.  She has been overcome by the heat, and wishes to return to the castle to lie down.”

There was a longish silence, and then Lady Okano capitulated.  “It is as you say, Princess-Chatelaine.  Sachi–we will return at once to Azuchi Castle.  The shops here are tedious, and my head aches.”

I suddenly wondered if Masamune should escort her back–she was high nobility, after all, and related to the royal family.  Fortunately, he appeared to have thought of that.

“Mitsunari accompanied me into town, Lady Okano,” said Masamune, giving her a slight bow.  “I am quite sure that he’ll be happy to escort you back to the castle.”

“Poor Mitsunari,” I murmured, as Masamune joined me in the shop by the embroidery wares.

“Oh he’ll be fine.  He’s impervious to her kind of bad temper and barbs.  Probably won’t even notice it, and respond as though they’re having a nice walk together.  Alternately, he’ll understand the situation perfectly, and behave exactly the same way.”  Masamune put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.  “Good to know you’ll fight to keep me, lass.”

“Don’t get a swollen head!”

He laughed, then turned me to face him, so that he could steal a kiss.  I thought I saw the curtain to the back-room move a fraction, but nobody came in, fortunately.  Since we were alone, I returned the kiss with one of my own.

“You are the only one for me,” Masamune told me, a few kisses later.

“Thank you.  I hope I haven’t caused trouble for Lord Nobunaga.”

“Nah, you’ve probably helped him.  He’d rather have you tell Her Ladyship what’s what, than have to step in himself.  Much better all around, keeps it personal, not political–well, less so than it could be.”

“So I’m learning?”

“Yep.  Just enough, but not”–he kissed me again, his teeth nibbling at my lower lip for a moment–”not too much.”  He looked at me seriously.  “I don’t want you to stop being you, even if you do have to learn to deal with some of our weird politics.  Okay?”

“Okay!”

“And now you should buy some nice things, to make up for us taking over this shop for so long.”

Laughing up at him, I agreed.  Privately, though, I decided not to use the first length of blue thread from the disputed spool.  It wasn’t just pettiness–mostly.  But Lady Okano had probably gotten sweat on it, and who wanted that?  I gave Masamune’s hand a squeeze, and then called the patient merchant back into the front of the shop.

[END]

This will be posted to Sengoku Tales on AO3 and FFnet in the near future!

Comments, likes, and reblogs are all appreciated! :)

#ikesen #iksen fanfiction #ikesen masamune #ikesen mc #mc x masamune #impracticaldemon #imp writes #gift fic #rierru

[kumkaniudaku]

The Love Tonight (2)

The Love Tonight (1)

From the moment dinner ended, prepping and planning for the big night during the week continued to evolve into a beast that Chadwick could not contain. His assigned job was to "show up and look good," instructions that were relayed to him on more than one occasion. This left him in the dark about anything that did not involve his wardrobe and Noah's babysitting plans. 

So, as he sat in the living room bouncing his son from knee to knee to pass the time, his mind swirled with all of the possibilities the night held. The first of his questions were answered when the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floors grabbed his attention. 

Instead of dresses, Tasha decided to take her stylist's advice and indulge in the blazer trend of the summer. Naturally, Micah followed suit, making the mother-daughter moment event more adorable. Teal and bronze tones were the motif of the night with both outfits fitting the scheme in their unique ways. Micah dazzled in a kid-friendly relaxed suit that perfectly fused her parents' tastes. While the teal blue suit was one that her father was no stranger to, the bronze heels and accessories were her mother's touch. 

CoCo took the cost-efficient chic route and used a very familiar piece to her advantage. After learning that the Versace blazer he husband donned at the NAACP awards earlier in the year was part of the women's line, she made sure it was available to repurpose and reuse. The beautiful animal print across the garment was perfect for the Lion King Carpet, and by choosing to forgo a shirt and show a little skin, it was also age-appropriate. The bold top paired well with a simple pair of trousers that matched the shade of blue accenting the print and bronze accessories. 

It was Micah's idea that she be allowed to wear her hair free and curly while Tasha made sure to make a trip to the barbershop to sharpen her growing tapered cut. 

"Well, would you look at what we have here? I feel like I need to change." Chadwick was careful to pass Noah along to Yvonne before making his way over to his favorite set of women. Stopping at his wife first, he took a moment to trace his finger down the necklace draped in her cleavage. "Who gave you permission to come out and slay like this?" 

"Slay? Is that how we talkin' now," she laughed. "Thank you, baby." 

"I vote thumbs down, Chad. Not a good look." 

As he fixed his mouth to reply to Yvonne with a snarky remark, the small but dramatic clearing of someone's throat caught Chadwick's attention. 

"Now...where did that mighty roar come from? I don't have any lions!" 

"It's me, daddy! Down here!" 

In true dad fashion, Chadwick kept the charade going to keep Micah laughing for as long as possible. Finally, he acknowledged her with a surprised look etched across his face. 

"Wha- Mikey, is that you? I thought you were a pretty lion with all that hair!" 

"Like Simba?" 

"Just like Simba. You look nice, Princess." 

"Pretty enough for pictures?" 

"Of course, Princess." 

Even on a strict schedule, time was made to capture the family as a unit for personal memories and individual social media accounts. For a child that had only been to one Hollywood event in her entire life, Micah handled the moment with the grace of someone ten times her age. She spent most of the ride alternating between taking cute filtered pictures with Tasha and singing songs from the movie's soundtrack with Chadwick. When the car for the night approached the venue, and all of Hollywood's elite came into view, both parents could sense their first born's excitement. 

"We get to go in there with all those people," she asked, her hands and face pressed against the heavily tinted window. "Do they know our names?"

"Maybe. Are you scared to get out, Princess? Do you want me to carry you?"

Tearing her eyes away from the scene, Micah whipped her head around to her father and scrunched her face, "I'm in first grade. I know how to walk." 

"I told him the same thing, Boop. Daddy's silly. Let's go."

Chadwick sat back against the cool leather of his seat with a hilariously incredulous look plastered on his face as Tasha helped Micah exit the vehicle. It took Micah's repeated urging for him to join her side and start on the path toward the red carpet. 

The flicker of cameras around them paled in comparison to the wonder shining through Micah's eyes. Every step of the way she marveled at the gowns that glittered under the setting sun, comparing the men and women she walked past to King's and Queens. 

"Mommy, she has hair like me!" 

"Don't point, baby. That's rude."

"But look! Her hair is like mine! Look!"

While Chadwick answered questions from a nearby reporter, Tasha followed her daughter's finger across the way to see the object of Micah's affection. 

"What's her name, Mommy?"

"That's Shahadi Wright-Joseph. She plays little Nala in the new movie." She half smiled as Micah watched Shahadi's every move, even mimicking some of her actions. Stooping down, she became eye level with the oldest Boseman child. "You wanna go say, hi?"

"Does she know my name?"

"We can go and tell her. You wanna?"

Her hair bounced rapidly with her nodding before Micah linked her hand in her mother's and tugged her along. Shahadi noticed the pair right away as they approached, paying particular attention to the little girl with a special twinkle in her eye. 

"Wow, look at your pretty hair," she exclaimed. "You are so pretty. What's your name?"

"Micah Noelle Boseman. I like your dress."

Both Tasha and Shahadi laughed at her emphasis on her entire name. 

"Thank you! I like your purse. What do you have in it?"

"Cheetos and popcorn for a snack!" 

"I think I need to sit by you. I might get hungry." 

Opening her purse, Micah pointed to its contents, "You can have some. I can share!"

"You're the cutest! Can I take a picture with you?" 

Micah happily accepted the request before proudly displaying the few teeth the tooth fairy had yet to claim. 

"It's like looking into the future," Chadwick commented as he approached CoCo's side. "Remember when she was a baby? Now we almost have a kid in double digits." 

"We should have one more for old time's sake." 

Chadwick's bewildered response became nothing more than an unintelligible whisper amid chaos. Instinct prompted Tasha to pull Micah close to her side as the people around them began a mad dash to clear the walkway for a presence that she could not see. 

"If you knock her down, your ass is next," she directed toward a hasty cameraman who quickly apologized. "What the hell is going on?" 

"I think somebody important is here." 

All eyes were fixated on the red carpet to get a glimpse of the guests of honor. In matching blazer ensembles, Beyonce and Blue Ivy strode past the crowd like royalty. Tasha hadn't considered the possibility that her best friend in her head would be present, let alone 20 feet away from her with screaming fans shouting at her from all directions. 

"Baby, do the thing," she urged her husband as she bumped her elbow into his arm. 

"What? What are you talking about?" 

"Be famous and get her attention. Tell her to come over here!" 

"T, she knows who you are. Just say, hi." 

"Hi, Ms. Beyonce!" 

Micah's high-pitched voice seemed to boom above the chatter around them, catching Blue's attention before Beyonce's. When she looked over to wave back, her eyes lit up at the sight of Tasha and Chadwick awkwardly standing behind their excited child. 

"Hey, y' all!" A quick sidestep and shield of protection from security brought the entertainer closer to the Boseman family. "Oh my God, y' all should've told me you were coming. We could've set something up." 

"We still have time," Tasha blurted, unable to keep her words tucked behind her lips. Chadwick gave her a cheeky side-eye and a half-smile. He'd never known her to be nervous when meeting new people, so the opportunity to see his wife flustered for even a moment was a sight to behold. 

"You sure, baby? What about the kids? 'Vonne has-" 

"She'll understand. We talked already." 

"When?" 

"You know, when…" Tasha's voice began to trail at the tail end of her sentence as she searched her brain for an adequate lie. "We talked. Don't worry about it." 

Beyonce looked between the couple with an amused glint in her eyes and smiled, "I'll take that as a yes from the Mrs." 

"And a yes from me!" 

"Is that right, pretty girl? Are you, Miss Micah? You know, I've heard a lot about you!" 

Micah latched on to the star's outstretched hand and smiled. "I know your songs. Me and my mommy saw you on TV really late at night. Daddy said to go to sleep, but we just got real quiet, so we could still dance." 

"Is that right," she laughed. "Did you like the songs?" 

Tasha and Chadwick braced themselves for Micah to blurt lyrics or begin her "special" Formation choreography but found her sporting a grin that stretched across her entire face and nodding her head. 

"All of them! I listen to them in the car before school." 

"What if I told you I made a song for you? Would you be happy?" Micah looked back to her parents for confirmation, finding confused looks from both of them before turning to Beyonce. "I can't wait until you hear it. It's all about your -." 

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter, but we have to keep moving. They need you all seated soon." 

Acknowledging the comment, Beyonce made sure to bid the Boseman family a proper goodbye before disappearing down the remainder of the carpet. They received similar instructions soon after before being ushered into the Dolby Theatre for the main event. 

Micah buzzed in her seat before the lights could go down inside the theatre, eventually settling for her father's lap for a better view. From the opening song, she was utterly mesmerized by the sights and sounds of The Lion King's newest visuals. She sang along to every song uninhibited, often charming viewers around her into joining the fun. By the end of the film, through light tears and laughter, Micah was the first to lead the room's applause. She couldn't wait to break free from the shackles of forced silence inside the theater to voice her praise for the film. With her father's shoulders acting as her preferred mode of transportation, the little ball of energy began a full breakdown of what she'd just witnessed. 

"And-and the pig was so funny. He did the thing like you, Daddy. He was like 'WARTHOG'! Did you see it? Did you?" 

Laughing, Chadwick reached up to playfully tickle her sides, "I saw it, baby girl."

"Mommy, you're like Nala! Except you can't sing, 'cause that's Ms. Beyonce singing. Can we be Lion King for Halloween or is Daddy still in trouble for hitting the clown?" 

CoCo felt tears prick the corner of her eyes as she fought back the urge to cackle at her husband's expense. Clowngate had been a sensitive subject around the family that Chadwick had yet to escape. 

"Of course we can. Daddy can be Zazu so he doesn't hurt anybody with those claws." 

"I feel like we can let the past be the past now," Chadwick retorted, side-eyeing his wife and earning another stifled laugh. 

Micah continued to rattle off high points of the night as they entered the car and started their journey home. Naturally, she requested the movie's soundtrack as entertainment during the ride, demanding that all of the car's occupants join in for an off-key cover of Hakuna Matata. 

In the middle of the song, Micah quietly wrapped her arms around Chadwick's midsection and squeezed with all of her strength. 

"Thank you, Daddy. I love you soooo much!" 

Something about the way she hugged him with pure appreciation and sincerity made Chadwick tear up as he pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. 

"I love you, too, little one. I love you, too." 

Tasha observed the moment with a smile, preferring to remain a spectator to allow time for necessary bonding. These were memories that both of them would cherish for the rest of their lives. That knowledge was enough to produce a permanent smile on her end. 

When Chadwick looked up and away to stop his tears from falling, he caught a glimpse of his wife, who grabbed his hand to run her thumb across his knuckles before adding a soft kiss. 

"You're the best dad ever. Don't ever forget it." 

He offered quiet thanks before kissing her cheek and resting his chin on top of CoCo's head. The opening flutes and vocals gave way to melodic vocals from Donald Glover and Beyonce's cover of Can You Feel the Love Tonight, gently lulling everyone into a comfortable silence. Chadwick took a look out of the car's sunroof to get a glimpse of the stars dotting the onyx sky above them. As he stared, he tried to commit each one to memory for a day when being a dad or a partner wasn't so easy. This was a moment Chadwick knew he would cherish long after the kids were grown and out of the house. 

The soft buzz of his phone drew attention to a text from the last number he ever expected to see. 

You two got out of there fast. Still coming out later? Would love to have you two. 

Secretly reading the message, CoCo nudged his arm and shook her head. 

"Not this time. We'll have other chances, right?" 

Chadwick silently agreed before quickly typing out his apology for declining the offer. After taking a final glimpse at the night sky and giving thanks to the Creator, he closed his eyes to listen to the song's final chorus. 

"Can you feel the love tonight? The peace the evening brings? The world, for once, in perfect harmony…"

------

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#Chadwick Boseman #chadwick boseman fan fiction #chadwick boseman imagine #chadwick boseman x reader #chadwick boseman x you #chadwick boseman request

[averyonelovesjack]

right (I)~ daniel seavey and jack avery

requested: yes

I know you probably have a lot to do so it's never a rush and this may be a little weird because I don't have a plot just an idea and if it doesn't work out that's alright! Or if you don't want to do it that's also alright, but maybe a love triangle story? Maybe 2 of the boys like the reader and she likes them both or 1 of the boys and a random guy likes the reader and she likes them both and you can of course choose who she ends up with Sorry that's a complicated idea, but much love!

summary: a love triangle between a girl’s best friend and his band mate.

warning(s): love triangle, cursing

word count: 2947

SIDE NOTE: while writing this, i needed some opinions on what to do, so casually i asked my sisters for some help. well, my twin sister explained an extremely hilarious alternate ending that had us laughing for like twenty minutes. moral of the story is that i had difficulty deciding the ending of this story and yeah i’m sorry. it’s also lowkey left open

My body sank in with time and eventually it was too late to stand up easily. The music of lemonade mouth played in my ear, but my eyes were too tired to look up and watch the final scenes, as it was already dark out and i could barely stay awake.

Beside me laid a sleeping Jack Avery, who had his head rested gently in my lap. My fingers stabilized in his hair, running through it as he slept like I used to do when we were younger. i admired the way the sleeping boy looked so peaceful. Almost as if nothing in his life had harmed him, like he was an innocent, full-hearted, perfect guy.

My eyes traveled from his perfectly curled hair to his nose ring that sat so nicely and attracted me so greatly. I stared at his tiny freckles that spotted his face and looked at his eyes that were so poorly wired that he needed to wear contacts everyday. Although, i personally enjoyed it more when he wore glasses because he did wear them so well. 

a tiny smile arrived on my face as i looked at him through the tv lighting. and with that, i closed my eyes and let sleep take over my body.

“JACK FUCKING AVERY GUESS WHAT?” I ran through the house, absolutely excited about the fact that I’d gotten an A on the test that I was absolutely sure I was gonna fail. All thanks to the extra studying that he’d help me get in. 

I busted through the door of his bedroom, opening it widely and looking around to see where he was. Instead of my eyes connecting with those of jack’s, they met a beautiful girl sitting in the middle of his bed, his body beside hers. My body bounced backwards, taken aback by the fact that there was a girl our age sitting there with his hand on her leg. Shock was written on my face as I stared.

“o-oh shit, sorry,” i quickly close the door, hurt finding its way through my body. it was pretty obviously something more than just a friendship between that girl and jack. in only the brief seconds i was in there, i had noticed that he was awfully close to her face and his hands were on her bare legs, only covered by shorts (as it was even hot in LA this time of year). She was smiling an awful lot too, and she was gorgeous from head to toe.

My feet moved faster as i left the house, trying to avoid any contact with the boys. It was awkward enough to walk in on Jack when he was with another girl, but to have to face any of the boys and explain why in earth i was sprinting out of their house, that’d be double the embarrassment. 

It had been two weeks since the incident. Although Jack and I texted a little bit, our normal conversations carrying on, I couldn’t bring myself to reenter their house. I guess it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, but it hurt to see that he finally was no longer my secret. Other girls could see him now. They could see his charm and his kind personality and his handsome looks. I was no longer the only one who could love him in the ways that i did, and what really hurt was that he would love them back, too. He’d give them the love and attention that I’d been dreaming about him giving me since the day i turned fifteen and i realized that it wasn’t just a tiny crush that i could get over. 

So when he’d text me to come over, to hang out, to go do things, I’d make myself busy. A lot more time studying and spending time with my roommates. I certainly left my house a lot more, and it wasn’t to just go spend it at his house. I kept myself busy to avoid the dark thoughts that came with the sudden realization. 

Today, Jack asked me if I wanted to come over and watch Titanic with him. As much as I loved the movie, it didn’t seem like the right path back to a normal friendship. Instead, I had to run errands at the grove. Buy some new clothes and some new books for school. It was almost summer anyways and the bikini prices would go drastically up in a few weeks. It’s a better sale now.

Nicole, my roommate, was wandering Hollister when I dropped my new sunglasses on the ground. I let out a squeal, silently praying as i bent down to pick them up. Almost like a cliche movie, someone else’s fingers reached down to grab them for me. My eyes wandered up, ready to thank a stranger when they graciously met the eyes of Daniel Seavey, Jack’s band-mate. 

“shoulda known it was y/n dropping her glasses,” He let out a laugh, handing me the undamaged pair of shades that i took from him with ease, “how’ve you been?” 

i looked at him with a smile, “i’ve been pretty good,” I reply and add, “busy! how about you?”

“fine,” daniel answers, “it’s been boring without you being around as much. i kinda miss your sarcasm.” 

“as a normal person does,” I joke, each of us letting out a laugh.

“i was so spoiled with you there. now i see all of these other people and i’ve really started to miss you. i mean, you’re less loud, less obnoxious. much nicer. plus, i could beat you at almost any game-” He tells me.

“other than mario kart” i finish for him and he laughs.

“yeah, other than mario kart. you kicked my ass at mario kart,” daniel nods his head, looking down. it’s quiet between us for a second, “well if you get less busy, call me up. we used to know how to have a good time when jack wasn’t around.” 

i nod my head, “i think i will definitely take you up on that offer.”

I sat down in the practically empty coffee shop as I watched Daniel park his car in one of the spots across the street. i got here a little earlier, having my friend drop me off here on her way home from work. Daniel would most likely drive me home after we finish. 

The little bell above the door rang through my ears as i watched Daniel sit down in front of me. He sends a smile my way, starting conversation easily, “hey. how was class?” 

“fine,” i answer, “boring, but compared to what i was doing afterwards, any class would be boring.” 

Daniel laughs at my reference to our little date, “i’m so happy you found some time to hang out.” 

“yeah of course. i’ve missed seeing you. all of you, really.”

“i feel like you used to be around all the time and it’s so weird that you and jack aren’t hanging out as much anymore. what even happened?” 

i frown at the thought, “i sorta walked in on him and a random girl. a little scarring, especially to my ego.” 

daniel nodded his head, “i’ve always known that you like him.”

“not anymore,” i add to his sentence.

“oh? i guess that’s good,” he smiles.

“yeah, not worth the pain. i think there are other guys out there that will make me happier,” i continue.

“you know i’ve had a crush on you since jack first brought you over. you’ve always been off limits, though.” 

“not a crush,” i correct.

“what do you mean?”

“a crush is someone that you like, but will never have the chance to have therefore you are crushed,” i explain, “and you have the chance to date me.”

“that’s very bold of you,” 

“you want to do something bold or am i going to have to do everything myself?” i smirk.

daniel leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he grinned, “i’m intrigued.”

i shake my head, a laugh leaving my lips as i stand up, moving around the small coffee shop table. I rest my hand on his face and lean down to interlock my lips with his. He’s pleasantly surprised, but lets his hand reach my face. Our kiss was short and sweet. I stepped away, recognizing dani’s rosy red cheeks as i sat back down.

“certainly bold,” He smiles, not quite looking at me yet. 

“you liked it?”

“yes, i freaking liked it,” he exclaims, making me laugh, “god, you’re perfect.” 

“shut up.”

“whatever, beautiful.” 

“daniel.” 

“i didn’t say anything, gorgeous.” 

“i’m going to leave and pretend this never happened if you say anything else,” 

“okay, okay i’ll stop,” he laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. I watched him with a straight face, but couldn’t keep it as he sat there and mumbled, “pretty,” 

our little relationship had blossomed over the past two weeks and we bonded nicely together. daniel was quite happy when he saw that i made more time to see him, unlike what i’d done for jack after our little mishap. we didn’t spend much time at home, really, but at fun dates. mini-golf, movie theaters, all the chipotles that you could find in los angeles. it was a funny relationship and we spent a lot of time laughing. we were happy with each other.

today is the first time that i’ve been back to the why don’t we house. i assume that jack understands that daniel and i are dating. we’ve gone back to texting and we facetimed once, but i didn’t mention anything about my new relationship with his band mate. i mean, not that it’s any of his business. he’s already got his own girlfriend, hannah, who i assume is the girl i walked in on. 

my head rested in daniel’s shoulder as we were only millimeters apart on the couch. honestly, there was no distance between us because i was practically on top of him. we’d decided on an old comedy, animal house. it was highly inappropriate, but also extremely hilarious. i laughed into his neck as the front door opened. daniel paused the movie and looked to see who it was, mainly to be sure it wasn’t a bunch of murders or fans. either could be deadly.

instead, it was jack, who threw his keys on the hook and walked in. it took him a second, but he recognized me as very close to daniel very quickly. he furrowed his eyebrows and walked over.

“what are you guys watching?” he asks, his voice unsteady, “you haven’t been here in a while, y/n”

i turn slightly red, “animal house.”

“ahh, funny movie,” he gives us half a smile, “you left something of yours here last time, do you want to come to my room and get it?” 

“can’t i get it later, the movie’s on,” i make up an excuse.

“i have to leave soon. can you come get it now?” 

“jack, you can’t just bring it to me. i mean, what’s the big deal?” 

“y/n, come on.” he whined.

daniel’s hand clapped my thigh a little bit as he stood up, “hey it’s fine. i have to go to the bathroom anyways, we can take a break for you to get whatever you left.” 

i give him half a smile and stand up as well, forcing a smile and following jack to the familiar room. it was quiet until we got there, when he practically stared me down, “so you and daniel?” 

“what did i leave?” i ask.

“nothing, i just wanted to talk to you alone,” Jack tells me, crossing his arms over his chest.

“yes, daniel and i,” i answer his prior question, “what does it matter to you?”

he scoffed a little bit, “i don’t know, y/n. what does it matter to me?” 

“what does that mean? you’re mad at me now?” 

“it’s been a little obvious, i mean come on, you’re not fucking stupid, y/n,” Jack spits at me, “i have liked you since we were like fifteen.” 

confusion split my brain as i stared him down. i was angry; beyond angry, furious. where did he get the right to mess with my heart like that? to either a, watch me fall for him for several years and do nothing but get another girlfriend and later on claim he likes me, or b, recognize that i’d been in love with him and take this opportunity to lie and embarrass me? he can’t just pretend that he likes me when he has a girlfriend, it’s not fair, “no you haven’t, jack.” 

“yes, i have. i don’t know where you want the proof, but if there’s anything to show, i’ll show you,” 

“jack, you have a girlfriend. the girlfriend i walked in on. you don’t like me. you’re just jealous that i’m finally happy with daniel.”

“i don’t have a girlfriend, y/n. hannah was a one time thing and nothing happened. she was sweet and i was sick of being alone. i thought you didn’t like me anymore and i had nothing to lose.” 

“you waited three years to tell me this. you waited three years and watched me like you for the longest time and decided to do nothing. finally, when i find a little light in my life, when i get someone like daniel to like me, you decide it’s time to admit this? i am happy now, jack. i don’t know if you see that, but he makes me happy,” I scoff at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

Although I figured that I portrayed myself as knowing that I wanted to be with Daniel, I wasn’t quite sure. Being in this relationship with him, it’s been nothing other than fun, but it wasn’t anything serious yet. Then again, we’re still young and we have nothing but time. And he’s extremely sweet and knows me well. He’d only want the best for me. But then there’s Jack. If I choose Daniel, is there any chance of us rekindling our relationship? Is there any chance that we’d become friends again? And if I choose Jack, what does happen to my relationship? when we fight or when we break up? do we know each other too well to date? or is it going to be like we were best friends, but more now? I wouldn’t know unless I tried.

“I can’t believe you,” i break up my thoughts by speaking to him.

“y/n, please give me a chance. you’re not going to regret it. you’re my best friend, i know everything about you. i know your favorite song, both current and of all time. and i know your favorite movie and food and restaurant. i know what you like to do and i know what to do when you’re stressed or have anxiety. i know how you like to study. I’ll be there for you more, i promise. just give me a chance,” It was strange seeing Jack be so needy. He wasn’t usually like this, he didn’t act like he needed anything, even when he was extremely passionate. 

“jack, you hurt me when i thought you didn’t like me,” i tell him, “and as much as i want to know what it would be like to be in a relationship with you, i am just getting to know daniel and i really like him. i’m not ready to just drop everything to be with you and i am certainly not ready to hurt him in any way. i’m sorry, because i don’t want this to ruin our friendship. you know that our friendship means the world to me, but for now, this is what i need to do.” 

“y/n, please don’t do this,” he tells me, “i don’t want to lose you.” 

“you aren’t. i’m still here, i’ll always be ready to go see a movie or go to whichever fast food restaurant you want or if you ever want to help me study, but as friends, jack.” 

“y/n,” 

“i should go, he’s probably back from the bathroom. we can talk later,” i give him half a smile and walk out of the bedroom, the smile leaving my face. tears nearly slid out of my eyes as i struggled to control myself.

it felt as if the small and narrow hallway walls were caving in on me and i took rigid breaths, unsure of how to regain my control over the situation. it felt impossible that i’d made a decision in that amount of time, especially when i didn’t think i’d ever be able to make it. and if that’s true, then how do i know i made the right decision? how do i know that i didn’t just make the wrong decision and that i will break two guys? how do i know that daniel and i won’t end tomorrow but jack will be too heartbroken to even look at me?

as i reached the end of the hallway, i forced a smile onto my face, looking at daniel who smiled politely, “hey baby, you get what you need?” 

i sit down next to him, faking yet another smile and sending him a white lie until i could explain later, “yeah, it turns out it wasn’t mine. probably christina’s or something that she left when she visited.” 

“oh, that makes sense,” Daniel tells me, happy as per usual. He leans in, kissing my cheek softly and sending chill down my spine as he presses play on the movie. let’s hope i was right.

part II, part III

#daniel seavey #jack avery #jonah marais #corbyn besson #zach herron #daniel seavey imagine #jack avery imagine #love triangle #why don't we #why dont we #wdw #why don't we imagine #why dont we imagine #wdw imagine #love #triangles #jack and daniel

[cruzrogue]

Once upon Starling Woods ~The prompt:

I really want to read: -me

“You laughed in a restaurant but you have an ugly laugh and I     thought you were     choking, so I spent the last three minutes     awkwardly humping you while     performing the Heimlich     maneuver” AU 

which leads to having to get married because its a custom ritual of some dry humping tradition.

The person does land up choking but someone else has to save them because its now an endearing noise.

The  end!

“Yes, write it.  I want to read it now, too.” -Carol

Well @tdgal1  Carol, your wish is granted. (Hahaha) Hopefully this helps me out of my writing funk. AN OLICITY AU

Once upon Starling Woods

The cold nip in the air as a bundled up with as many layers as she could fit under her old coat steps off a bus and looks at the sign wonderfully decorated for the coming event. Felicity placing the invitation to the event sent to her by her father to join the community as they celebrate the special ceremony of mystical spirits that happens every twenty-one years in her coat pocket.

Noah Kuttler had sent his trusty handyman to pick up his daughter at the station he was so excited to see her in person. He traveled the world to one of the seven spots that held the magic of the planet every three years. Once she would arrive they would have something to eat at the best most extravagant restaurant in all of Starling.

He couldn’t wait to introduce her to Palmer a man of vision. He knew they would most likely hit it off and continue his work. He knew his baby girl was indeed a genius like himself that would configure the networks that helps the spirits travel to every enchanted point every three years.

-~-*-~-

Oliver was basically dragged with his parents to spend quality time as a family. It didn’t help that his baby sister was enjoying his torment. He just came back from an international working expo where he was there selling the newest big thing for his company and he hates to admit when he is feeling ill. So now he has had a bad cough for a few days and refuses to acknowledge it. His mother would have babied him relentlessly and he really didn’t want that with the upcoming ceremony of mystical spirits.

Though days before the event there is a charge in the air and weird unbecoming rules took place. Some just absurd in nature but during this time all things were legal and everyone went with it. People are mindful of many things that can take place for no one would want to upset the life-forces of old and new.

Oliver sighed so hard that his dad elbowed him as a few busy bodies of society made their way to their table.

“Ladies, You all look so delightful today.” Robert Queen chirped. Thea rolled her eyes and Oliver bit his tongue so he wouldn’t comment. Moira gave her respects as the ladies and their husbands sat down to join the Queens.

-~-*-~-

Felicity and her father entered the nice establishment and were heading to their seats when she heard a cackle, it sounded like a farm animal in agony that she once looked out for when she visited a farm with her mother one summer. She learned the Heimlich maneuver after the farmer saved his swine from what it tried to swallow moments before.

Without thinking she walks to the man who stands up as she reaches him and she wraps her arms around him. Well she tries to wrap her arms around his gigantic torso and for some reason he was bucking around trying to free himself and she was half in the air holding on to him. Her legs situating up and down his lean legs as he tries to move the small obstacle off his back. He hears the person’s voice finally as she tries to speak. He just wants this person off of him.

The patrons of the restaurant just look at the spectacle in awe as color ribbons of light surround the man and the petite woman on his back which looks to be an occurrence that no one ever imagines to see in one’s life time.

The woman finally slides off of him as he turns to look at the blond in a heated stance. She looks up at him irritated to say the least.

“What…? Why…? I…” He tried to form a sentence with no luck.

“I tried to save you. You big dumb pine tree.”

“Excuse me? Save me from what? A crazy blond chick?”

“You were choking and your welcome.”

“If I was choking I would know. I was laughing at a joke before having a coughing fit.”

“You laughed in a restaurant but you have an ugly laugh and I thought you were choking, so I spent the last three minutes awkwardly humping you while performing the Heimlich maneuver”

“You were performing something alright but I didn’t need to be ridden by…”

“Oliver!” a voice sounding like his father took him from the woman he was adamantly arguing with and for the first time since he was attacked he notices the crowd.

“Felicity!” another voice from the crowd called out getting her to snap out of the little trance of alternate world she was having with another being. Her eyes wide as she looks around the large room where all eyes are on her.

“Oh my. What have you done sweatheart?” Noah asks even though he was there witnessing the whole thing.

“I… I was just trying…” she let out before a regal woman spoke.

“You married my son.” The woman’s voice leveled that no one could tell if she was upset or not.

Both Oliver and Felicity in unison gasped. Though Felicity recovers first and asks, “Married? I don’t think so.”

“In your pirouette with my son, the spirits linked you through matrimony to my baby boy.”

“Mom? What do you mean?”

“Look at your ring finger.” Robert answered for his wife.

Both looked down to their own fingers and there it was proof of binding of two souls a rare mineral wrapped around their ring fingers.

“Felicity did you not see the guiding light around you and now my new son happening?”

“Um… no I was just wrapped around this Neanderthal as he was whipping me around.” She says in her defense.

Oliver just listening and looking at the people around him some already congratulating him on his fortune. He just states he needs a drink and heads to the bar.

“Hey, hey we need to talk.” Felicity calls out to the stranger she only knows as Oliver.

“Well you’re my new sister so welcome to the family. Good luck.” The girl with long brown locks says as she’s already two shades red from laughing.

“I need a drink.” Felicity mutters as she goes to sit by her now new husband. There are all sorts of people congratulating them which feels strange because they don’t know each other. “Well I didn’t expect that.” She says as she situates herself on the bar stool.

“Do you not know anything of the mystical inclinations?”

“I know enough.” She responded.

“Apparently not. You just jumped me and hence I now have a wife.”

“Um I guess that was a mistake, I really thought you needed help.”

“I guess that must be true. The spirits wouldn’t bind us if you did that out of malicious.”

“Wait? How many times has someone or somebodies…”

“Felicity.” Her father’s voice cut her off as he approaches with the Queens slightly behind him.

“Oliver.” His mother called out getting his attention and as his father made his way near him said, “It is time we head home for some needed privacy and some important matters.”

-~-*-~-

A year later for their anniversary Felicity is talking to a couple when she hears her husband cackle that once upon a time was an awful sound but now it was charming to her. Not that to hear it should be surprising this wonderful man got sick a few days ago but the stubborn fool just wouldn’t see his physician.

She came to Starling Woods to visit her father which was to be a temporary family visit during the ceremony of mystical spirits and landed up being a permanent resident. Her fitted dress something that was normal for a Queen hung around her gracious curves and highlighted the bump she caressed during diner. Her mind on baby names as she spoke to another couple their ages. She couldn’t be any happier as she glowed with the serenity of knowing everything was as it should be.

She heard though how her dad was a little bummed out that she never had a chance to meet Palmer in a different way. Her dad had planted seeds before she made it to this wonderful location as a perfect match. A man who loved working with the networks like himself. He knew his daughter would enjoy a man of his talents. But, to her joyful knowledge her dad came to love Oliver as he got to know his new son-in-law. He couldn’t gripe due to how the spirits proclaimed that his daughter’s match was made. He was beyond ecstatic to know of a future grandchild.

-~-*-~-

Oliver was very pleased with dinner. They were at the same restaurant that he came in once as a bachelor to leave married by the essence of the world to a woman who could infuriate him or go to the other side of the spectrum to make him the happiest man on Earth.

To say the least that their wedding was a learning curve as both had no clue much about the other. That was a very interesting wedding day and after everyone left them to talk alone he decided to start by introducing himself.

“Hi, I’m Oliver Queen.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Does that mean I should be a Queen too?”

“We probably should discuss this. My family’s lawyers will ask.”

“Well I’ve been Felicity Smoak for twenty-three years. Four of them as a legal adult.”

“Okay, I’m twenty-eight years of age. I’m a Taurus and I like the color blue but my wardrobe is overwhelmed by the color green thanks to my kid sister.”

“So, you were like seven when you celebrated the first ceremony here?”

“I guess so. Have you been to any other mystical points?”

“Yep. When I was young before my dad got caught up in the networks. My mom didn’t like traveling every third year as my dad eagerly set up for the next ceremonial event.”

They continued talking about small things every day by their anniversary they knew each other as if they have known one another since forever. The excitement that soon they would welcome their first child on their minds as they went to celebrate the date that held so much meaning.  

That when he put the thicker piece of meat into his mouth he began to choke. He was in trouble if he couldn’t muster to get his wife’s attention. She was just so blissful in her conversation of names and such that listening to him guffaw didn’t make her look his way. Not until the commotion of a man helping her husband by giving him the Heimlich maneuver. Felicity had her hand held to her mouth startled but very, very thankful to the Samaritan that saved her husband’s life.

The End

#Olicity #oliver queen #Felicity Smoak #a crazy prompt

[gamerszone2019-blog]

Kill La Kill The Game: IF Review In Progress - Partial Life Fiber Synchronize

New Post has been published on https://gamerszone.tn/kill-la-kill-the-game-if-review-in-progress-partial-life-fiber-synchronize/

Kill La Kill The Game: IF Review In Progress - Partial Life Fiber Synchronize

Aside from a manga adaptation, Kill la Kill The Game: IF is the first expansion to the story of 2013’s Kill la Kill, the hit anime series that put Studio Trigger on the map. Kill la Kill IF captures the unique fighting styles of the main cast of characters from the anime in arena battles, while also delivering some enjoyable missions to tackle in the single-player campaign. It doesn’t manage to deliver a balanced competitive landscape, but there is a delightful collection of rewards to work towards in Kill la Kill IF–supplying a satisfying incentive for replaying the single-player content.

Kill la Kill follows Ryuko Matoi, who transfers to Japan’s prestigious Honnouji Academy in hopes of finding answers to her father’s murder. Her only clue is half of the giant scissor used to kill him. Honnouji Academy is run by fascist student council president Satsuki Kiryuin and her closest allies: the Elite Four. Students at the school wear Goku Uniforms, each providing enhanced strength and superhuman abilities. Realizing Satsuki recognizes the scissor blade she carries, Ryuko attacks and demands answers, only to be ultimately trounced by the president’s underlings. After escaping, Ryuko stumbles upon a sentient sailor uniform who gifts her with god-like magical girl powers when it feeds on her blood. Now much more powerful, Ryuko swears to defeat the entire student body of Honnouji Academy and gain the answers she seeks.

Kill la Kill IF is a “what if” scenario, asking, “What if Satsuki was the protagonist of Kill la Kill?” The hypothetical is explored in the game’s campaign extraordinarily well, putting forth the theory that Satsuki may have been the brilliant mastermind behind the anime’s entire narrative from the very beginning, tragically refusing the spotlight she wants because she believes her plans for a better world will work out for the better if Ryuko is the main hero. It’s a fascinating addition to Kill la Kill’s lore, and it provides plenty of incentive to see the game’s two-part campaign all the way through.

Combat in Kill la Kill IF is pretty easy to pick up, with your staple combination of close-range, long-range, aerial, guard-break, and special attacks. There’s also a rock-paper-scissors-style clash system that allows you to buff yourself if you’re lucky enough to win. Though every character controls the same, each has a completely different specialty and unique playstyle. Masochistic Ira Gamagoori becomes more powerful by whipping and damaging himself, for instance, while petite Nonon Jakuzure excels at shooting her opponent from a distance and manipulative Nui Harime relies on decoys to overwhelm her opponents from multiple angles. Though the roster does offer a diversity of playstyles, there are only eight options to choose from at launch. That’s a pretty small pool for a fighting game–disappointing given how massive Kill la Kill’s cast is. This is slightly offset by the alternate costumes that change how certain characters attack, but the adjustments aren’t enough to make the variants feel like brand-new fighters.

Exciting though the colorful combat may be, it also feels lopsided with no reliable means of defending yourself. Every fighter can block and dodge, but both moves are pretty slow so it’s fairly easy to just overwhelm opponents with aggressive close-range characters. Once caught in a combo, there’s only one way to recover, and that’s using a counter burst–a move that uses up half of your special attack meter. You have to deal out or endure quite a few hits to fill up the meter, so you can’t regularly rely on having a counter burst at the ready. And if you are caught in a combo and you don’t have that 50% of meter to burn, you just have to wait until your opponent stops attacking you. As a result, juggling can be a pretty big issue against difficult AI opponents or advanced players that know how to pull off the game’s longer, more devastating combos–which can lead to unfair and unfun matches.

Despite the issues with combat, battles in the game are wholeheartedly Kill la Kill, and they’re typically glorious fun as a result. Characters yell out the name of their special attacks–some with barely contained rage and others with malicious glee–in epic battle cries, each one animated in a cel-shaded rendition of Kill la Kill’s over-the-top style. The most powerful blows land with an impact, slowing down the action just long enough for you to understand the recipient is about to be very hurt. The addition of the luck-based clash system feels right at home too, giving you a last-ditch effort to maybe make a comeback–randomly screaming during a battle and luckily finding a deeper well of strength is extremely Kill la Kill. Sure, the lack of a reliable counter system means winning in these battles is less about skill and more about who can press the attack buttons more quickly, but that doesn’t change that most matches are still explosively epic, full of silly puns, and just enjoyable to play. This is especially true for most of the battles in Kill la Kill IF’s campaign.

There are a variety of obstacles to overcome in the campaign as the game offers more than what’s usually expected from arena fighters. Though there are still traditional one-on-one fights, Kill la Kill IF’s story mode is a mixture of various mission types. The most interesting ones take advantage of the constantly shifting alliances in the narrative. One battle has Satsuki, Ryuko, and Nui all fight in a three-way free-for-all, for instance, and another sees Satsuki go up against the brain-washed Elite Four in a one-on-four fight. Wave-based battles against a horde of enemies are thrown into the mix, too. The variety keeps the campaign from getting stale.

Though these types of missions offer a welcome change of pace for an arena fighter, they’re also held back by Kill la Kill IF’s traditional mechanics and features. Most arena fighters don’t need a mechanic to specifically focus on one combatant or a feature to alert you when an off-screen target is about to attack, as fights are pretty much exclusively one-on-one. In Kill la Kill IF’s campaign, where you occasionally fight multiple enemies at once and the only way to remain focused on a character is to stay near them, the absence of any such mechanic or feature is far more noticeable. It’s tricky to stay focused on the fighter you want when you and your opponents are being smacked around the arena, and it’s frustrating when you’re in the midst of a combo and you don’t know whether you need to suddenly dodge or block because you’re about to be attacked from outside your field of view.

Outside the campaign, Kill la Kill IF offers Practice and Versus modes, as well as a horde challenge and figure posing gallery. Given the risque nature of Kill la Kill, it’s a nice surprise that the figures’ available poses aren’t all that leery, though the offering of shots you can produce is a little sparse. The gallery feels tacked on as a poor replacement for a photo mode, which is a shame given how gorgeous many of the characters look while in motion. Offline Versus works without issue; however, as this review in progress is going live the day of Kill la Kill IF’s official international release, we haven’t had adequate time to put the online version through its paces. We’ll update this review once we do.

Both the Japanese and English dub anime voice actors reprise their roles in Kill la Kill IF, so you can enjoy whichever cast you prefer (it’s something a lot more anime games should do, frankly). Unfortunately, the English dub doesn’t perfectly match up in certain animations, so there are quite a few moments where characters are technically done speaking but their mouths keep moving. It’s no deal-breaker, as both sets of voice actors do a great job once again bringing their respective characters to life. The voices aren’t the only sound from the anime to make it into the game either. Songs from Kill la Kill are regularly intermixed into the originally composed soundtrack, including fan-favorites “Before My Body Is Dry” and “Sirius,” augmenting every battle and emotional moment with the same epic sensations as the anime.

The voice actors and soundtrack provide the biggest motivation to keep playing Kill la Kill IF. As you complete the story and win matches, you’ll unlock in-game currency that you can use to buy songs and special recorded messages. The messages that seem to be from the characters’ perspectives are an absolute delight, like Satsuki providing words of encouragement to those living in “this cruel world,” but most are from the voice actors themselves–Todd Haberkorn (Shirou Iori) teasingly relaying congratulations for beating the game, for instance, or Carrie Keranen (Satsuki Kiryuin) revealing just how much it meant to get a chance to do voice work for Kill la Kill again after nearly five years. It’s all phenomenal content–ranging from hilarious to heartfelt–which provides plenty of incentive to keep playing and earn more in-game currency.

Kill la Kill IF is clearly designed for fans of Kill la Kill who are looking for more ways to enjoy the characters, music, and battles of the anime series. Each fighter behaves as they do in the anime, and the excellent voice actor rewards provide a nice incentive to keep playing even after you’ve mastered every character. However, as a fighting game, Kill la Kill IF doesn’t deliver the expected harmony of offense and defense. And though campaign battles that are beyond the one-on-one formula are an awesome addition, the traditional arena fighting game mechanics aren’t designed to adequately handle multiple opponents. The campaign’s startling revelation is a fascinating turn of events for Kill la Kill’s story, though, creating a new and intriguing interpretation of one of 2013’s best anime series.

Source : Gamesport

#Game Reviews

[bunniwithmonocle]

Costs For Supplies For The Chickens

For those who're contemplating raising chickens at house, one in all the primary things that they assume about is how a lot will this challenge cost. It might appear like it can contain an enormous quantity of upfront money to buy the chickens and the provides that they need to reside and grow. A few of the basic provides that one will need are gadgets such as the chickens, bedding materials, a feeder, water and feed. The high worth provide merchandise is the rooster coop. These might be fairly costly until in fact, one decides to build their own using considered one of the various hen coop plans that can be found. This can be a quite steep sum of money for one to place out particularly in the beginning of the hobby. A superb different, which can be a fun mission, is to make the rooster coop and run by yourself. This is a substantial savings and by using a set of chicken coop plans, one can alter the plans to accommodate their private want. There are a wide number of rooster coop plans that one can purchase at hobby retailers or by online sources.

It has been a tough couple of weeks right here on the farm. Two weeks in the past, my nice Grandma Josephine passed away at the age of ninety two-years-old. It was so unhappy to lose such a artistic and wise soul. Then just a little over every week ago, Noah was grinding paint off of a chair raise pole at work and bought something in his eye. He thought it was just sand or something else and would get flushed out on its own. It solely obtained worse and by the following day, I may see something over the pupil in his eye and his imaginative and prescient turned blurred so we ended up making a visit to the ER. Unfortunately, the doctor stated it was a piece of steel in his eye and was beginning to rust, which is the spot I might see. On Saturday, we went to a specialist, who was able to remove the metallic piece and many of the rust with the Burr device. He left a little little bit of the rust as a result of he stated that otherwise, he would have to drill by means of the entire cornea leaving a gap and it can be better to leave a bit of rust.

Now Hollister was named after a trendy clothes store apparently, unbeknown to me. I have since investigated this emporium and might declare that there does not appear any cause at all why I should darken their door with my wallet clasped in my hand. I don't believe they have appropriate attire for, erm, someone like me. Would not he look fabulous although! Patou Tuppence (sire Wimmera Skies Class Act of Reddingvale Alpacas, simply off the A303 in Somerset on the sting of the village of Templecombe). She is utterly gorgeous, a real knee weakener, a creator of a trembling bottom lip, Tuppence is secretly my favorite. And to finish, my favourites, Tuppence, Millichamp and Hollister, in formation getting ready for his or her group dance. Thanks go to Andy and Viv Walker of Reddingvale Alpacas, simply off the A303 in Somerset on the edge of the village of Templecombe, oh and some other bloke. I think the steadiness has been redressed! Writer: Phil Jupp If you wish to explore totally different breeds, chickens present that alternative. There are literally tons of of various chicken breeds out there. Each space of the world tends to have breeds particular to that space. Choosing breeds often involves determining what you need to do with the animal. Read on to seek out out more! Writer: David Beart Whichever canine breed you choose, do not forget that the canine, not like the cat, is happier if it does what its proprietor needs. This means that canine are happier if skilled to be obedient. If you happen to practice your canine properly and care for it, you can be rewarded with amazing love and companionship. In any case, it's true that the dog is man's greatest friend. Publisher: phil Study which breed of hen is going to suite your backyard hen coop.There are heaps of variety's of chickens and we give a short description on the top breeds for egg production. Publisher: tim warrington The Bantam variety of rooster is a small chicken and the name comes originally from the town of Bantam.

The herd was rounded up for a complete health check as on Wednesday Le famille Steele heads off to the south of France for our Easter break. We're not leaving the animals on their own, no sirrreee, each species has been taken into account and the suitable care organised. Bob the cat, Betty, Cindy and Lulu the chickens and all the alpacas will after all remain at home and a extremely educated group will move in to look after them. Pete and Elvie, good buddies, and animal lovers are once again taking the reins and shall be here to feed, stroke, gather and gaze at the motley crew left behind, Fibre (linked internet site) thanks guys. Anyway, checking the herd at this time taught me a lesson that is relevant to all alpaca owners. Not only was I situation scoring, I was checking and cleaning this years eartags (properly all of them in fact). All the eartags regarded good, a number of scabs cleared away however nothing to fret about. Not all alpacas spit, however all are capable of it. The "spit" typically accommodates solely air and a bit saliva although it usually accommodates acidic stomach contents which is a green, grassy combine, and so they mission it at chosen targets. This spitting results in "bitter mouth" for them which is characterized by a loose-hanging decrease lip and a gaping mouth. The cause of that is the stomach acid and the unpleasant taste. The article of this spitting, although it causes them discomfort, is a type of protection. Often reserved for different alpacas, it is typically directed at people. I as soon as was standing again watching a few llamas, just minding my very own enterprise. Rapidly, one turned looked at me and spit. Is it something in my character that attracts this behavior? They are also fairly verbal, making a variety of sounds, every being for a particular purpose. When in danger they make a high-pitched shrieking whine. When content material, they actually hum and a clucking sound means friendly or submissive conduct. Consider it or not, you may say they are naturally potty skilled. They use a communal dung pile the place they don't graze. Females have a tendency to stand in a line and all go directly. Because of this, some have been efficiently house-educated and make house pets. In case you are considering of stepping into alpacas, the worth to get began might be as open because the sky itself. Because of the high value commanded by alpacas within the growing North American alpaca market, unlawful smuggling has become a rising drawback. It is no surprise they are becoming increasingly widespread. They make great pets, produce fleece for a lifetime and females could be bred again and again for her whole adult life. What extra might one ask out of an investment? I'm still deciding if an alpaca venture must be added to my bucket list or not.

As time moves on, the chickens get acclimatized to the area, work out how you can belief the security of it and the owner can permit them to out for the coops without fear of them flying off. There are some hen coops that happen to be pyramid-like in structure having a flat prime. One leg for the rooster gets tied off to a meter lengthy leash with one end pegged down into the ground. The hen which includes a meter vast freedom but confined to one area at the very same time. Once more, eventually the rooster gets to feel at dwelling that once they may be finally untied, they don't trouble to fly away. I discovered that there are actually two kinds of the pyramid coops. One is made from heavy soldered wired that may be placed underneath the shade of the trees and the opposite one is stable constructed from many supplies. Lots of the coops are actually very low-cost, some needing meeting some might nicely not. They can also be made by anybody who is helpful that has a hammer, nails plus a noticed. Building chicken coops want not be an ordeal for anyone. Anyone can simply go on the internet and download the plans for building a chicken coop then purchase the supplies as listed and follow the easy instructions. It is actually very cheap and simple to do.

#alpacas #alpacas eating apples #alpacas fighting #alpacas funny #alpacas humming #alpacas mating #alpacas running #alpacas screaming #alpacas spitting #alpacas spitting on people #alpacas stuffed animal #alpacas t shirt #alpacas with hats #alpacas world #animals #chickens #finland #llamas #videos

[lets-arelis]

erotonomicon volume 1-english version

ARELIS

         EROTONOMIKON

 THE MEMORIES OF A DECADENT LIFE

                             LETTER 1

 Damien Adaleux to Cesare Nerval

10-7-1997, Paris

 Dear Cesare,

When the hour and the minute hand pointed vertically to the South of Big Ben, Lucy-Aurora rose with her float from the open book-which we riffled during our battle to see who is going to raise the palm- like an offended donkey who was vibrating harshly on her backside by her imaginary master. Animals know no negotiations. They identify practices that are leading or amongst partners.

Every attempt of mine to cultivate the only name that should dwell in her heart proved fruitless due to momentum in the highway of the senses. But the more intensely you experience pleasure, the more she becomes automatic. I remained Benedictine with my diagonal, purple wand waiting to receive the title of the founder of her small city though unsuccessfully since the Ippokrini I bore was dry. The temple of Saint Sofia, a victorious general.

I was looking at Heaven’s floor like an Adam without foliage and sin. Like the school life in one colour. This made my pen turn on the spindle of the quest for originality.

Dethronement is experienced soundly after it is comprehended and follows the mind’s dives and dialogues. However, I was not looking for reactions to my callings but only a hallucinogen so as to bring them down behind the castles of Oblivion which I besieged with my sling.

I did so without delay. I talked to my little friend Jeremy who is loyal like a dog.

The leader Saturn was absent from my Olympian house during those two days of rest.

Rea was absent too since they had long drifted apart.

My Amaltheia was sepulchral. Desperate to rise again, yearning for her Milk, like a sapling with delicate roots ready to break by intruders which rides the caresses of the Bright Sun and the Pure Poseidon as the only lifesaver in order to refute the reasonable and set up the exception to the rule.  

The dark grass like a ghost on the face of Jeremy, his locks with the colour of the wheat and an archaic ribbon reminding of the ornamental ones of the Master of Music, his eyes sparkling with the shade and honour of the Corinthian Gulf and his ears worthy of a Pan…

A numinous Uriel who combined the fracture and the union of the human core’s atoms, for the understanding of the Circle and the Idea.

It desired to play the lyre to the Lark of my pants, so as every inch of me could listen carefully to that cord, like a special Being that demanded respect and paganism.

I told him to sit on the chair so as his true nature could be seen from my forehead.

I turned on the radio and out came melodies. I was looking for complicity. To me it was inconceivable for a lyre to exist without a symphonic orchestra.

I immediately embezzled his cloaks for I was a cat from starvation milk for forty days and every night.

But my soul’s heat turned the famine into thirst and me into a dog that wanted to be nurtured from every inch, to show the traveler the affection that came after the coming of many Saturns on the Island.

The rings of his feet were the beginning… So refined and polishing like a table full of dirt, dehydrated and ready for a new celebration.

My face transformed into a white flag when my tongue conversed with the thick toe of his right foot to invent the proper measures. If with sparkles I had desired it then it would have waved and acquired irrational and unrealistic folds.

It did not take long for my tongue to move the measure to the left. It always had a great sensitivity for the left-footed.

The Right corner expresses the greatness of the measures and the soul of Bismarck’s army. The Left always proves the exception to the rule:

a) that we can be led to the same result if we follow myriads of different ways which many of us handle and b) that anyone can reach the circle’s beginning starting from the end with the same interaction that he could have if he kissed the unit to give an orgasm at the end of the g spot.

Fibula, calf, knee, thigh bone of the fate…

Bus stations with a co-operative beginning… Terracotta legs of a debauchery colossus…

He was feeling the torch for the elevator and the flame. I had a covert dream: the recreation of one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World so as my father, who as I have mentioned was on holidays, would be defeated.

But Jeremy had dreams too: the experience of a miracle that he had acted.

If you cannot be transformed into a Commodus in this life you take his part and with temporary success you detain the applause from the invisible audience that surrounds you with the curtains of the room and silent testimony.

I invited him to make my bed, ornate with numerous roses, our shroud.

He accepted it with no cause. We depicted the standing symbol of the Cancer. Our silhouettes in perfect proportion, since each of us had stood on the adapted ruler of the situations.

In this Dionysian celebration, Bacchus and Satire were altered in the complex of Kronide and Ganymede. An illustration not from Paros but from hide and of sweat; not like a cenotaph at all.

My mouth became a kidney to process every flavour which differentiates her appearance into bitter chocolate or Andalusian water, cloth and toxins when the body weakens.

On his spear I was seeking, like Pentheus, to become a Columbus of what I could not do or to make mine whatever it was that I scorned. A small story of an initiate, who was not tested in his retrogression, was hidden in every side of it. My tongue became a volleyball racquet which pushed the bullets towards an unknown rival with the blinds of a supply teacher.

Unfortunately, their place on the north quarter’s infinite spots was weak. According to Physics, there is a specific spot depending on the human abilities towards which a sphere can be thrown. But does reproduction have life? Does anyone know the deeper meaning of these balloons? The wheels of their surface were enough.

Needless to say that in every initiative of mine taken in my own spaceship he had responded, following the beginning of imitation which is the most essential in life.

Even cars reproduce the human figure. Another notice showing that man through technology can make it human but at the same time his god. Who has not been awestruck when seeing their eyes-lights and their sharp teeth? The repetition of the Four-feet Era with that of the Four-wheel Version.

Perhaps I wanted my tongue to be Tangential with the Unknown’s Past and to take part in the Story of the Universe which at the moment is weak.

My life’s shell approached my ear so as I can hear it and communicate with its elimination code. When you cannot win your faceless enemy, try to find a picture of him or having your imagination as your shotgun find a model to surrender to him. It is essential to design our rivals, even the ones that do not exist, so as not to be led to self-destruction. In an alternative case we make our moonless self the enemy and we thrash him at the Catalaunian Fields to ensure the empire of the Shining One.

The time has come for me to taste the game in all its dimensions and through the relic of my mind to condemn it to impalement. After all, the Bastille is the body of the mind and Marathon’s tomb for the soul. The dictations push the mind to complex conformities that sometimes have ways of revenge.

I was observing as a Neutral supervisor in the Third dimension what was happening above the operating table while the kerykeion of Hermes made me numb and my body was becoming the Velouhiotis of my thoughts. That could not have been me. Maybe a Pausanias-wanderer. The core of yourself has become spiritual in such Druid rituals. You become something else. Perhaps a shapeless mass of iron or a trapped astronaut in a black hole that instead of swallowing it, it lures you into her own depths.

For me it was the second choice. My tongue read the New Translation of the decomposition of food. The sign of prices, a traitor. While I was spitting on it on the scales of this aperture, it was descending without ever separating from it. It had the place of honour because it was the street’s wise one and knew many languages like diving, victory, the linear script, the pencil sharpener, the tear and the caress.

I was a Rodin in this hole and a great wonder for what I could not ever do to myself due to lack of flexibility-unless I was a faqir- I did it to Jeremy. I was wondering while I was carrying out my work whether we do to others what we can not do to ourselves. In a different case I believe that we will preserve these privileges exclusively for our “ego”.

I saw on Jeremy’s left thigh-as much as my occupation with my ascetic work was allowed- an Indian prince with a feminine without weights, a scene of intercourse taken from Kama Sutra: a racist book, I wondered, about homosexuality.

Nowhere any enactments of men or women at their wedding’s Netherlands. A textbook of social agreements, after all. However, it leaves imagination free to fly for all of us since we do not confine ourselves to the suggestion that only our solar system is inferior to us: our verbal! It is not possible to explore any more.

The thing that lightened my relationship with him was “give-and-take”. Both being Libra without weights and chains, without Trial like a crown on our heads or Punishment with her lame leg chasing us for a crime so anonymous trying to arrest us. In this union, both I and he were not on the side of any sexual, spiritual and moral category or even ontogenetic… This word was to us the X factor. We were like the amoebae which had multiplied on their own… The thoughts or the actions were as many as the beings…

<<Proteus of love>> he used to call me and me, <<Aeolus of the sea>>.

These delegations of duties brought, as far as he was concerned, howls of wolves and as for me some money in my mouth, paper coins of no value and secondarily gigantic, a light of his expressed vitality. I saved her like my soul, until my will was broken and I returned the change that equal the ones of less value to end with those of major, so as the eagerness would gradually become enormous.

My mouth like a moneybox with expiration date, like a shooting star that smites the Adriatic Sea or a teenage love with doubtful duration(but always a teenage love)…

After this diffusion of mutuality, Jeremy rose and due to the obvious dictate of society, transformed with his fins into something totally different from what he was in bed before.

Dream Book: The delight of crabs will bring a strong share-out.

“I have to kiss my girlfriend on the Eiffel Tower”, he said with an apologetic tone and without even looking at me as he was ready for that hastened departure, like Socrates. Or perhaps because he felt so guilty for what had happened before. From iambus to elegiac poetry…

He chose the Eiffel Tower instead of the one our bodies had created; even though destructive so as to give the impression of unstable and vulnerable to the Mongolian incursions of social comments that give a reproof for the divergent way of racial action or because he likes to fight the manuscript with masks… The besieging Goths at my Rome… But no invader will take my Rome away. I built it and I will ruin it. In her there is Birth, Fall and Greatness. Seven hills which are the Light of my life. Only if I had seven males and seven females I would send them to the Labyrinth for the Minotaur of Hell to devour them as dessert.

      Till then I am vigilant and I protect.

 Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 10

 Damien Adaleux to Jeremy Cloix

5-9-1997, Paris

 Dear Jeremy,

Tonight at sunset, no cheerful Saint with gifts and reindeer knocked on my door. It was Gerard.

His silk shirt became a symmetrical treble clef with his short, thin, anorexic body which seemed to have been in cryonics. He was a student of Pastoral Theology. He used to fast quite often.

The son of a Hecatonchir, businessman and dear friend. His beady, emerald eyes reminded me of a few sayings about the magical characteristics of the stone when it is worn.

If I had invaded his territory I would have been enlightened and I would have obtained his wealth. It is an ecstatic feeling when the crinolines are tainted. I imagined Yggdrasill’s roots reaching the core of the earth and my inner weak determination. A Samson from Trapezounta with no blood.

All these have not been inscribed so as you can feel the injustice coming from the loss of the first prize. Do not make an expostulation about all the recent losses but imitate the life of a prodigal Augustine.

He asked to be baptized in a steam bath which was made by my father, who is the first minister of the country so as I can live an easy life. Luxury is always the best weapon for the reiteration of intrigue.

“Ask and you will be given!” a gipsy once told me. I could not resist this saying’s power and consented to it without a fox’s thought.

He put his diplomas outside my Turkish bath and he entered, like his soul, with a pelican’s towel.

I was watching my prey like a raven from the system that had been installed in my office which was connected to cameras inside and outside of the Turkish bath and described the movement of the moment in way so firm like Nevada’s rocks. His chest’s muscles were parallel lives, like the perfectly set fields of Thessaly where I was on holidays for a few weeks last summer…

The paralysis of his nerves from the steam and the high temperature which reached the borderline of faint was the last of Pandora’s gifts and the urge for an unexpected experience. I saw with relief his eyes that were half closed and full of sweat he was breathing with great difficulty. He was between Sleep and Death. I had to take the opportunity and like a Naked Fool I would make his white towel like the universe.

I quickly descended the stairs that led from my office to the place where The Painter of Death was making the urn-like sea-gulls.

I found myself in front of the Gate of the steam bath with the ten glass tiles that were separated from the oak ones, like I have imagined the Gates of Heaven. The keys were on the door alone and neglected. I became their concupiscent godfather. I was going to be a Roman Catholic priest in this ritual with the blissful water stemming from me and going on the prodigal saint so as he could be transformed into a prodigal impious in speech and deeds…

Any hesitation would be a retractable interrelation. With a silent push the door cracked a little and I appeared in front of one of my inexperienced students.

He had his birthday in September like the queen Virgin. I decided to change his date of transpiration. His sugarcane-like face was like Lucy’s whom I deeply desired when she was miles away from me.

She was working for her newspaper with the acknowledgement of undiluted wine but also with devious sparks of resistance and protest that had not been expressed because the eye above the pyramid was not insignificant but had been loved in the rubies. She was sent to Londinium to cover the funeral of the kind-hearted princess.

My substitute was finally found. His rosy cheeks meant not only health but also modesty. That is why I wanted him to have been painted in citrus. His poppy-like braids were like Lucy’s but coming from the sun. He had the courtesy of a Wise Lion with a royal purple. He lacked the scepter and I was addicted to covering the needs of people who had eclipses or gaps so as a content could be given to the parts of the New Testament that were not offered to those who were not at the slaughter houses.

I closed the door in the same way I had opened it without him understanding a thing. As it is common in the kingdom of toads the tongue flies so quickly towards the appetizer-insect that it never felt the Gorgo until it was too late.

I sat next to him at the same “table”. That towel was the Iron Virginity that had to be translated into a fraction with him being the denominator and a lowest common multiple in desire’s collaborations.

With my robust hand I was imprisoning the keys and with my left one I was touching him on the knee up to his Mediterranean pelvis.

In this exploration the silkworm should have met with a plug so as the blackout caused by my soul’s lust which gave its extension to the half lit steam bath could have had partial power supply like Albania. The generators belong to the gods; not the mortals.

Pretty soon sparks had dashed from his wire and he made the mistake of his mine from his February Olympics.

My first plan failed before it had the chance to flourish. I had to put my back up plan in action.

His empty photocopy became a flag on my Doric head. A halo of truth… His statuesque bearing was in a butterfly position. I was attracted by his funnel, like the magnetic compass attracts the iron filings.

At that moment I tried to approach his belly’s Oracle of Delphi for his Ideas and his Prophecies to spring up. My wire was in athletics with obstacles. It is not in the plug it belongs to, but in a similar one. Who said that the path to Virtue has not been sown with malodorous and bloody echini that have bloomed? His hair became the shackles of his hands. Who said that under unknown circumstances our strength cannot be our greatest weakness? His mouth kissed the beggar’s hand like a proper silencer. My torpedo rekindled his wanted senses. He seemed to have accepted the accomplished fact. He sucked my thumb like a toddler but not his creeks. He was trying to return to the beginning of the birth.

The tear and life exactly like miscarriage. I cried inside of him and with the key like a blade, indifferent to the amnesty of his life imprisoned hands, his hair was weakened…

He faced the severance of the experience in my house and at school. I have always been a personification of it. Everyone has the delusion that someday they will store it but nobody realizes that Heaven has sloughed us off and that we desire to celebrate the Restoration of the father by committing adultery with the Earth.

He did not dare to look me with his own eyes. I had done the same.

He was shaking like a whale that had gone astray, waiting for her return to half life. In the end, death is also breath. This is what a beggar once claimed and everyone had noticed “props” in his speech. Thus, I can handle this saying to be considered a god too… Usurpation of authority…

I gave him the keys so as to tempt him to unfold in the Gates of Hell.

To conclude, whether somebody will go to Hell or Heaven will be determined by the way he handled the crucial moments of his life and by expiation.

I opened widely the Steam bath’s door and I did not look back nor closed the door.

Never has a closed door behind u been locked.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 20

Damien Adaleux to Jeremy Cloix

15-9-1997, Paris

 Dear Jeremy,

Like Pluto, I am expecting Lucy rabidly even though I am aware of her devotion to her Mother-Work since March.

They say that when the cat is absent then the friendship of men dances a waltz. Nobody can agree more than me.

I invited three old friends to celebrate my birthday.

Tony, George, Jean and me, sitting at the four chairs of a table, were splitting the portion of hashish so as to pretend we were Pythia. The hypocrites for an ancient Greek comedy must always be four.

Tony was inconsolable for his unjustly lost girlfriend, when the airplane she had on was flying like Icarus to decorate the sea of Middle Earth…

On the other hand, Jean had broken up with his girlfriend because she caught him in bed lost in the webs of “Kirki”.

George was in no mood to tell us anything of value.

When you have friends you are obliged to tell them every little exclamation mark of the unseen side of the moon, like a simple soldier does with his captain.

I suggested they stigmatize themselves with the suit of the burnt pines. They accepted it without their cheeks to swell or become red.

On the sofas in the living room I had carnival and feminine ornaments, fabrics, masks and stuffing to give a sense of bulge, all scattered like offering stones at Etruria’s altars which you expose for the dangers like a sign of piety but you also avoid them.

I succeeded Seine’s flow. We were comfortable with our new clothes, like a poor man who wins billions in lottery and adjusts to the new facts so all this cannot be seen as the beginning of Luck and expectations or not to expose his humble origin to his new caste.

In the Room of Mirrors George’s lips were pale and Toni’s cheeks with Jean’s eyes were coloured.  I was merely the lowest common denominator of his fake eyelashes.

Urged by our corrupted bliss, the omen of the Kozaks was deified in our palate after it had sexual intercourse with that of Champagne. We wanted to spread the news about the orgiastic ceremony from the West to Zagreus’s East.

A certain quantity of liquid flora and fauna gushed from the floor of the Parthians at George’s constitutional diverse units and became visible as a reactor by an amazed me.

This rare stellar phenomenon had to be made into a film.

A Marseille kiss should be given to George by Toni. His first reaction was repulsive.

“Are u a turkey, French kid?” I asked him and he said he had never felt that way…

“Traditional grammar has strict rules”. Whatever applies has to be accepted even by one of them. I filmed, Jeremy, the decadent idea of his obedience, as a gift for your forthcoming birthday.

Tony was on the ground after all this, bursting into laughter. On his knees on Aladdin’s carpet, he prayed to his God and his head along with those of Jean and George had been incarnated into an Argo of the Symplegades. “It is time to pray in a different language” I told him begging.

His head was a bisector in a triangle of skirts, undecided about which hand grenade to disarm before he is eliminated. A vague mass of drapery barely indicated the vehicle’s directions. The Jurassic Stones were covered in his mouth and thus he was transformed into a Golden Horn. The dovecote did not misbehave. Bad omens from the Olympian gods. Slates of mosaic with Sarlo’s gulf in the prehistory of trial.

In a little while their Caspian Sea would gush and the dove like a Cherub would be promoted to an unknown cloud.

But for Toni, this ultimate contact was not orgasmic.

Those Titanian Stones, now sealed, had two craters and were surrounded by bear’s skin. It is like a hundred devious horses have gathered to the zero point and rolling they emerge with the greatest power.

George and Jean with their soul’s half closed mirrors magnified their ego, identifying Hyperion in each other.

However, it seemed like their mouths were an opposing Pile of Hermes. One was offering the other oxygen and love. It was then that I remembered love is the oxygen of life, which when exhaled to your other half, becomes carbon dioxide. All this reminded me of a conjuring trick of the adolescence: the girl that disappears in her vertical coffin along with the knives.

I admit that I was always curious to see what is hidden under a dress. All the more so now that I had two in front of me.

The dove emerging from the earth, whiter than ever, was swallowing the rim with its archaic, holy smile like a game of a safe life.

With a deer’s flexibility, Toni bowed in front of the sofa and invited the devastated Jean to come into the turbulent doll’s house where George, who was closest to him, had cut the silk and thus had exposed the roof. Also he poured citrus juice on him so as his lazy dust could barely sleep. He rubbed him with a sponge so as a series of plastic dolls parading in front of the precursor of Virgin Mary’s icon would have Ptolemaic hospitality.

“I am ready to welcome him!” said Toni the host, who wanted to celebrate his friend’s birthday with the proper Laurentian way.

With his entrance into the middle aisle, Jean wanted to place the bread and wine on his friend’s Altar. His deacon thing even though bent, was risen and the congregation could feel the earthquake of his respect from the pillars of the side aisles. Till then those who were not deacons could not be in the Altar. But if the others are guinea-pigs and you the scientist who experiments then the first time can never be the last one. The way to Holy Communion demands Gargantua’s persistence. And he was also forced to float from the area where women sit.

A few pillars were stopping him with mud so as he could not reach the car’s wheel and people were throwing him Gedrosian paint so as to blame him for a crime. Jean had found a supporter in Toni who helped with the constant attacks of the enemies. There could be a tearing of his clothes and the amulet could be holy in the Altar. The subject is always the erotic desire.

Tony as a cognate object and George as a second subject gave him a flute to play a melancholy rhythm while Jean having the ideal equilibrium was stirring it inside his doll’s house.

He ended though in a testosterone acme on billy goats skin, playing a paean in pastoral note like Attila before his bow was broken.

The defender of “passive resistance” and I of the dictum “an eye for an eye”.

There were the tones, the semitones and the intonations that always supplied the voids of his psychological stave. Perhaps this arrow symbolized the help of Father Ares whose, as a member of the Salian order, I was a careful caretaker since it was separated from the Earth and Uranus.

I and he were both malleable kouroi, illegitimate and renounced.

Claudius once ordered Messalina to be executed. Thankfully not in my usurping case.

Jeremy you know that I was not born in Paris since my father was at the 45th parallel as an ambassador for many years.

For my opium and my Swiss love army I demand a cheque from my father. When this is not enough I threaten him with the publication of past mistakes. This letter would be ecclesiastical for his political career.

I may not be Phoebus but I have the inclination to transform into a villainous Hercules. I do not know my real father… The poppies, the grassy paper candles, the swollen bosom or the farm’s dogs?

Whoever Pindos will stand on my Egnatia way, I will pretend to be Hades inside Pluto. I commit this hubris to provoke Deism.

After this interfering sentence let us move to our original one.

Toni’s mouth was in the end a fountain of swans that made George quit.

After this Victorian change order was given to objectify the subject of the sentence.

Calmness and spin…

Bliss of two categories into one, like a myrtle into a laurel wreath.

My opinion about an indent in Jean’s waist was a leash that through its opening made him retire.

The return of a hypnotized man to life. I read the truth that had been stolen from him.

I presume that the truth is for everyone something to have forever. I will not say whether Joan of Arc was listening to voices of ambrosia or her own self or whatever Nature dictates. I am a friend of the material. Not of Hypatia… It is vain to pretend being something you are not. Oxygen becomes water when it has intercourse with the hydrogen.

Every human quiver is a heterogeneous substance that contains a code of numbers that has to be memorized as to steal the other’s treasure when the moment is right. For the most profitable union or that with the least results as negative, the proper combination must come from you.

I am a hog which loves to indulge into the gutter of immorality. I believe that you must help your friends and return your enemies like a string of beads back to myspace. I have no doubt about my virtues but I do not ask for someone to be in a position to defame my omnipotence…

 A dove whispered in my ear that you were seen in London with my hereditary Juliette. I though I was once a Patroclus- lover…

Whoever pretends to be a Paris with my Helen then I will become his Menelaus:

a) for he is not only mine and b) for whoever trespasses her is a Trojan.

Jeremy, I never threaten anyone so as he never has a lead in my wishes and my actions. My scorpion’s tail reaches the ground with no notice and with the Leukothoe that I will be wearing I will break all the doors to find you. If from my Diabolical Primacy you see her again then you will not have the right to sin anymore.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 30

 Damien Adaleux to George Labrouille

1-10-1997, Paris

 Dear George,

The other day I had a nice evening surprise for my tunics that were not detached from my skin: from the solitaire they were laying on the table for reasons of balance with the old pest of the American usury.

I made a deal with a model agency for a temporary buying and selling. “Eastern Europe at the gates” was its title.

I always looked at other people’s bodies as being services on which you satisfy every gastronomic pleasure. It is not pointless to take advantage of the other’s indisposition. Our putrid soul and our damaged tastes by the star of dog become an arrow on the girls’ pears.

Anorexic due to marijuana abuse and thus ready to succumb with scruple to the maximum number of clients. Many of them keep the torch in an Olympics film of strawberry garlic.

The bell chimed and out of the church there came a little, skinny, untrained, black girl… For breakfast she had a heroin injection. We would be the main course: the triumvirate that was made after the assassination of Julius.

On her face you could see the fear of uncertainty. She would allow the army of Mohamed to enter her Saint Sofia…

It seems she knew that if we had sent her to the Lake Aherusia she would not have been looked for. She did not have any belongings, name or identity… Another immigrant who entered the country illegally. A woodcock in decay and I the unpunished angry hunter, the son of a wealthy man for the tour inside the palace of Queen Christine, Lucy and Jeremy.

I ordered her to take off her clothes. Pointless for someone to reach the onion’s core.

She lay on a mattress at the centre of the living room.

Jean was looking to get mother’s milk from her nipples that an antelope with overexcitement has when she notices the hyena in the jungle. The way of manipulation was like the Discovery of America. His father stood like Zeus and nourished him inside the head. Another photocell prayer from the lamp’s jinn.

Like him, I was loyal to the spirit’s domination.

Toni and I were licking her lips that were deformed like brain’s cancer cells…

A sculptor must have no home. The truth should have been enacted with our tongue which is a more exact chisel so as the idea of Hedonism could have been shaped.

The introduction of the Babel of languages was done and was asking from our pickaxe the alphabet, the Latin one, the English, the French, the Russian and the Runes or the multiplication table reversed or rational.

Aristocratic patent from parental teaching. Children of the High Society… After all, language has always a use of variety. It will depend on your style whether you will follow the historical-comparing grammar, the traditional, the structural or the genetic-transforming one. The lessons of language are the most important so as not to seem like you have the disease of love’s illiteracy. It is not enough anymore to want somebody. The Cyrillic will change its meaning according to its surrounding and with which word, morpheme, phoneme it will be lined. The proper articulation and utterance can play an important role like the ironic tone or the judicial, the pretentious or the rhetorical one at the wheels of Pelops’ carriage.  After all, people speak an Esperanto that has been disguised at the infinite levels of the mirror: “Interest is above all”.

We were looking for the node of our linguistic bombarding to explode at Aphrodite’s mountains. Light floods, visitors of our Anglosaxonic that united at some point…

The common cause can bring together old enemies… All the more so, friends…

She was not wearing a red cap, disorientated in Amazon with the moon as her crown. Something else was double and had to be covered at the scrub so as she could be accepted at his grandmother’s house before she gets devoured by the bad wolf…

The role of the victim is not a process I enjoy but it has always come before Orion.

She had exposed herself in an extra terrestrial, formless mass of hedonistic aura and that caused a repulsive inclination towards love.

Toni came from the narthex into her building which was like a Basilica and I from an arcaded window like an unknown thief.

“I won, Solomon!” Jean was shouting towards the patio, watching a fountain from the dome on which the inscription: “NIPSONANOMIMATAMIMONANOPSIN” was written. It means “wash away your sins and not only your face”. Four big pillars supported that building that was followed by pairs, with our hands as arcs and our bones as columns. Half-circled alcoves were our donkey bottoms. The unseen, dead spectators were curved aisles and for chant there were the quadrants that carried parts of dome on the secondary columns of the external masonry. Our fingers became dome’s neurons from time to time so as windows of forty ideas inside the temple could shed broad light and its straight marble complexion could be exposed. The pillars full of humidity. The mosaic detached due to illegal antique trading. Parts of glass on the dome’s windows. On the Altar numerous priests were celebrating mass even though they came from all kinds of creed. A comparative sexual religion.

In a previous life we were three Knights Hospitaller and whoever female aura we desired on the way from the Liberated Jerusalem we could forge her with no hesitation.

Luck in this life like a true light and leader in a progressive decay thinking that the one column would roll on the other and collide.

The earthquakes caused irreparable damage to the Building of the Olive and the pillars we owned followed a right turn or a circular one but rarely a boustrophedon…

The little Romanian girl was playing a Middle Age catholic song with Jean’s harmonica in her mouth, though I would prefer the song of the Nibelungen.

Izolde in continents far away from us and I like Tristan found fairytales in a pale, like citrus fruits, incompatible body. Yellow will always amortize next to the street’s pitch.

I was sprinkling the Rodan of her back with myrrh to make her holy and become hallowed myself. Now there would be a double game.

There was a rope abandoned on the ground. I had tied her hands behind her back with it.

She resisted but my friends proved to be my Varangs in my deadly actions.

Her sweat from Tropic of Cancer became an Arctic one. You could see a lamb in her eyes that wanted to breathe before it died begging for the governor’s grace. She knew though that this game was a roulette of death and life.

This degenerate fountain of divine death demanded our heavenly blood and an Iphigenia to be sacrificed.

I lit a cigarette while Toni and Jean continued their replenishment and I stubbed it out on the tattoo of her breathless pelvis and she, like a pandora, began to writhe.

However, Jean gave her cream flavoured ice-cream and she swallowed it at once leaving the cherry intact. Toni left like the sand from the sea wave.

I smothered her like Desdemona with an unfriendly rope. She accepted her torture with no melodrama or pity but patiently. Dignified Austrian Queen who was lost to remind me that she could never be like my Lucy.

I always filmed my worst vices…

A golden medal at right’s trapshooting. The bronze ones are for the others.

Her body still, like her soul. Why having body skin when your soul has quit? With a diamond under her tongue she realized the true meaning of life. I signed my duplicate with a Papist seal and the two of them carried her dead body in a trash bag to Toni’s car and buried her in a place outside Paris with the new moon.

We rich urban children, no matter how devious crimes we commit, we have the right connections so nobody can rule us for laws are made by the gods to manipulate the dead. The Spider of Justice pours her venom on the children of the poor and traps them in her webs.

The tickets are for the others.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 40

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

30-10-1997, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

With this letter I also send you a tape with an one-act play of mutual understanding that was filmed in the Room of mirrors with a fake camera between me and Jeremy.

This is the monkey that jumped from branch to branch to escape my heart’s pulse.

He is an amphibious at the identical stars that I am too. Make sure you send him the image of his eye to the stellar brother of the bear to stress that I am his authentic friend. By becoming your friend you will not buy him any field.

I get mad with the idea that another man apart from me approaches you.

If you do not give me water and earth I will ruin your life.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 41

   Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

4-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Damien,

In this letter you will find a box of love but not from water and earth.

I am sending you my excrements and my urine to sanctify them. Only these two can embellish you and no superior law.

I am telling you now that I am pregnant with your child so as you will take your responsibilities.

I will not apologise to your lemon forest’s newspapers for you having not taken the precautions found at kiosks.

Headline: “The son of the Prime Minister has blighted an immature schoolgirl with his seed”.

I demand that you tell me what to do.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 42

  Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

8-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Innocent, carnivorous night flower, it’s not as if we have raped you.

You were enchanted by the striated muscles of my belly (that only meanders offer to the vases), my height and the thickness which made the veteran and incomparable beauty overwhelming with the firm image of the oscillatory light.

“Narcissus!” you were often calling me in your neologisms. I am still waiting for Paris to kidnap me and dash me to Ilion’s walls.

I do not recognize this child. Do the abortion that your womb did not do for you. Especially, since I learnt that recently a Bull took you on his back and travelled you to your pleasure’s field.

I pity you and I do not want to see you ever again. You are a burden of asbestos that I wish to assimilate with the secret of the Indian Dike.

Cut your veins and find a hayof ha-kantes to confess it to, you that are transferred to a psychiatric institution by a therapist… The child will be schizophrenic like you…

Learn that your father was dressed as a Nyriad every night. He may have given me wealth and fortune to pity you but he will not be spared by my glove.

One night of a metaphysical year I offered him food in my limousine. His gurgling body with his muscles like deflated balloons, an unevenness of tears and laughter. The ultimate humiliation of the old age. Compliments and repulsion.

They say that old people inspire respect. I say that this is not something that you earn due to age. You were born with this and you die slowly with this.

He was asking like an anemone for the freshness of our firm bodies in exchange for many fields in the countryside.

Make your decision that the wedding from the Apennines has been excluded. Its derivatives are welcomed in plural.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 45

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

17-11-1997, Paris

 Dear Marie,

It is not that easy to manipulate Damien. My previous letters about committing suicide did not touch him at all.

The secret that only Damien knows about is ready to be revealed to you: when I was nine years old my cousin, like Acteon, committed a sacrilege to the temple of Ephesus.

Thankfully, my father is not aware of this as he is not of the baby. I will follow the way of Kronos with Rhea’s belly. Damien will give the money and my mother will provide the method for killing the baby.

What will society say? That I will live in Hades where I am floating?

My father is the Leader of the Swarm. If he finds out what is going on, I will be “imprisoned” for forty days which means that I will not be able to leave my room and only get an invitation for breakfast, lunch and dinner. How could my poor minded, earthly God know that as much underwear as he notes every five years the same amount of lovers is deleted?

Damien was equal to Nijinsky in bed and a golden Olympic champion in any kind of sports: from volleyball to horse riding, from long jump to butterfly, from tennis to weight lifting.

His forehead ornamented by sugar beet and arctic conium. I was flattered by the eyes of the Chinese and by the contractions at the Donation of the Completed Mass. The body that remoulded me was the Oak tree of my Agnosticism made by Limestone and Granite…

Every time he was suppressed, he was threatening me at the Corner that he would reveal to my Judge that I was an Aspasia of luxury.

Damien, the Pittakos of Elikon and of the Crystalline Fountain in New Rome, will become the Re-creator of the Garden of Earthly Pleasures since he will study art and acrylic design in a School of Arts. He insists to separate our tongues in the final hour. Thus, we have a common code of ideas.

Even our mothers were colleagues in Sorbonne. I am his feminine litigant and he is my masculine one. He does whatever I cannot do and I will imitate eclipse’s march. We are the ancient two-headed animal. Thank God for the separation between the active and the passive because now we can enjoy the same amount of hot and cold, healthy and sick, good and evil…

Thus, the chance of meeting several sides of the same creature is born. I believe he will be worthy of the name of his own Father. Till his last breath… For this reason he will remain Untouched and Blessed…

I imagine that his trinitarian number should be on his head and all nations should adore him.

I, the Apotheosis of Beauty and not the Jews’ calf head…

My men are vulgar but as long as they are useful, amusing and kind I can tolerate them. When I cannot see the image at least I remember every man’s odour either because I will deny the chrysanthemum in the vases or because I must have the comparison with the best flowers. Every hierophant’s sperm is different in cooking.

My fortune has not yet been set by any man, maybe because I have annihilated it. It is more than certain with a geometric progression that I will find the man of my hopes so as to quickly wrap him around my flag’s pole.

And when I devour him I will swallow solid sugilite and hydrochloric acid so as after Jonah’s three-day death I can get him out of my stomach and he will know that he would have been happier if we had not embrace each other. I hold their misery’s cane with no medal of racism. I have known the Treasury of the nations as a keeper of sexual experiences. I like filming them when I adopt their children at the unsigned gallows.

I would compare my father to Lot who satisfies all my whims in the middle of the night and as a swan comes inside me so as I can pretend to be Leda and he can hope for Dioscuri and Helen to be born. Every night that a love letter knocks on my window I want Gyge’s ring to hang around my partner’s neck so as I can make him invisible and lost in the shadows of the past. I pierce my fabric dolls with pine needles, imagining I eliminate Kandavlis and I escape the insult.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

 LETTER 50

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

6-1-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Only because I have a Saracen’s right ear does not mean I am Horatio Nelson or that I have the Turkish flag on my head and my left ear is a pirate one.

I am an amphibious reptile so as to be able to be saved in Armageddon time by eating the forest’s carcasses. I am Wallace, Cagliostro of the legionnaire, since nothing can stop me, neither Hannibal the Carthaginian general.

When you have a relationship with someone in obscurity, till you break up with your fiancés for good, I pore over your ischemic malady. Penelope, having no word over the final choice of your own web!

Once more I will emancipate in Amaltheia itself since I have been holding my hat in my hands for a long time with great strength.

It is a set of laws about nature so as you end like Simeon the Stylite.

Like Cassandra, I will tell you your fate by looking at your left palm. Now though, I will tell you about the past.

Jeremy’s parents found him hanged on his bedroom’s lighted fig tree. I and two others sneaked into his room as accomplices. He had surrendered to Bella Dona’s arms and to invent Prometheus’s box he had been paralyzed with chloroform by us. A rope around the neck and through the chandelier he had been led to the gallows.

Here is Judas the Innovator…

Are you sure that the real cause of Judas’s death was suicide?

Poor him! He thought I would spare him because he always was as sweet as a chocolate cake and wise… He crashed on his calculations and, like Titanic, sank in two stages.

Not even one of his admirals saw me at his tower. The calculation of my moves can be compared to the hands of the clock…

The Fullness of Cronus has come, Lucy. A red carpet from achates had been laid for him by Beel and Zeboul… Do not worry… One day my turn to succeed to this will come… We have some time until the Day of Judgment…

After all, out of sight, out of mind… I hope this revelation has caused your soul a little crack. I know that you will tell my story and my confession with a gag… Be careful lest you lose your court shoe and the Wolf keeps it… Unless he appears as a Charming Prince every time his hair is messy.

I know many secrets about your family and your legendary…

For example, your brother came this morning to give me a picture of yours that had been taken at the Land of the Basques.

Oh! You cannot remember the Land of the Basques? For all France to listen to your news I am thinking of putting a common battery in your radio.

For whoever is unaware of it, I will put it as a fashion model: she is a club that does group and extrovert activities.

Your brother had the kindness of a Habsburg and quickly informed me about your childish fault after he had traced it in the bag of your electronic mind…

Many hated Ephialtes, but none of my friends hated your picture!

A clear archaic complex… You and the boys’ V in positions of awe. Who said that different images cannot be expressed in language? Your body is a dirt road without potholes. You formed the implication of victory on your tongue and three more around you.

Pierre did not demonstrate his sting only for the vowels and the pressure you exerted on him due to High school exams but also because my undying figure from you is more appealing. I confess that I am corrupted by flattery. He recently keystroke number thirteen. I regret not having met you at the same age.

Your little brother lost your Adolescence’s April. Your tufted hair and your make up reminded of a Sophoclean tragedy, the rocky, sad vibration of yours that makes the primula wilt…

I ordered him to fall on all fours like a panther and since he is a koala to obey to his mother’s affection.

I kneaded his bended stick and made it a ruler. Using my mouth and my wavy hands I taught him, like Goya, the sequence without a smooth or rough breathing in the well of his labial letters. I wrapped a Galenus’s glove around my ruler so as to diagnose the child’s epidemic. I was shaking thinking of that Industrial Mayday well and how it gave fleas to the rats from Bengal. But when you have sexual intercourse with your worst fear then you gradually begin to overcome it. The blackboard of his morals was smaller than expected while my finger was making circles with the chalk.

My other hand grabbed his little blackberries that were bustling with life so as for me to end up by his small, floating piece of wood and elongate his life which had been on sales by others. This could be achieved only by a Saman or a god with automatic moves.

I decided to take it in my teeth like a knife, as a special marine at the Black Forrest. I played “Dies Irae” with my flute and I had signed a revocation at the decree of Nantes.

Something for the new generations to imitate and a note for the invention of my personal mythology. Your brother contributed a lot to my posthumous fame but showed little strength while dealing with the forger…

“Deus ex machina”. My drops made hospital flowers to bloom on the little piece of wood and the scar came on the grass of my sin.

He surrendered to his self’s cannibalism and with his soul like a machine the carpet had been cleaned like a gum and like a cat acts every time she senses the original sin.

The love towards children is divine. An idea of the Ancient Greeks; not mine. A Neo-Greek without a flag, loyal to the holy matrimony of Almighty Christ, founding the New Church of lust. Your brother was the first of my followers at my catacomb.

However, every religion demands saints and tortures. Your little brother felt slaps on his tight cheeks and on his tied mouth landed the missile of coagulation. At the strawberries of the crack of Dawn, my ice-cream was drawn on the surface. It would have been more nutritious with all these proteins. Like a leech though, it absorbed all his blood, even though he held his position with great difficulty. I became a tracker at his Aheloos’s banks but I had been there before as a mutant canoeist.

He left during lunch since you had burnt pork with sweet potatoes. I gave him candy for his trip and acceleration that suited him, so as the time will come when the suit I want will be given to him.

At some point we all embroider our childhood on the Tree of Oblivion. My first time on my bed was the end of the Spring and the beginning of the Summer.

Scars on her face, and the solar plexus was calling me to explore her universe, her fake hair dictated by my mother.

Their relationship was like Procne’s with Philomela and in order for me to mature I had to rot like a mulberry and not like a bloom…

The mausoleum of Aelia Galla Placidia had become my publishing house renovated with collagen at my ideal Ravenna. We played man-hunting and I was trying to find the proper octave on the stretched rope so as not to fall and go up and down. The return to my previous image would mean an infinite school Conciergerie.

Failure is a word that I cannot understand. The embryos were so close to Tartarus before they were separated from the umbilical cord.

In these macabre thoughts I should claim:

“Absent”!

Her body was not electrifying at all. It looked like a gel that was deflated by overheating.

Her eighteen years working on my back with her nails as accoutrements, searching for a heel of anaemia that would give her alibi in my nectar body with lack of self-reliance and also the realization of landing to society.

I was thinking about Jeremy in a way of cooking covered up with Leonidas’s carrots, cherries of beholders, a Mediterranean of refrains, lammergeyer’s eggs and cage’s chickens.

When you hear about few cherries, do not wait for anyone to offer them to you. Absorb them when you get the chance since Nature’s Lowland has a wide hand.

With the rule of deduction the lines on her face and her round arivalloi on the breasts. With the rule of addition the reforestation of pine needles on the chin and lips.

As for the spot under her belly, I thought she was not Akasha but Anna Frank’s Dutch hideout for an Eyck van painting. I had bought this from some Barons as an art merchant. My zero endowment.

My contact with a third body without an engagement ring and eternal vows repressed me to a free, troubled and bendable void.

Watercolours with a sense of Lotus winter reminding experiences of previous breaths…

With as much perceptiveness as one can have to correlate…  Some call it intuition and others survival…

I call it return to Ithaca…

I and she did not have a common bundle of sticks. A farrago of questions was created while I was whipping her Saint Louis like a thunder.

Was I a matricide and did not want to admit it? Did I want to give chlorophyll to a breathless uterine spear so as to become a Chief Magistrate of the Templars’ School? Did I underestimate my value by doing evil but without knowing what and which?

Her lightning conductor gave me to non-existence. Force without thought leads to clumsiness. Her body was a forty five years old, messy book and I was her queen’s bookmarker of Midas.

Her husband hunting Forest Nymphs at his office all day and then exhausted from work sleeping with the mute water for “love”. She was neglected like a stowaway, reading Marcel Proust’s “In search of lost time” under the sleepless look of candles, trying to interpret the eerie mood of the company.

To pass her time she would go to the make up artist, to the sauna or to take care of her nails.

After my triumph at Nafpaktos she told me that she aims at strong young men with the help of yachts and limousines while Zephyr is blowing, Spring is waiting and Flora is imprisoned. Hermes with his alchemy stick cleared my mind’s fog. An example for escape. Only Charites should hug me and I with my asclepian paint…

After all these, I was somebody else. Maybe Merlin.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 60

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

4-3-1998, Paris

 Dear Marie,

The previous weekend my parents went to the Council of Nicaea ignoring my own Arianism.

It was a Chance from heaven to attack to the son of Mithras. Money always makes a man more satellite in the eyes of a woman as it happens with a cake made of sugar and loquat. How many people actually got married out of interest and not altruistic love? The most hedonistic of all is that your tempest cannot be interpreted if it does not get photographed at its right dimensions for the enlargement at the recipient of eugenics’ hope.

I liked him since we were teenagers studying together at the Christian School of New Lorraine. During breaks, a Neoptolemus with eyes of a bat was approaching the Andromache-victim unsuccessfully. His vulgar eye was looking at my necklace considering it to be a marriage settlement but unbinding indeed. His voice was masculine in the full sense of the word.

A voice like a rough Bari that knows what it asks for and which motorway to receive it from. The men had focused on the First Holy Podium and the spirit of the seraglio had been conveyed. At school he had the unaffected fame of a womanizer. They were all drained like the oil and the egg in the pan. A Petain for the girls, a compromise with the Third Reich’s active militarism.

I was playing hard to get not because I was like this but because this is the right aphrodisiac for a man. You must show your real self to the uneasy ones: the easily passable.

Antoine came through my door on Saturday night wearing a film noir coat and on his eyes he had night’s glass so as I cannot see what is moving on the inside. He covered the kitchen’s table with his own for the omen of a black ritual.

With the retreatism of his helmet the Keres would come after my soul. Now his silhouette was visible.

He sat on a chair giggling, with his legs in a relaxing position which was an ideal study for the students of the Refined Arts, eager to watch an erotic film. I did not ruin his abundance.

In such scenes men become spectators and pretend to be guards from the Beast of the Apocalypse. They hold their breath with difficulty while they remain still and they fight with an invincible enemy. Some have their artillery extended and others disclosed. High school x-rays for somebody to run to the Peeping Tom of the stands.

I watch men’s natural reactions. It seemed his pants would explode like a bomb. I never accepted parks with a moon.

Instead of dealing with the displacement of the earth’s axis I grabbed his hand as a feather and I gave his ear a chrism with my brush so as I could be aligned with his fireworks.

He took off the northern and southern hemisphere of his black coat like it was a corset of the 18th century that cries for freedom and like a cat he lied on my living room’s divan with his socks and kothurni. I lied like Eve only with my slip dress in a dead-like position. Adam stood up and went to the kitchen. He did not give me the impression of this being the end of a dying story but the beginning of a new one. I regained lazily sensitivity’s six.

A tourist with a glass of champagne and a sweet candle with a roseate box. Due to clumsiness they were almost married to the earth.

My mouth became a faucet with a subsidy of reversal. Swallowing without breathing… With his tongue, he tried to make all the oxygen get saved.

Since he had not achieved much, my nipples became honeycombs. He reached the navel of my door while with three earrings he was like a shiny calendar that talked about how Delphi raced with chariots in a tango full of holes, like life. He wanted to uncover Christ’s rock with his teeth. That would be possible only with my expected Resurrection and that Latin rabbit-sleeping soldier…

I bled a bit and as the aspirin sweetens the headache so did his honey. After my blood’s assimilation came that of the flesh.

His head got off at the next bus station. He faltered awkwardly… The Cave of Life and the Deepest Spot of Truth… He did not want to eat my Olympian though… A gynecologist had fried him a while ago…

I had a past similar to the Titans, bound to the core of the Aloades’ Earth and a future not at all fanciful with all the possible assumptions of work.

How would the earth be without water? How would Athens be without the Acropolis? How would the chess move be without the Queen?

I move like a sea-horse through life, forward and backwards, right or left in decisive borders…

Unless you are captured by the enemy or you are thrown at the garbage can… Maybe because you are not an expert anymore…

Your fears that you will not play the game with cleverness should not be barriers. Thank God I was not born a horse or a tower or a soldier. In this game the Queen is the most powerful pawn in chess and I will move my own pawns depending on my changing emotions.

“The triumph of the Agastonos Amphitrite”.

My Poseidon’s beard was the dolphin and I had attached his seismic urchins, which were on my lips, on Tritons so as at the seaweed of the Province of my Life he could echo shells.

Life has laws and I make a praising interlude for them. His tongue had the direction of a brush and he was painting a caricature of Guernica on my body with the dexterity of a Picasso. Because Eros is Archidamian and I am Mata Hari that should die from sensuality…

The divan had become Triton’s back and I, with my hand like a trident, was holding the hair of the hedonistic Elpenor.

He succeeded in boring through my dark heel and through life’s best wines to get the paraffin.

Sometimes tongue is a crutch, especially when artillery has been decimated. Unfortunately, her size at Aphrodite’s or Hermes’ mountain is not enough.

It did not take long for his self’s extension to shout at the Sargasso Sea and I wandered at the secret moon’s circles. The shore welcomed the ebb tide and the high tide. He was looking for a lighthouse and I was trying to protect myself from the salt water since he was spicy like a pizza.

Antoine, though, did not delay and arrived to the closest coast of my Amorgos. I was walking with a tight shoe till it would be exposed by causing blood and calluses, since hiking lasted long, and till I take it off and be relieved. My only consolation until the end of my military service was the fact I had found and tickled my Doris who was holding the torch. But Antoine was a liar and a battering ram. I felt my backside and its Kilimanjaro getting hurt by many meteorites because I had been a naughty student. He slid the snakes I had on my head like lemons through a bridle and every time I looked at him from the chariot, a dog’s bone.

The only way for it not to thaw is if he had decapitated me like Mary Stewart so as he could engrave my name on the list-shield too. He was choosing his reactive demise.

I was looking at him like a voracious wolf looks at a lost sheep at the pastures. The forest of Boulogne on his chest reminded me which verb to make out of an acrostic in our sentence.

His sweat like rain on my back and he was imitating my position scared on his two feet like a horse that whinnies and turns into a domestic dog, even though he was biting my back like a maniac.

His swear words were the proper medicine for rabies. I felt like Poverty’s whore. Just the sign would change and the genitive possessive: poverty’s; not luxury’s.

The owner was changing and not what I will be until the Day of Judgment… God always comes second. Mine was taking the golden achievement with X-rays.

Stings on my nipples for me to give up without a fight, while he was opening my camellia’s bud with his litany’s bread, since I needed oats. An unorthodox way of fulfilling while my stomach was aching. With this way of deletion I preserve my beauty’s course.

He represented the man’s archetype that I only sense in Damien’s refinement and marquisian origin.

Like all the others, I felt like a weak receptor in that bath tub. In the end, it was snowing pearls on my body without me giving him my eggs on his branches.

He was smoking a cigarette until Morpheus would steal him from Charon’s hug and till dawn he becomes Margot Fonteyn.

Sunday morning went by so lightly like the fall of the leaves and the rustle at the plain.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 70

 Lucy Sanguin to Marie Clermont

6-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Marie,

You were seen with Damien at your hair’s weave and at the dialogue of your lips at the hanging gardens of Versailles… May Grace be with you…

When I made an oral protest he told me on the phone that I should bloom the Mexican Gulf.

I did that at once during camping where I was a leader but it was boggy.

With two buttered German molossians… The one was an instructor from Berlin and the other from Bonn. Capitalism and communism would become one on my body in the Hansa of pleasures. Who claimed that manifests do not communicate in communicating vessels?

We were a triad of spoken anecdotes at the camp’s tent.

I was telling them that Damien has his Byzantine decree like the Myrmidons and he seals awfully the manuscript from the lamb.

They both had arms of wrestlers and gigantic breasts like Chinese sumo.

I wanted to meet transpiration’s eastern rhythm during my controversy with the West.

Their noses were like pumpkins with potatoes. I spoke the Teutonic language fluently and knew all its shades.

On a table there were handcuffs, dildos and whips for a Ulysses in our happy melody.

They immediately decorated me with blinders so as I could not see and thus not be able to be subjective. The senses of the kangaroos would lead me to my most desirable goal.

An antenna that belonged to Taygetus landed on my nose and then on my lips because she wanted to find shelter in my tongue and at Parnes, like all those people who never get ill and the hikers.

Friedrich was inventing the metaphysical word while Adolf was sloshing with his hand on my quayside.

I felt that my underwear would leave the position of minister and Member of Parliament which it had as a hereditary right. It seems Adolph had written his name on a shell and my sewer had welcomed Friedrich’s cataclysm so as to get rid of rodents and cockroaches.

I was the space between Ursa Minor and Ursa Major.

I was waiting for two transatlantic liners to anchor at my life’s pier: Lusitania and Britannic inside me to steal the Holy Grail with votives or Blue Hope.

Perhaps, deep inside, I was looking for a Magellan to discover the chest with the treasure and violate it with a crowbar so a strange fume could come out of it.

Friedrich told me “I love you” and my mouth’s walls broke into two. The Earth stole my lower part and Heaven the superior “I”. The cane and their ether and uncovered void were the medium between humans and Gods. Ears of wheat accommodated my burning temple. I thought “Be aware of Danaoi and their gifts” when I breathed only from my nose and my ears.

Adolph dropped anchor on the breakwater though the ship was going back and forth giving me the impression it would sink. Not a minute went by and Friedrich decided to collide with Adolph at the port. He was never a coward. They were sailing together, intransitive indeed. The waves reached the port as a result of the tectonic slabs’ rupture which became one with their moisturizer nomadic caravan.

Friedrich was leading the cleaners’ crew to my drain. The man that put his credit card in me must have been a God. Maybe Anubis or Hor… He never introduced himself to me… Rebellious larvae were coming out of the breasts. I was committing something legally explicit with a negative sign.

I was prophet Tiresias and I was looking at pleasure’s light at the end of the corridor, molecular at first and then as a magnifying glass.

In the end, the tanks broke and the baby creams of the galleys were like a huge fire on the sea.

Maybe because water is the beginning of everything. Maybe because babies are nourished from their mother’s placenta. Maybe because everything inside us is flowing. Maybe because whether it will be Michigan sober or tempest, it depends on the way of the Soul’s Bible recitation.

I am now a free woman who will take pastoral and amusing walks.

I know ten languages. Who said that foreign languages do not benefit anyone? I have many overdrafts translated into appreciations. It is said that you can deservingly use only two languages: your mother tongue and the step one. Because you always have on the candle two parents or selves. Some say that you cannot serve two masters simultaneously but you should operate one at a time. I believe you can manage all the languages of the world with the body as criterion.

Adolph was static like the Celtic swamps. Friedrich immediately decided to leave.

I felt a rod whipping Ares’ mountain and another whipping that of Aphrodite. The colonization of the planets was practical to me. I wanted them to bleed like the Judaic cult’s God who was fighting with the Calicotome villosa.

I wanted them to flow like a Ganges of blood at my sewer and wash away baby creams and all the crap they carry in life.

I preferred death to be my escort. The more somebody prolongs life, the more he appreciates it and he realises that Hades will come and catch him at the river Styx.

A sentence of truth with an annihilating status.

In everyone’s Soul, when your wish dies another is born so she can fly too and give her baton to another one. Even Hebe will someday evaporate when she will hold Helicon’s flame at the Fates.

My two ignorant friends were like the men in the Capella Sistina’s acrostic, like I am.

It was not a Senet of revenge between Alsace and Lorraine. It was the fallacy of the nostalgia’s bliss.

They dropped anchor at my personal Odessa because the sun of the Ionian Sea was misleading them.

Which is the border though between the earth and the sea? Wherever the Earth stops, Melicertes will ride a dolphin. Without the earth there would be no Ino and without void there would be no earth. Our existence, our life and our memory are left to the void that cannot be manipulated.

Life adds many questions and few answers.

Adolph stepped off the untamed mare and was hitting me, like a Trainer, with chains on my archaic pile so as I would obey.

I had to be punished because I enjoyed Eden’s illegal and boundless fruit.

I was offering them my other side too while they were kicking me on the belly and ribs. A mourning of two untamed men from the syndrome of Stockholm, with no shell and sepulchral, gave me a second orgasm of dissension lest I forget my genitals while clamping.

The alehouse’s conspiracy forced me to be attentive. The foam had many kinds of feel in my mouth.

This letter ensures your lawful rights and proves a man’s renal failure who has completely failed at his mission.

I hope you make this known to Damien.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

   LETTER 75

  Damien Adaleux to Antoine Heloire

10-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Antoine,

I swear to you that I will take revenge from this scum of a woman. I always keep my promises whether they concern a curse or an epode.

I will upload her nude appearances on the Internet with myself having a supporting role.

I am not holding in my hand only a big or small pen but all her past.

Her letter is an inscriptive museum. Interest and promise are two notions that are independent for society but for me they are one.

I suspect that since she is unaware I can place a collar on her. You can see if a Moor is hematite from the molars.

I and ten more people experienced a feast yesterday and we were casting all our powers from our sling aiming at the basket of our tyro Kristof- the well known classmate and brother of ours at school- who never took part to the meetings of our Round Table though he had the right to do so.

It was decided for him to enter our Paul Mellon and we arranged his sojourn at my apartment in St Elysee. For breakfast, we ripped his greatcoat like Maenads. Then I gave him Damocles’ lesson, to carve the line of life on my left palm so as not to be mortal anymore…

Moreover, the capital letters of our names appeared the infinitive letters.

Each and every one of us was sipping his cocktail like a peltast. A compulsory term in the Brotherhood’s manual…

A Crassus that had to be surrendered to Hague…

Since that happened, we demanded to open his mouth and fall on his knees like the Cetus from hell that punishes the disbelievers…

We were looking for a main meal, cemetery of garbage, to place our septisemic ambrosia. Especially a recycling storage for our rubbish.

A few creams of Callisto found their target on his body and others missed it completely. Whichever help was descending from the sky he was simulating it with silence making every time a curse or a wish. He liked that muddy rain.

At some point he went after the reclamation of the substance. We could not be negative towards that. Our trousers had big holes and out came the trunks of our elephants.

This is said to be the Symbol of Luck. After omega comes life… Another living dead amongst the billions on earth.

We were shaking the water beams of the sun and he herded at the sugar clouds.

Poor him! Some firing was blank and others landed on an inaccurate port.

His eyes fiery like the sun, his hair crystallized from garlands and his chest stigmatized from acme’s cotton…

Yesterday’s competition was a beauty’s treatment and a parade of lieutenants on a greasy face…

Everyone’s yellow rain was distorting his mouth: his river Yangtze. I have always been a fan of the Chinese culture. My body’s outfall imitates him…

Pierre gave an omen he would mate his red mud with the yellow rain. He has some kind of Libyan anemia and not a renal failure like me. Others transformed his body from pearl to gold.

He was thirsty for knowledge and we for Herbart’s method of drastic notions. I am not Comenius in the classic sense. I will treat everyone as if they are my sperms and I will lead them to unexplored ways of the mind.

We did our doctorate on him with punches and kicks as if he was an empty sack. For dinner we opened Aeolus’ sack and a pole got stuck in his round eyes at the royal feast. He almost went blind and dill’s blood going back and forth. We began an art exhibition reminding of a feast to avoid having light’s recomposition.

If he really wanted to become a member of my team he should experience those meaningless tests and as a last temptation to trample over his swan and offer him to us alive with sweet potatoes.

I am neither a friend of life nor a friend of animals, I admit it.

All people have three legs but stand on two because they do not want to admit it. Everything is bound by reins. If of course somebody does his duties right as a charioteer…

Thus he will carry the right light of Erythrea to the form.

In any other case there is danger of animals becoming a theme for the encaustic. These have a secret, unique number for everything that belongs to you to be a guarantee.

I anticipate, like you, count of the living.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 80

  Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

22-6-1998, Paris

 Dear Jean,

Yesterday we had a meeting of gods, deities and goddesses at the association… Can you imagine having sun for twenty four hours? When would the bats set or rise?

We were forty men inside a crock and I was the leader. Female and male genders. Others were of unknown intention.

When Dimitra rested her eyes we were able to breathe at my villa in Orleans.

You never begin blind man’s buff before it starts with the social prejudices, because there is no chance you could win.

I was shaking the urn to choose each and every body and for love one of the four vases.

“Random love’s democracy…” the procedure was named by me.

An Act of Unity regardless gender, name or age.

The stereotypes of men and women had become Roman slaves of the Winged Hermaphrodite.

A carnival of nudists and improbable combinations. Strangers amongst strangers… Who said that Love is not Blind? Strange and Globetrotter I would dare say. Few expressed the Antiochia of the classical era to prefer mates.

And I was the king of the Sun on Nocret’s table board. I was overseeing Sudoku and whether the rules were followed.

Culture was a sword on the bull’s back. The person had lost its core and everyone their identities.

We took off our dark clothes and we remained with the clean ones.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was heard like rock music.

Candles of cider and lead were flaming from the summer solstice.

After all, summer was always offered for the conflict of the Amazons.

That was my photorealistic father’s party that became constitutional. It preserved though its autonomy at the crypt of the Constitutions.

He demanded the continuation of its tradition and woe betide anyone that gave his signature at the contract and with his entry defected or stepped over my Cylonian Affair.

I was the observer of my Holy Mountain and all those Capuchins were running for their saved souls to the monasteries of empty tombs. They were untrodden Karpathia for the ones that were not introduced and woe betide anyone who read their typed prayers on the bodies. Divisions devoted to climaxes and hierarchies. It was the day of dedication to the Worship of the Ultimate Being. I was not a fan of Robespierre but of the spirit that was opposed to my interests and my values.

Tenors and sopranos performed their feelings at the five floors of Orleans.

My cottage seemed like it had been bombarded by a plane. Shoes under the sofas and veils on branches, fried clocks that had obstinacy with memory, underwear on lamps-because maybe the gleam is gold or whatever does not shine is the tower of London- trousers without men, like they belonged to ghosts that abandoned present life, socks on fireplaces without tabards or pearls that some shipwreck’s sea washes ashore-the art thief’s craving for pleasure- or strings of bilinguals and landowners.

All these things were objects of the poor passengers and I was the inventor of recapture and a lonely stowaway. Dead bodies scattered all over. They were scarcely separated from the earth. They did not know either the cause or their mortality…

I was in a neutral mood to give them a literary annotation.

The dead always want to keep you close to them when they realize that as long as you live they will not worship the earth. Their relic on the ground. They falsely believed that that move would give them breath. Even God’s hand cannot make an excess. To stop being dead, death must be shot at your bed. Never let him scare you but fight for his elimination until next life comes. After all, earth is drift sand and my furniture and partners are the silent witnesses of a crime.

You were sneaking on couples at the sacrifices with water, the dining room, the balcony, the chandelier, the television, the bathroom, the chairs or the sofas…

There were not any adjectives, names or nouns… Gaza was medium and neutral voice like the quails in the cage, for the other two forebode a love zoster without condom.

My home became a house of alimentary scandal and orgasm.

The wings of the curtains were ripped at the battle of Poitiers, beds and chairs with crippled legs, the handrails at the balconies reminded of Bastille’s Capture…

My house remained crippled since everyone was devouring (after a forty days diet) whatever he found and his foundations were creaking. Who said that the telchines come from the pylons of the earth only for certain days of responsibility?

My villa became the sarcophagus of Fulvius. But I was not half dead by the sword of Jerusalem because my half pillars remained untouched at the infant’s moment.

Everywhere you could see the exposure of life and an ice like banana peel able to make you lose control. Everyone was drunk in a Tae Kwon Do of souls and in love’s ecstasy in the form of pills.

The first couple of numbers that would expire at night would choose thirty eight local pelts regardless of specifications until it dawns with me as a priest and my bed the Holy Table.

Marie and George were the extensions of the Darkness and everyone else their ropes.

There would be no slaughter by the daughters of Danaos this time. They would sacrifice themselves on love’s altar like Constantine Palaeologus; not necessarily by a man’s hand.

The right of the first magical night… For whoever is first amongst equals always reigns over the stars of Perseus.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 85

Lucy Sanguin to Janet Valloire

7-7-1998, Paris

 Dear Janet,

While I was a bride on my bed the day before yesterday, Marie like a forerunner of relief read to me parts of the “Megas Anatolikos”.

I had to enter her virtues to regain Damien and imitate them.

I tried to be created from life’s marsupium. Unfortunatelly I vomited the thirty capsules of antibiotics and I did not have to get hospitalized.

If I died, I would take Damien to be my partner in grave.

If I committed suicide, he would leave life for us to move to the implication.

My soul is sick like a whale and the companies of my men who share my bed are therapeutical.

Based on the laws of possibilities, it is impossible not to find my clay effigy at Theoclymenus. For now though, I will compromise with the alternative.

At first, Marie’s perception was binding at the book’s pages while an oil lamp from the rider of Artemisium had been ignited… She was waiting for one more from the true nostalgia for the chariot to begin its attack to the Colosseum.

Marie made the book able not to touch the table. The intermixture of her visions was a marching song of kids as pure as the vulgar sonnet of the adulterers. It did not take long for her to remove the blouse and skirt from March’s body.

She began to rub the flame of her left breast. She brought it like a half tone to her mouth… The void’s ablactation…

Her panties were an uncoordinated lover to facilitate the monotonous interaction. She was a bald actress at life’s Pythagorean due to the blade of over performing.

From her uniformity the outline was clearer than the anatomical details. The disembodied charting at the bodies’ twilight was never a registered letter and guest of her imperfections.

I never wanted to walk with vinegar at survival’s glass with the illusions.

Since the truth follows us in a retrogressive way from the object of desire we become forgers of our self’s signature.

Marie left the chair on the gravity’s succession and sat on my shroud to spread her sinful myrrh on it. It was the time of transition from the neo-Hellenic mythology to the poetic of Sappho’s lyricism.

She softly strokes my leg at the protective sheet. But a warrior never forgets that Penthesilea was a queen.

That sheet was the omen that I should have died.

But that touch of hers on the leg and with the Holy Shroud as interstice made it clear that I would have a new chance in life like Lazarus.

She drew my mounds forcefully. She did not want to x-ray their furniture nor identify my fire with the method of anthrax.

I was a nymph of the Winner like her.

Cyprus was always the house of Gods and I imagined being love’s guide there. Life has taught me not to be strict but determined. I am not used to wearing clothes when I sleep for postponements and excuses of unwanted trips: for Orthros not to come and take me out of the fridge and dance with me at Kerameikos, imbued with rebels’ blood, unless I myself do not call for him to jest. If she saw she wanted to bite me, I would wear my archaic dress.

Marie though doubted my Bourbonic pre-eminence. She wanted to show me that it is worth living on the mast. She got involved with my head’s bindweed, to fruit their maturity.

Dualism is a board of paganism. She was stroking the trees with my eyebrows branches, to discern and find the correct course with exclamation marks and agility.

At my third eye her pump continued with offering of covert kisses. Searching of intentions, emotions and side lines. She realized I was affable…

She departed for my cheeks like a dog when he missed his master after a long trip.

I took out my tongue to reach hers.

The void is a universe where you can meet anything ill favoured or amusing and live there if you grab it.

She had a plum caramel in her mouth and when our tongues united she split it into two pieces instead of giving it all to me.

Half shame for her and half for me. Spring in her mouth and winter at her speech.

Who said that people do not represent their era? Everyone leads his own so as not to abstain from life. Seasons are inside of us like the time’s rules.

The first are old lines on our opened palm while the second are not appointed by us; they can be altered though.

She carved brushworks on my neck like a jaguar. The exquisiteness and the refined perfume are the greatest virtues of women since one understands better what the other asks. Our society accepts them easier than Telemachus and Achilles on the same bed.

Whoever is closer to become feminine is certain to be criticized. We are going towards the era of Men even if this will soon change.

Woman is no longer considered an illness since she will transform into something she is not like man also will.

The model of men is a widely accepted transmitter.

Men are flattered by Lesvos and its balance.

Women who pretend to be men do not affect the reproductive procedure. They forgive everything we do for we give birth.

My affair with Damien was my homosexual preface. It taught me to like both Druids and Gauls.

After all this, I realized the election of his governance by her.

He was satisfying himself with a Pinochet Hippolyte that did not take “no” of the thirty second but she did not offer the big “yes” either. I will explain what I mean. When she asked me to perform laparoscopy on me with her head to see whether I will give birth to another baby by Damien she ripped the sheet in Palestine’s strips in a rebel state. With a violence reminding of Demetrius the Besieger she tied my hands and legs on the deathbed of Procrustes.

She took two models of men out of her bag.

She tried them like the assistants did at Kyrus’s dinners so as the King would not get poisoned. They were wet and they should be hung at my balcony for the sun or air to dry them. She began with the delivery to end to the sewer… A pleasure without breath and its intonation…

I was like a DaVinci’s drawing. I had many arms like goddess Kali. I could have escaped but I did not do it out of curiosity.

Unfortunately they did not dry because sky’s cottons had covered him with their thirteen guilts to mourn for what I have not yet done. But it is never too late.

An artificial blast impulse of our lithospheric plates took place at a friction with no ending and beginning.

Artificial because the causes were on an excursion. They deforested mountain Ararat that was next to Sinai. Those were the New Commandments until the land of Canaan emerges.

Only through Kalahari and lack of water you can find an oasis in the empire of Alexander the Great.

Wherever there is triumph there is also the decay in which it has been condemned.

Later, the rain was falling weak. My eyes due to the changes had been transformed into weather’s windows. It suddenly stopped and then started again without hesitation. Then the heavy rain began while lightings and thunders came out of our mouths.

Thankfully my room’s doors were entrenched. My mother landed on the balcony not being supported, like the Sun, with wings of marabou to convey the happy message to this storm of Evangelism.

Thank God she must have thought it to be a girl’s toy.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 90

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

10-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Damien,

I bet you cannot break the strap of nun “Glykeria” when you wait for me and you look at her outside my school’s rails…

My sky has clouds, white horses and black ones.

George’s sister is hard to be subjugated… Do you risk losing your friendship with him? You, a Don Juan and not being able to make a Turkish cat like her fall for you in the sea of Venice? Unique case…

Forget about my classmate so as I can forgive you and stop being angry.

Every Lord’s Day has a crucifix around its neck for the Sunday school.

You may go to prison for seduction of an adolescent girl.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 91

 Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

13-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

Listen to my echo little girl. When I move my sardonyx all women come quickly to my trousers and do not leave my resin.

I happily accept your invitation. I will send you a video tape of what will happen. But if I succeed, you will do whatever I tell you to.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 92

Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

15-10-1998, Paris

 Dear Damien,

I accept it with honour.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 100

Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

17-11-1998, Paris

 Dear Jean,

As it is known, my former fresh carpet said that I cannot break the “Madonna with the goldfinch”. I’d better guffaw!!!

The deck’s Solomon card is not the one you have thrown on the table by accident, but expect the exact same to fall in your hand so as yourself will win again the game that it has lost.

Everything is a matter of self-suggestion. “Ask and Cybele will come to you!”

It is a Soviet Union that attacks so as not to defend and by now it knows how to handle crises.

I and Pierre bought a variation of our kind sitting on the comfortable seats of our limousine while we were wandering at the city streets.

He was our age but also thinner. French not from porcelain. His breasts were from silicone and on his tight back there was a covered, wheaten, curly wig. He was wearing a leopard skirt and a cherry t-shirt.

His lips did not exist, like Christ. His eyes were students of the darkness. All made up and beautified stepping on stilettos. Before Northerly wind performs at our Epidaurus, like the pale moon…

I liked the Carnival that blessed that little boy.

I wanted to taste the son of Theseus by pretending to be Phaedra. Aphrodite’s enemies are my partners. I paid him with vegetables candles.

It did not take long for him to peel like us. I had ordered the driver to make us Hungarian until the Odyssey of our fieriness takes us to the palace. Which is exactly what happened.

Like octopuses his breasts of an acid without gender were striking my back. A capsule-corset was clamping the bedridden patient more and more.

The ultimate thing was that out of an empty shirt I was giving birth to Erinyes and not life.

Forgetting my being, I was a subject-object in a defective sentence. Though in this specific case, the patient was acting the illness and he was infecting the nurse. Another controversial relationship like life.

Only a chain embellished Pierre’s left foot and an earring on his right ear was watching what was happening like the student watches his own instructor at the surgery bed.

It would be untrue if I claimed that I do not want a silver corset to confirm the champion and feel heavier than ever. Unfortunately, a palaestra has a set capacity.

It had been asked from that man hybrid to insert a ring in his clarinet for the maximum possible stay.

No moisturizing day cream on my body. I was always against any kind of product that alters our nature. Another fan of Rousseau. It is in our nature to hurt. Everything’s birth has no subjectivisms or classifications.

Pierre was printing our one-act play in the form of messages of his mobile voice.

Sagas that have not been heard before since the Third Race had been outmarched. Now we belonged to the Fourth that brings dei ex machina.

My mind was a tyre of that machine. Noone is going to get fired by the Employer if he is useful to the consumption and the production.

We must always be perfect in art, otherwise it is better not to get involved with it at all. That androgynous reminded me that I should see the future via Chiron and not be retrogressive. I have to take that step that others are afraid to take.

Pierre decided to give the tennis rackets and the balls to our employee with no name.

I instantly felt spatters of singing birds on my back.

I had to be reborn like the Baptist at river Jordan with Pierre’s lubricant, since Orontes was not by my side.

The non-gender man gave birth to his baby in my Volga and the diplomas ran out like a nightingale. I may have felt nauseous but I was a castaway-professional. After all I was taught to seal my ears with sealing-wax.

It was the frenzy of the moment but I would like to repeat it in the future with you as a protagonist.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 110    

Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

25-11-1998, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

I am sending you the crime’s evidence. “Do not touch me, faithless Thomas”. You are now obliged to do whatever you are told by love’s slave market.

As it is known, your sympathetic had put an ad for a private school of the arts.

Knowing that I am an excellent Marinetti, I willingly but with disgust as well, took on the hard work of the teacher. I write beautifully and I lick the higher lands even better. I am an arrogant Flaubert.

I was accommodated at my atelier (extension of my room). George, since he was her cognate, contributed to the final choice.

Isn’t that what friends are for, after all? Friends must recognize you thrice when you are going through rough times in your life.

I was literally willing to offer my services without getting paid.

On a symbolic level, I would be an opportunist to her naivety.

I wanted to teach her painting without gouache, specks and dots.

I gave her an orange juice to drink while she was sitting on my sofa. I had put barbiturates in it so she would not resist.

You never rape somebody if you do not have the right precautions.

It is a main rule not to blackmail anyone if you have not raped him first.

Burglars always wear gloves so as not to get caught. I turn everything into stalactites in my life’s puppet show so as to make others dolls in photographs. When I shake them, my moving drawings are postulant…

Antoine my rebellious officer was waiting to be given a sign by his Lord the Guardian so as to attack our royal domestic.

We took her to my room while she was unconscious.

So innocent and sugary!

We put her on the bed as any Don Quixote would have done for his lady if from his own typhoon she was traversed.

Her skinny body reminded me of the odalisque in one colour by Ingres.

I was always an admirer of Neo-Classicism. I wanted to rip this painting to pieces because it had an emotional and historical value.

A smell of security, well being and intolerance was hiding under her fat at the slum. Ideas that provoke me to doubt them to whoever claims that has them stored in his hard disc.

When I was Tom Sawyer I was always breaking the vases mum brought home from her trip to Sichuan.

Ming Dynasty was being diluted in my hand not because I loathe the Chin culture but to see my mother go insane. An untranslatable civilization to my own life theory. I did not like my mother’s incontrollable arrogance. I wanted her to sacrifice her eyes so as she could doubt what I feel or do.

I was so greasy like a snail without a shell and I loved it.

“Faunus of Pompeii.”

I wanted to seduce her flabby thighs at Parnassus. Women, apart from tongue and hand, they need teeth from topaz because the danger of a filling always lurks…

Female anatomy in its totality always looks like a jungle in safari where you explore its various genders and species every time…

I never read enough zoology and that is why I was throwing the black and white cows from Keadas with their panties.

I was an expert at the human anatomy and I had a scholarship too…

My hand moved to find and break her crab which was above her belly. After all, when the glass on the bedside table faints, the evil is in the love breaker. It is idiomatic to hide behind somebody else’s back.

There is no chance a daddy can save his seemingly innocent pullet from me. If I agree with something I take it to the end.

I was coming inside her monastery violating her steel door with a burning solid liquid. The nuns were unarmed. You could see it in their face’s fractures.

I was Mohammed the Conqueror at the marionette palace of Magnaura.

I was wondering while staring at the mirror whether I wanted to make love to my Adonis. Where would I see again this airy and marvelous body? Would my profile be simulated at the magazine’s cover which Antoine was preparing for the internet?

It is unreasonable to throw chocolate to the defloration. My uninitiated to vows body would get salty.

Later on, Antoine confirmed that he had suffered the passive orgasms of Sleep from Deimos.

I hope he dreams of my kiss when he goes to sleep. When he accepted the tool of the circumstances of commitment-as a kind of disapproval- tomatoes and holy water, I realized that the end had come for my starry mission and thus I left running with my excubitores.

I ran away being scared of the divine wrath that was over my head due to the asylum’s desecration.

When she returned to the other world, she understood that I was the Saviour of her Metamorphosis.

The performance of your duties will be postponed for the time being and I am arranging it for the distant future when I think it is compulsory.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 130

Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

30-5-1999, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

You can make creative acquaintances at camps. A man from Catalonia was ogling me when I was sitting around the camp fire along with the logs last night.

I pretended to faint to give him a paper-garbage telling him to meet me at the camp’s toilets at 2 o’clock at night.

The danger of me being caught red-handed was desperately naught. His name was Juan and he was getting paid to act, like a bee worker, in erotic films. I like hanging out with people who do not come from the same social class as me. I forget the limitations I have and that is fascinating.

Damien thinks I am Alcibiades. Like a Hindu he is surrounded only with smiles from our rank. I believe I must not dump the Untouched on the street.

Juan knew how to win my heart with his great jokes. He was a painkiller and a boredom repellent. I would lie if I said that I did not eagerly wait my chthonic tracker.

He opened the toilet’s door at dark which till then was slightly lightened by the moon’s light and the pillars. He was accompanied only by a couple: Joan from America and Scott from Great Britain.

He explained to me that in the past they were lovers. My second nature would have to deal then with three strangers who knew the art of war. I have to declare that I was thrilled!

With our debauchery’s quartet the toilet would become our concentrated Serbia. We would join forces in favour of the Kosovars and we would ruthlessly bombard the Serbian-Slavs racists.

We never believed in love’s racialism. Scott was a blond Apollo Sauroktonos lying on the wet floor not only to cool himself but also to get a battle position and arrest the unapproachable pisces by taking out his hawser.

I was throwing my stars on him from the sky… Clusters of meteorites…

We had Earthquake sealed inside our Etna. Joan also bowed over Scott’s head. She was sacrificing an animal to propitiate her little God.

Juan was a tiny gerund lover. His eyebrows were a proper stimulant for a woman. He had pierced his belly-button with a silver ring. It is said that werewolves die by a silver crucifix. Apparently he had been tied by his machine. A flat belly like the table’s surface, skin-tied with it as its only identity.

I was swaying on Scott like the baker mills the dough. I wanted to feel the baking tin in all its dimensions and not miss any corner that has not been filled with this dough.

I was a shipwreck that wanted to suck everything in the middle of the Antarctic Ocean.

The repetition in darkness’s space was Juan’s black hair. He looked like he had been decapitated like Danton.

His spaceship landed on my Cape Canaveral like a splitting on my two over stuffed fried eggs. A pigeon wounded and bleeding that attempted to fly because it believed it was possible though reality belied it. It’s this belief that we can become what we were before we were transformed into something else by a buoy. It is the present’s denial of the previous moment. I waited for him to pour the butter into the frying pan and eat the best omelet looking at me from the kitchen’s hot plate.

The French and the Spanish were conspiring in a long time to destroy the terrorist organization. We like dominant countries and not self-contained areas.

The collaboration with the Englishman was something that could not be blamed. I was Clemenceau and he was Lloyd George. Our Archidamian was universal like our love was figurative.

I pretended to be the elevator at the Eiffel Tower that goes up and down, Scott was Thames that waited like Noah to soak me, Juan the Escorial whose lust I saw rising from the west and Joan the Statue of Liberty that gives the fire of death to the remaining nations holding the window like a torch that brings balance.

Joan’s lips had gone so red that you thought a Chimera would rebound without Bellerophon. You could see the Aztecs’ unhewn wood on her look. To be precise, a sea without any water. She had the hair of citrus but anyone could doubt its originality.

While Scott was giving me floods of pleasure, I was staring at Juan’s Irresistible Armada.

I was the porphyrite-cloth to my Matador. I liked his passion and his Mediterranean imposition. He was staring at me as if I were Napoleon’s domain in a sphere of influence.

He suggested I should pour the butter out of the frying pan and onto the kitchen’s hot plates to turn them off since they were all turned on. But lots of butter was thrown into my casserole. Thus the spaghetti I was making had a nutritious taste for my saprophytes.

I always wanted to learn Swahili in Africa, eat human legs inside the Alps, one of the few alive at Zulu dance…

I felt an acerbate taste in my belly since I was the tomato in the liquidizer. But in the tomato juice some liquid flour profiterole was added like the soothing breeze. A penetration with no pleasure…

Our heavy breaths were implying our need to wear masks of euphoric oxygen.

When that was done, we collected our few clothes because the full moon was looking at us with a fig’s leaf.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 140

 Damien Adaleux to Jean Larousse

30-6-1999, Paris

 Dear Jean,

When the sunset came to an end, Robert and I went on an excursion to the degraded northeast suburbs with our limousine.

The order was to narrate on the camera what was happening at the third apartment.

There, thousands of blacks, unemployed or Muslims from Africa would suffer for a few francs.

My victims were two sixteen year old blacks and an adult Muslim from Algeria.

Many of them are drug dealers. The feeling of doing something illegal was always a catheter to me. There should be a punishment for capitalism and colonialism to an Aristocrat from the higher bourgeoisie… For the mistakes of the past and for the evils that bedevil their present… With a gesture of mine they came into my extra erotic clinic.

They were so Dionysian that if I did not wear anything they might kidnap me to sell my organs. They do not know that Dionysus Zagreus never dies and tortures the disrespectful.

Robert and two loyal guards of mine from Hades would kill this actor if something went wrong.

I had timed and put boundaries to my vice’s game.

I was a fan of tenebrism and I wanted my head to look like that of Holofernes when Judith cut it off for the Liberator of her people.

Paintings for me are the occasions to act roles that in normal circumstances I would not act. The real of the past is depicted with the present’s concepts. Another fake theme and I was its multiple.

I knew the fake reality. In no way I reassured myself with false expectations. I wanted, even in this way, for my dark enemy to undertake my caricature…

The threat of monkeys for making an Aryan French nation was now a watershed from the past to the present. But not in its real dimensions.

An arrogation of rights that those androids will never have…

These ideal slaves were privileged for their huge assets and they were made to bring nude photographs of themselves.

The ideal servants for us arrogant masters…

My gold watch which they asked for was given to them. I had many of them. I gave them my emerald ring without a grumble.

But the third time I refused to give my right ear’s diamond earring because it was my self portrait’s wand.

The Algerian pushed me down. I slightly hit my head. Thankfully I was Aphrodite on her hunkers without a rupture.

The one Black man carried away my hands and the other tied them with a rope…

They were calling me vulgar names and kicking me or punching me. On the other hand, the Algerian took off my earring and blood dribbled on my face.

Profoundly satisfied from their loot, even though they never conquered Malta, they took off my pants to obviously steal it too.

“What a golden boy!” exclaimed the Algerian.

Before I come around from the continuous beatings, I saw them nude.

The Algerian had been circumcised as the Koran orders. Obviously one of his two parents was white French since he had a dark colour.

The hoses of the Blacks were diversionary and unhealthy like the Bavarian sausages I loved every time I went to Germany.

My one black man, like someone who loves his neighbour, was touching my thighs trying to find the average…

“This well needs oil!” said the one and then the other black man took a bottle out of the jacket.

The first black was counting my mouth with his finger that was sergeants of my unit from willow’s hands in case of resort due to NATO bombarding.

Sometimes it was casual harvest and open for the errand of equities of the free to loose market… Other times, the store would close due to the bubbles of the wet Spartans who washed ashore more branches…

The sink is always blocked due to hairs that are gathered after the big razors’ long stay.

The second black man while unplugging was pouring from the jug to achieve the first goal: a flexible girl to be ready for the intruders. Oil contributes to life’s width. Modern Hippocrates says it as well. It is the most essential to the Mediterranean cuisine.

I say that oil has a great contribution to the biggest volume’s capacity of winged ships.

This well could now fit into any kind of windlass. It did not have any more restraints. It had gained a totalitarian autonomy without my authoritarian will. They had charged the brutal troops of his Chorbates on my land so as every human right would be eliminated…

A mathematical triad was looting my body.

Every conqueror had his own unique characteristics.

The first black man had the alpine look of Pseudo-Longinus. The second one had a gross but middle one. The Algerian had Gauguin’s but totally effective.

The windows were sad coffins. The atmosphere was stifling due to the sweat of our bodies.

Relaxation at a Turkish bath. Their smell was more aggressive because they did an exorcism the previous Christmas for the last time.

The water and hour glass’s economy of our national identity was a common denominator…

When the one intruder was breaking my country’s metal grilles, I was being bathed with wet and solid perfumes-merchandise by the other two.

I liked the Algerian more because he was the Lyre with no costs, the Partisan’s manual that has a strong power and nobody can subjugate.

The tramontana was revolving dark spikes from his barn to the homestead.

All this bayberry was dribbling from my palate like a stalactite. At some point there was a parallel admission from two teams but the fence was so narrow that as a lecturer he expelled the one since it was about to break…

The black man that was behind was an inspirational canoeist on my neck’s chain and I was the giraffe with a leash…

The other one was adjusting my head’s thyme to take the proper bow for the flying ball like a loyal hound despite the fact that it opposed to the Ottoman.

A law student who was my classmate at school had taught me the Ottoman Law from an early age. Seemingly, the Greek-Roman and the Byzantine.

I had pored over the spirit of the laws and balance, knowing at the same time that the most rational demand is also the most blatant injustice, if covered by the power’s robe emits the senses of the firm code of values that knows how to adjust to the circumstances and alters its behaviour for the high casts, exhausting all our lenience’s boundaries, while it exhausts every room for strictness of the committed crime for the deprived with a few variations.

I was a crime’s victim and totally satisfied that I pretended to be the scapegoat for all the crimes that the national and my own bourgeoisie once had committed.

I wanted to feel the Hippies’ vibration which they had when De Gaulle was in power for the independent Algerian. I was a lover of apostasy, a fallen fair angel of the Lord.

I wanted though for the last time, like a capitalist body snatcher, to dissipate the milky oil of those strong immigrants and absorb the power of these nomads even if it led to the founding of the Finnish.

I was the Son of the Man-French who paid for his Forefathers’ crimes, like today’s Israelis apologize for Christ’s humiliations or that they have to feel guilty for His Crucifixion when scrupulous Christians claim so.

I liked “paying” for crimes I had never committed. On the contrary, I would not like to be punished for the hubris I consciously commit. The concept of my collective responsibility was affectionate…

My body was pithy from slurs and raised like Fifth Avenue. It revealed like the product of his cherry earthquakes.

A wreck that was waiting to visit the oven of the hopeless.

It was an excess inside that space like his ox-like eyes were reflecting luminary.

Robert did not interfere with the instructions given.

On the contrary, he preferred masturbating while watching that live, violent porn unreel like Ariadne’s carcass in his fantasies’ Minoan palace since in every one there was an avant-garde waiting for him. He just had to accept her or deny her to be sold to her whom he wants to find till the way out.

I was in the middle of this farrago and I was touched by the fact that a listener was applauding me even with one hand on stage.

When I published the foams from my mouth, Robert realized that that was the end of the game. I was full of lather to mop the tribe’s crime.

Killing of a nation or dialysis? Hard to say. I missed their wheat rain. It did not take long for my pot to be watered.

I felt like a four-wheel that had gone to the washing bay to get cleaned from the red clay.

They quickly got dressed with their lawful assets and, like the chicken thieves, departed from my life once and for all.

After all, earth never ceases to move. Even when we are converted to sleep. Even more so when crimes have been committed. I was Antaios and they were Hercules. I took earth off of me and I denied the sky’s power.

I took a lesson of morality: a dewdrop of goodness that has evil in it. It sounds unbelievable but so true…

My victim’s mentality is now more fitting. I made sure that news was spread amongst my friends’ circles. I seem like a hero in their eyes since I survived from those blackguards. I look more immaculate than ever…

The worst crimes can be committed with the greatest easiness of movements and extenuations…

I am the Julius of all women and the Augusta of all men.

My fame was known to all the fashionable circles not only of the capital but of the whole Europe.

The worst alibi is the confession of the crime. The others think you are accomplice to something. You do not think that when you have committed something…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 150

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

1-10-1999, New York

 Dear Louis,

I arrived with an aeroplane that gave the New City’s aura to the buildings a new moon before.

When I visited the Metropolitan Museum, I realized she is equal to Europe’s Snatch… Here are the horses of Lysippus… The peak of the Crusaders… The possession of the city of multi-faced Lucifer…

And I, Michael Palaiologos, having the pencil and the paper as my munitions, was waiting for the right moment to grab those treasures.

I was a bright student for the Museum’s exhibits. I captured the permanent collection of the museum to practise the art of painter-sculptor.

The subject that lost the sense of volume has been ornamented with that of the level so as to imitate the dimensions with the most successful way. The colours with the classifications at their imperfections were helpers of an attempt for a natural failure.

Can the flattened statue of Marcus Aurelius be impressed at its real sights?

Even the material of its moulding does not have anything to do with what it represents. It does not have either a human hide or organs or blood…

Perhaps if art is cloned then its real face will be conquered. The people of history will be clones in the cold storage and not absent but with the same inorganic and organic elements in a representative art.

I recently saw paintings with colours of human blood at a museum of contemporary art.

Here is an exceptional art for the man made by a man.

Anyone can choose a cut leg or arm if he travels to the countries of ignition or even Cicero’s head with his multi-pierced tongue. Thus, he will recompose his real like the senses or feelings private art at his home. That means the art of the powerful has a sixth sense perception, almost geotropic I would say. After all, all painters had a powerful Maecenas: Botticelli had the Medici or Philippe the painter from Crete who painted with the hand…

Art is a sequence and we are the humble drivers that follow her.

I started realizing my insignificance while watching those huge buildings, amongst the millions of citizens in this vast land where all the Titans and the Egyptian Gods have gathered.

Parthenon’s frieze in reversal. Zeus with his thunder is not an ambassador in this city. The victory of the Giants and the Titans on the Olympian land! You can commit any crime you want without being punished if you step on the mermaid shield of wisdom! You will see everything in reversal here. The tycoons are dense gods and the bevy of ignorant people on the top of Pieria.

With a pole in the eye, shape of architecture…

The blood of the citizens will reach their feet as a punishment. A brain with no oxygen in a post surgery remission without blood.

I was a dwarf in front of juggernauts with clay legs that I left in the evenings since I always attended the classes of the Fine Art College.

I went to the hospital where I was born and I worked temporarily as a historian at its archives. The receipts were swimmers in the papers. I was my mother’s child indeed… My father? I always assumed he was from the New Land.

An Ares on my mother’s bed. My father caught them soon after the action when he returned from the UNO. He had displayed a few documents concerning the captive Americans in Iran which he had to study so as to orate at the channel.

Americans never forgave the Shah’s Persians for their banishment like I never forgave my mother for not revealing me my true father’s name.

Four years later, not even the birth of my duplicate sister prevented my parents’ divorce. I gathered information from the living residents of the building where my parents used to live before I was born (not from my father’s head but from his thigh).

It was heard that my Hecuba had an affair with an American painter named Peter Wise. A distant relative of his who lived in that block of apartments gave me a slightly ruined photograph as if it had almost been saved by the flames.

She also mentioned he had two children and that one of them was studying sculpture at my University.

We had the same age. She told me not to bug her again though, because she had fought with Wise’s sister in the past.

On the first semester I attended the optional lesson of sculpture so as to meet this student.

An optional touch that would be the cause of compulsory information.

Almost immediately our eyes were copulation in the void. Our causeless intimacy came more from our common background than from moral patterns.

He was a baptized ice-cream in the Darkness. On his face I saw my own and then Peter’s, my father’s.

Denial and rejection made the nostalgia to perform a tragedy. Maybe an Oedipus without the fairytale…

Three days ago I invited him to my apartment for the search of the man missing and his family tree.

He told me that his father had once transformed a turkey into a billy-goat to mate with a nanny-goat because she was feeling lonely due to his January chores.

He told me that four months before 1982 she brought her own azalea from his cyclamen and a rose. She asked for a flight identification document but he denied the annihilation’s baby. He had placed the arrows of Puti to another woman and by phosphoric chance a white rose popped out on the same month. He told him he thought I was a ton of cement and threw me in New City’s ocean like he had done with the French woman’s past. I kept my polar temperature and did not make a gesture despite all I had just heard and the fact he kissed me on the mouth.

Under her though, I was singling out Hera from the spike. I was sexually attracted to my clone. I wanted to be broken down into a thousand pieces and get blessed with seven years of bad luck.

On his face I saw the rejection of my enlightening progress. My father was the Echo at the first handwriting and reading. A clock whose thumb had turned backwards and I saw my father making a gesture at me to make me emerge as a mortal this time.

I was given the chance, with time’s retrospect, to commit his crash and surpass destiny.

If his candle melted, neither I nor my brother would give breath to Thor.

For many years I was dead at the wretched old lady who lives in a Cave, lame and isolated.

At the humanitarian sphere, I was processing the teenager who does not want to grow old but be mentioned from everybody as Antinous.

I could never undermine happiness.

Blood is thicker than water. Unless you get sick with leukemia. I was curious to see though whether the blood in his veins was red or blue.

“I am a naughty girl!” he told me and coloured his lips with a lipstick taken from his short pants.

He did not differ from a sweet, nerveless and odourless girl. I was looking for a hole to give him an injection. That would take all his blood to protect the country from the terrorists.

I also contributed to this child’s disengagement from his metropolis. A colony that wanted to surmount her own womb with radiance and her Octavius to be deified to everybody’s discrepancy.

The beginning of cuntarchy and the end of democracy…

Men and women were acting like natives who surrendered easily to the Visigoths. With their weapons they opened pits to hide their heads.

There is only one acceptable way of reproduction: that of the cathartic.

They wanted to accept the colony’s ideas unconditionally without remembering how the World’s Metropolis should be.

A marriage between children of the sewers. I had to perform those bonds.

“I want you to draw my face on the canvas” he told me in a sensual way.

He ornamented the chair that was next to him with his dresses. After all, in a few minutes he would become Dead Nature. He temporarily stayed at my death bed that now had become his own uniform.

His body was to my eyes the golden apples of Esperides that I had to bring back to my country in order to get by.

His arms and legs were tied with a leash. I charted his area which was in an interesting situation and I had to make a report so as the material found would be classified.

My stiletto landed on her like an extra terrestrial disc which creates untranslatable hieroglyphs on the English land.

Always cut the spike that protrudes. This is what I did too. I cut his entire spike in its peak and I gave it to him to eat it.

Mucus of blood useful for my canvas’s painting…

I decided I had to operate. You can tame all the natural coloured climaxes with the proper pressure at any human body’s pressure gauge. I wanted to make a painting from human’s colour. A nominal anthropology… An anthropology without any person but at the Day of Judgment…

My painting would be named: “Laius was murdered by Oedipus”.

I would write snake-like and pre-historic lizards instead of people. My brother was a great contributor and sponsor to this painting. This is Fraternal Solidarity.

After all, I did not do anything that had not been done in the Old Testament.

While I was operating him, he was looking at me like the patient looks at his healer before he dies. A mobile painting “Lesson of Anatomy” of the Netherlands… Nobody can compete with Rembrandt. Not even me… Thank God he is not alive or he would end up a brother…

Thunder struck and scared he left this world for ever, without a voice or a pencil paper.

There was no originality. The only moment of originality in this fratricide-Thucydides said that civil wars were the worst of all- was that I wanted to impregnate my brother after his departure.

A nameless child, without a father, like me. A child without lungs and heart, like me. A child carcass, like me.

I chopped his carcass and got rid of him once and for all with a common way.

A new night rises…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

   LETTER 160

  Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

30-10-1999, New York

 Dear Louis,

I feel dizzy from the extreme actions of the lovers of my ex, present and eternal Joan. I constantly underline that the Pope of her heart is a man and unique. Harems do not exist in the palace of my Arts.

But I am dishonest, Louis. I am a Disloyal, superficial person. She swears on my mistrust’s governance. The difference is more than distinguished.

I invited two of my classmates to my apartment late last night. It was Raisha from Russia and Tsung Li from China. On their faces I saw Mao and Stalin.

If it wasn’t for communism, capitalism would not matter at all. It is possible, the opposing awe that doubts my interests in a fridge of planet Ares to be transmuted as an epidemic in my country, something which I deprecated and wanted to be aimed at its individuality.

I had the look of the arch that the pagan owners had.

Tsung Li had a skin of solar fog and her hair was black like that of Bernice. She was as little and plain as a small piece of wood in the Hippocrene…

On the contrary, Raisha, used to the Siberian winter, was a full moon and Antarctica, a rough ox-button, a bud ready to pop out of his petal. I was about to accept my defeat on her cold forehead and the decimation of Napoleon’s troops.

An unusual bear in its beauty. I would like to have her head as a trophy over my fireplace and her white skin as a rug to keep me warm during the Norwegian December nights.

We three followed a Bronx dance in a hip hop rhythm because I have the broadband and the right of the Pantocrator to doubt.

Sweaty as they were, they fell on my bed of casual crusade. I approached the sink to turn on the hot plate and make chocolate to pour on Tsung Li’s sweaty breasts and try it.

Mu hunger ceased the sit-down strike it had started in my stomach and moved on to her love’s Taksim.

Raisha was shamelessly flirting as an escort at the October Revolution in despair’s creek, not caring whether there will be a laurel to crown her Seferian achievements and save her.

While I was a tenant at Tsung Li’s ozone-spherical apartments, Raisha driven by her curiosity, moved to her lower levels to water the chosen plants of her studio flat.

Like a caring Samaritan she was willing to take what was inside outside since the tenant was about to move out.

Every kiss or stroke there, made Tsung Li to burst in lust’s cries like a cackle that suddenly stops and the next time echoes its vowels and consonants louder.

An upward sound climax that slightly affects my own employment. I had to throw away the chocolates with my broomstick like a lawful supervisor. I had poured all these in a vanilla ice-cream giving the surface another printer’s look from that of the content that has as its ultimate proposition to fool the consumer.

My kilometric hand wanted to clean the flat’s windows but the flat was closed due to renovation. Raisha moved the furniture to the living-room so as to place pipes on the beggar-walls where water gushed. A lust of a red garment…

I had to open the fountains so as the soil would go away and leave water to flow. I do not usually live in such flats…

I am the dauphin of grandiosity. At the palace of Versailles or at the villa of Medici, since one of my ancestors belonged to the generation of the “Bourbons-Capetids”.

Now I had to confine myself to Saint Petersburg and the palace of the Forbidden City. There was a chance I would be Japheth in tubular spaces.

When we try to avoid something, it will always approve of us in the beginning of every century till it stops existing with our death. Awe soon became action.

My tyrannosaurus found its natural place for the protection of his meteors whose shadows resembled figures inscribed in the depths of the caverns.

Thus, it had to reach the surface and one of them should override it so as every shadow could realize it has a downward pull and a special weight. If you are Romanos Diogenes, never show willingness to leave your eyes… Your destiny, which is the others, guides you…

My bread had been accommodated in Tsung Li’s garden. Raisha was melting her butter on my bread and on the side cookies to make it tastier. It was a game for tasters. The winners would receive a Dionysian prize on the footstall.

It is really honourable to think that you serve two parts: the one where you are visitor and the one you serve to the others.

A Xenios Zeus from the depths of Arabia… Proceedings and observer at the same time like a full moon phenomenon and an eclipse of a whole conjugation.      

I felt a cookie moving on my burnt baking tin, like Saturn on the move, so as my fever would rise.

A Dionysian panther was stroking Tsung Li’s eyes his nitric rain from the hair.

My erection caused double pleasure at the Pillar of Salt: For the one that felt, it remained silent and the one it could not avoid it wanted her to protest so as to seem more like a victim than accomplice to the immolator’s crime and declare her innocent in front of the jury-cameras. Or maybe she catches the crime’s reactions when she becomes an eye witness or an auricular one after she has forgotten its essence.

Raisha took a candle spider from the table and its fragile liquid started flowing on my chest.

I was taken aback by this and thus the pain was multiplied, like the Lord’s fish and breads.

“The candle of my life may start to flicker…” I thought.

China and Russia in the 19th century were enough for France.

The candle penetrated my body and became one with it. Finally I ensured Saccharin and I caused orgasms to Tsung Li with my candle’s simulator.

After the party was over, I gave them my painting which I had made with my brother’s organs. I cut it in two. Fair judgment and Solomonean. Since they could not admire the brother who was judged by Minos and Rhadamanthus, I gave them my recreated other self from a striker cloak.

I know you will wonder why I killed my brother.

I stop whatever suits me. I kill what I admire to stop it from surpassing me. I want to be one of a kind! Spherical…

When the chariot of Phaeton comes outside the emblem of my Lancasters, I observe any change that needs to be fixed in the sink since I am a Mercedes of many rules which exhausts its strength.

I give birth to the Shell-born in copies. Nutritious over the lips, to stop the smoker’s cough… Anti-wrinkle under and next to the eyes so as to eliminate the goose’s foot. Finally on the cheeks to prevent the spots of the laughters…

I exercise to serve the son of Hera. I will bathe with wrinkles of Akhaimenes and I will wear colourful clothes so as to be a living canvas… I was always a fan of the image breakers…

Images express something static. On the contrary, I am an idea-planet at the shadows of values. I do not contradict.

Painting is an art of images. I take its logos and give meaning to them via the roles I perform.

My position in art is the moving power. I have everyday friends and fabulous riches. I just hold a problem in my hand like an heirloom: I do not incubate anyone.

That is why I use the method of three to others, so as to feel I am doing something creative.

You see it’s the lack of values… I can bear anything I want and give birth to anything I do not want. I am an impure scum that I cannot be punished by any law, human or divine. I vent my spleen and I take the lives of others…

I am a historic person and universal like the followers of Church. The country that helps me to me is very near-sighted. I acquire everything with any natural cost. I will go to any place of the earth if I like it and without meeting embankments on my Via Appia.

I am your God on earth. I am your worshipped calf since you do not have the proper self knowledge.

Louis, I am the indoor inmate at your school. Sometimes though, I walk on your intestines like the sparkles from the friction of the ignescent stone.

The invisible man who commits tortures… And then becomes visible to many… He always seems pure though…

Like you and I…

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 198

Louis Martineux to Damien Adaleux

1-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Lucy had invited all the guys to her house to see extra scenes from the “Deep Throat” on television.

I, Antoine, George, Jean, Fernando, Henry, Robert, Jacques, Lorraine, Dominique, Francois, Cornelius from the Netherlands, Ivan from Serbia and Hakim from Kosovo.

Europe of the Fifteen at her feet and looking to milk her cow.

Agrippina’s reincarnation with a transparent night gown. She coiled her body on her hunkers in front of the television and while half unconscious she asked for an Asclepius.

Antoine was kissing her left ear and I was the right’s driver. Jean and George’s tongues were like reptilian eggs on Easter bread in her mouth. Henry and Fernando excelled at the anarchic and rightist party of her female hill. Louis was asking for a prediction from Dodona’s oracle. Jacques was playing her right hand’s fingers with his tongue like the piano’s keys. Lorraine was flaming those of her left hand like a harmonica. Dominique was preoccupied with the Alexandrian lips of the Foreign Office. Francois, with those of Home Department and with the trunk of the hateful rain. Cornelius was looking to bombard her Achilles heel that would not leave the turtle knowing the danger and the bombarding. Hakim was licking her left foot’s toes like he was eating bread without sponge cake. Ivan was kissing her right foot, since he did not know what her left one was doing, like a prisoner in Hague does to his fiancé behind the bars.

Sighs of repentance were penetrating our ears like the echoes of an electric guitar do to the criminals sentenced for life. He was the Yliki of our own sighs and Ms Basilica was choked by our feathers because she preferred our company to that of Ali Pasha.

Our Scandinavian migratory birds landed on a warmer place not to freeze her with the snow we had on our wings but to clamp the nerve of her immaculate waters, so as we could continue our flight to Tanganyika and whoever was not down with the Thai flu could leave.

Every time a bird was entering her lake’s wet surges, she was calling its name. Ducks, swans, quails…

Zoo parades. They were not getting wet but just tasting her curing waters. They were throwing her milk, honey and candies without doing the thing they wanted even though it was offered to them.

Tantalus’s doubles or imitators? On her body unfinished life’s vomits were flowing. These children would find their father only by IVF.

Our tongues had become brushes to create a copy of “Sleeping Aphrodite” with the dissolved fruits. On the first level there would be the twelve French and her. On the second one, the immigrants’ Unholy Triad and the proper Punishment.

The man from Kosovo, though sixteen years old, was like a tied-up rabbit accepting the Dutch’s stinger on the bolt hole of his hills and the Serbian’s Kalashnikov.

This soon changed since the racist Serbian took the place of the Kosovar rebel. Crimes are always committed from both sides in civil wars and you could commit them or me if we had the bad luck to be Serbians or Albanians.

The Serbian’s body was a court of law and a purgatory for the victims of a war of lust. According to their opinion he should be on trial in Pristine or Hague.

A court of law with subtle blames and innocent people or guilty. The Balance of Justice leaned towards the south of the Balkans. The other one was leaning towards the north furious with the Dutch.

The Serbian’s stomach was a place full of dehydrated munitions. He had to pay because he had molested the Kosovar without asking for the Dutch’s opinion.

I always liked Dirk Bouts and his Madonnas who like tulips were keeping their fluffy breasts to the eternal Kichle for the babies’ milk.

They were injecting vitamin D to the Serbian to boost his bones-guards of the racist leaders (1992-1995). A huge baby that had to be shrank because another one asserts its autonomy with its wealthy powers.

The Kosovar had ridden the Serbian. Four roses and two colourless glassworks had been created so as the demand of the political rights of the mutineers could be broken with an arrow. This was not the first time that something like this happened. Richelieu preceded centuries ago.

The Dutch, with the spirit of an ambiguous innovator, observes the real power.

His Swedish glasswork either broke with his solid pipe and when he thought it was to be broken he continued his course to the Voiotian so as to taste the sense of danger or because he was overwhelmed by boredom brought by the human interaction and the different should be finally chosen since something like this was not in a panoramic place.

That scene reminded me of Rubens’s triptych for the Descent from the Cross.

Same taste in another experience’s body. After all, the Gadarene Demon had been reincarnated into all the swines since they had the same metrical multidimensional phonology.

While our twelve stars were moving on your girlfriend’s mouth in the most frantic party, the Kosovar’s glass and blood were falling on the Serbian’s warehouse.

Needless to say that I sent her the letter your Chinese and Russian gave to me in a form of love letter.

It seems that the Russian Revolution made her breathe fresh oxygen and she decided, as revenge to your writings, to welcome your mates as a trophy.

Leave her in space like a Halley while you can! It is the best advice I can give you!

I did not want to eat what you daily ate out of zeal or curiosity…

I just wanted to show you that our friendship means more than all those Lolitas!

You are obliged not to these peacocks but to your friends and you should give them your energy and time! It diminishes your status as a man!

Girls have us on their hands like a string of beads. The “others” are for our diet. This seems to be somebody “else”.

It is beneath you to pull Santa’s sleighs!

You have to break up with her!

Can’t you see that she is poking her nose into our business?

She wants you to leave us… How long will you tolerate your Ptolemaic literature with her tongue as broom trying to take us away from you? Can’t you see she is a common person who pretends to be a Marquise?

She is Penelope’s tumour.

Do you remember when we were smoking the pipe of Aristophanes and she reacted telling you: “Your words are a disgrace… Your speech is vulgar…”

You were right to reply: “You never smoked the pipe of Nicias with me! Why are you so annoyed then?”

You silenced the slut, since you cannot seal her mouth with a normal way!

Since we respect you and we care about you, we did what you cannot do…

This silk breeder eats your intestines… You belong to me and we belong to you for a long time.

Last night, the twelve of us beat an old homeless man to death at the banks of Seine. He was filth for our city’s reputation… He was also detrimental to tourism… We threw him to the river’s bottom with my yacht so as that piece of trash could not be seen anywhere…

An immoral piece of art by a dubious, almost bankrupt artist…

One solution is possible. Either you break up with her or you will find her floating on river Styx. There is no middle solution.

Remember your glorious past… Unless you want us to give you the baton and like Othello it will surrender to her arms.

The decision is yours but we demand your answer soon…

Yours,

Louis Martineux

  LETTER 200

Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

5-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Claire,

I am hanged now to the canyon of Samaria. Damien charms all the ladies but he always comes back to me.

I was writing a letter to my friend Simon in my office in the middle of the night. I heard an eerie creak from the window. I thought the pomegranate’s branches were the 1x1 that were frontiersmen with my balcony at the garden.

The Mistral was furious and from my window’s spinning wheel oxygen was being stolen.

Damien was at my balcony like an upset monkey. On his belt there were the faces of Isis and Osiris, vivid and with hieroglyphs.

He was attracted to Tutankhamun’s tomb and the Hellenistic land of the Pharaohs. But I could never imagine he could worship other deities apart from his own “ego”.

His acrylic shirt and his body showed even his most profane mistakes.

His nose had been pierced with an earring from selenite and opal. The bad stone’s moderator… He told me that, like an Olympic Champion, he had passed the fences and the dogs had slept like the Northern Star of the sea due to barbiturates… Then he reached my balcony from the ivy and came to my window like a glass breaker.

All this time, like Alcestis, I was writing a novel for him about an immigrant from abroad. More specifically? From Russia. Thus I made a few comments and I studied sociology.

When I read it to him, Damien was looking at me like a puzzled Eskimo.

“Are you still occupied with these fairytales for little children? They can’t bother a Rito!”

The size of Eridanus keeps growing when he falls on our neighbourhood.    

It still looks like a particle when it settles like dust away from us. His eyes had lost the sea’s foam. He was spreading his asphalt, which was in dehiscence, on me.

I think I sometimes used the divisions of the air bombers to make him feel like a naught. Maybe because I wanted his solid wing to get wounded and his ashes to be thrown to the Greek open-sea, like the famous Greek singer’s.

We were an unknown champion’s ramp that could easily turn to the left like me or to the right like him. We had never met in the centre.

I was not Scylla but Charybdis whispered something in my ear and pushed me to the bed like a police officer pushes the burglar to the cell. He was holding his lips like a big catastrophe was about to come.

He made my garter his helmet and he tied my hands so as I could not resist to my excavation’s rubbish dump. I kicked his balls like a true Artemisia and he was howling like a wolf for hours. The anti-genetic ways of pleasure were at their peak for everyone apart from this happy stub. I would never let him brag to his friends and teachers for the innovation he wanted tom make. I had a reputation that could not be disturbed. My damaged honour had to be restored with a marriage. Anything else would be a painful defeat.

“I want a child to be born from your heart…” he had told me with his face beet red.

“Unfortunately this cannot happen. Metropolis is bleeding due to your apostasy…”

He was Ho Chi Minh and I was his Indochina’s cry.

It is weird not to give birth when you are bleeding. The unborn children will give you their message. They die not only in your imagination but in your calyx too.

Every new moon you commit a crime: “You have to give birth when you carry a child”. Your body’s ten rules…

Your biped will utter it, society, soul… But Voltaire’s Priestess tells you to become the Murderer of your personal pronoun in nominative case and in your first singular…

“We are breaking up for good today!” he told me with the thunder of Zeus and he turned to leave while he began zipping his fly.

“I will say Everything to your father’s brain!” I told him in a blackmailing tone.

“If you do this, I will tell your father that your first cousin became Porphyrion at the age of nine. You were not Sekhmet to avoid him and you hadn’t even seduced a Kou like me.!” That was his response to the glove’s fall.

Like one of the Vestales, I begged him on my knees not to do it. If my cousin knew this, he would go to Hades and my father would end in High Court.

I would lose the rod and sandals of Hermes, my wealth and my belongings. I could not stand this social imputation.

Relieved from my unhealed wound he told me like Cassander: “We will break up. You only make me pity you! Do not cry… You are cheap like the paper you use to write… If you go on like this, my fraternity will deal with you… You irritate me…”

His final words fell like razors on my body and not penetrate mandragor’s tricks.

I called Otus and not Efialtes that I was going through that moment-one of the two guards of the External Gate-and begged him to take Damien with my father’s car, like a birthday gift with a galactic ribbon.

I do not want my enemies to respect me; only to fear of me. I must find out who told Damien to break up with me so as my plain but like a swordfish nail will properly deal with him.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 201  

  Damien Adaleux to Lucy Sanguin

6-5-2000, Paris

 Dear Lucy,

We had to take different roads in life. If that did not happen I would transform your heart into sugar while you were sleeping.

I cannot control what I feel. Don’t ask why. It is buried deep inside my heart. The explanation we give to the facts does not have a meaning so as to make them different from the phenomena. Our replies to them are simpler than we think.

This circle is over. Another lottery will be erected now so another one will begin. The nozzle in his heart does not have any more space for us. Our hearts are the pulpits of the ancient Gods that slowly abandon this world.

When we do not admit it, we are the outfalls of ourselves.

I want to be bifid like Nature. “Whys are not bifilar. I do not prefer them. They are the roads that Anchorites follow before the leader dies and many of them quit. Few managed to see the beams of the grassy sun and not get blind like Semele. Without naming the details I settle with Cornwall…

We will never be born on our own. We are looking for a protective nine month shield in our whole life…

The temple is a substitute of that Hera in Italy, Alexander’s sister or Bellerefonte in your arms…

Your place broke in a needle at the blisters of life and bodiless descended with her into the void.

What we have, passed us by without our will…

We never betray the one who has betrayed us…

I do not have a safer advice to give you.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 230

  Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

10-10-2000, Paris

 Dear Claire,

I managed to find my immolator in the school of Civil Sciences. I must be though an adjusting rubber to his mood that has the torch to know a Student of Letters. He is the toad-owl who will give the right shoe and become a prince in the carriage with pumpkins if he receives the proper kiss.

Like Alcamenes I will have to give the proper Pentelic shape to the marble owl from Paros. The work of Chalepas is an active procedure.

Phidias is the forerunner and the sculpture in any kind of transformations and corrections, a vulnerable God.

I will suck all his pollen like a bee until he withers.

A continuous work, detained like the cobra by her fakir.

As always I am a skillful archer.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 240

  Lucy Sanguin to Guillaume Papon

25-10-2000, Paris

 Dear Guillaume,

I am on the brink of a precipice… Who will sing to push it away? My father refuses to see Damien. I do not know the christogramme.

He never introduced me to his Girondins. I had introduced him though to all my Sans Culottes in a letter of mine sometime ago… A meaningless discrimination… His shareholders believe that my aerial has not been glued to their television.

I must have been a little star in their space. Perhaps they did not like me controlling Damien, like a Bodhidharma who marks his student, not with granite punishments or expulsions but with recommendation of what he himself would have done. Instead, Damien took me out of his life because he is always in favour of his disobedient classmate’s jokes. They were not right to me. I always thought that jokes against Melians are sent by Cleon but are never delivered. A joke made in asphalt by professional clowns.

He told me in an undisguised tone: “We are breaking up. I do not know how to assume responsibilities.”

Thus I ended up an aneamic, anorexic, sensitive girl. Atlas’s rock which everybody was staring at with surprise but avoided to endure that burden. Maybe because the sky has an ace up his sleeve. Maybe because the end of the dinosaurs came from him. Maybe because the sky does not touch us until we feel he has to pass the need.

Struts in the sky without always noticing it.

I am on the edge of a table like a Bohemian porcelain between two men’s ends while playing football not caring whether I will fall or not. This nice zit must be about to break.

Perhaps they do not like my Diogenes nature which has sperms of stoicism so as not to get into Judaism. If the nerves of my left hemisphere die this can happen with sensitivity.

I just offer them what they fear the most: a woman whose heart will not be lively like a fish.

His friends sabotaged his duties. They confiscated his mobile or immobile fortune for an honoured bill I had received from their Bank. Every month they demanded an increasing interest. This happy laughter will be redeemed expensively.

My cold plate’s hour glasses are contrary, counting conversely like a time bomb in a huge building that nobody knows when it is going to blast or where it is hidden.

A meaningless half measure if the employees in the sky-scraper become dromedaries a minute before the explosion and are informed with a call.

Unsigned moves of work. Guillaume, can you make the trigger bend so if I buy a gun you will be able to kill me?

I do not care if I live or not. I do not even care if I am an existing person. I do not think it is worth it to capture these bums. Not that I can’t. The world’s darkness won’t change with a dot defeat of the ruined attitudes.

I and a Moroccan friend of mine, Hassan, were planning my parents’ murder every time we embraced. “To death Ceausescu couple, my life’s dominant tyrants!” I exclaimed and with my hand like a spear held their picture like Samael’s Column of Stoning.

I had to play piano for all the generals at their symposia to make them express their flying feelings like an intruding gadfly attracted by light (even though she experiences darkness uninvited and sits on whatever food she wants). Thankfully these inspirations do not last long.

Damien was persistently asking me to bolt his neck with my nails. My teeth aren’t as ground as my nails. After all, he asks for this requital so as his blood-privilege of women-leaves.

When I was little, I pretended to be Artemis and my cousin was Actaeon when I was offended. A myth that occasionally alters its details…

I was not the daughter of Leto. I had just welcomed her face in a Marlow game that had been prepared by others.

Damien knows and I was blackmailed by him. At memory’s adolescence the father accommodated my impurity in our house and I asked for help from the imitator of Freud. You must never reveal your aces of spade when the solitaire is distributed.

He did not stay long and the Awe of the Possible Revelation disappeared.

Guillaume you are an amazing story-teller. I will send you a kiss on your cheek for the golden elephant which I have received as a gift.

A certain lucky charm…

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

 LETTER 270

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

12-1-2001, Paris

 Dear Louis,

I embroider her with citrus! While she was visiting a doctor, probably Hippocrates and not Asclepius, she fell off the stairs which she had moulded with her imagination like Nils Holgersson, fearing of the monsters which live in heaven… For a month and even more, I also thought that maybe my own face had been touched too.

I had to assume responsibilities since I was a man.

I had broken up with the living Lucy. Not the dead one that the functions of the Psychopomp were almost a horizontal line.

I had to descend to Hades with my lyre as a rose and bring her back to earth by kissing her on the forehead.

I do not simply despise her breath but also her involuntary exhalation.

She opened her haze infused eyes when she felt me, seeing not only the dew around but me too.

I ended up being a computer guided by her mouse-hand.

A few days later we were both at her room. There were no squares or rhombi… Only curves and enormous dots.

My hand was creating every acutangular of hers while she was alive and writhing with the combustion of corn seeds from her oil in the casserole.

Africa and Asia stopped being united in one body after the opening of the Suez Canal in the 19th century.

I had the exact same refreshing sense at the beginning of the 21st century, when I split her two continents’ secrets of millennia that existed under the civilizations of Zarathustra and the Pharaohs.

Observer of a natural technological miracle, a colonialist-successor of the French and the British who with illegal mediums was draining a country mercilessly captured.

Her nails on my back deleted Utah’s alphabet.

This parallel demonstration of power and obedience did not live up to my expectations.

A diamond drill landed like a lightning on my European pelvis. I continued my erotic excavation.

I was wondering whether I was looking for quarrymen in a mine of South Africa so as my procedures will have been finished in Suez where I had been charting and excavating.

Whatever is pale is not anthrax… In my unguarded drill I felt her rubies rolling on the juvenile wheel of my moon. A necessary humidity for my workers’ tools since hot wind and fever reduce the performance and the speed while working.

My Bengal Gulf was utopian for a draft so risky.

I wanted to promote my interests in this area but also reign by dividing them. Only this is how I win my rivals since I do not have a Turkish embassy or elevated throne to impose myself on the barbarian guests. Cry is always a means of intimidation…Nile was making the fields of Africa seem golden and Euphrates those of Middle East. My Mississippi was a kind of litany to make me transform into a rainmaker.

Sahara was the area-bond that had to be crossed so as the dangers that were threatening me would be processed and the undertaking would be balanced. The spasms proved the euphoric of my thoughts.

But when I went to her own ear like a vampire, she said while touching my shoulders with a sensual voice: “Guillaume, you are such a skillful lover!”

I may have been baptized by my parents with as many names as the earth’s gentians. They gave me the name Damien by chance. Naming is for the human beings a state of emergency like the skin or intestines are for the human body.

A man’s brain has the tendency to categorize human beings. “He is a bum”. “He is a rival in a love affair”. “He is a skillful lover”.

In this case though, to my astonishment, my name did not coincide with that category.

I felt like an actor when he does not hear his name-even though nominated for an Oscar- trying to realize what exactly had happened to him.

I felt like a Norwegian canoeist at the fiords. Passages everywhere without seeing any destination.

My imaginative assignments at the Pyramid of Giza were intercepted with the name “Guillaume”.

After all, Iacchus is the man’s Nature unless he eliminates all of her and directs it to his Persian caravan. The subordinates gradually but progressively left for Cairo for our own Ambassador.

I dressed like a clap, like a Casanova who is scared of his big brother’s lost honour. It felt like Golgotha until I left from her house in my Citroen.

A thought was always on my mind: “Who is this Guillaume at last?”

Also, how could I handle this situation for my own benefit in the best possible way?

But my blood was boiling in my veins like a chicken does in a pressure cooker. I had crossed every permissible boundary of my driving.

When I got home I phoned Louis and told him to find a few handsome men so as I could throw my anger on whoever I found.

It did not take long for them, who would be getting well paid, to arrive.

It was Sergey from Russia, Martin from Germany and Janus from Poland.

While they were unfolding their fibres like the Three Ladies in Charleston, I was drinking a whole bottle of whiskey like a true Bacchus wondering who will pull my leash, who will unfold it and who will cut it in the end.

I gave the German and the Russian a bottle of cenotaph. I ordered them after they had drunk in those two seats to give birth to chopped echidnas of the earth. They obeyed happily.

I ordered to empty their summary on the back blessed by the Pope with the craters of the Polish. Perhaps I wanted to cover the chasms of the earth with their antidotes. I never wished to see lava in others. Only to feel it on my feathers.

I wanted to make the land fertile since sometimes fallow is not enough. I need willing and loyal tools to better the quality of production.

I ordered both of them to lick his back with their mouths so as the torrid board to have a title: “The Colonization of the 20th century in the European Land.”

With the handcuffs on my bedside table they tied the hands of the Polish man on the ends of the pillar-like bed. The first level was completely absent. The diachronic on the second one had transformed into a temporary one.

The Russian and the German and the third Roman soldier were whipping him without sadness and I was the informer of the whippings.

On the throne the neutral judge-Christ.

“The whipping of Christ” of Piero della Francesca had once greatly impressed me.

This time though, the painter Jesus preferred to put his Polish ideal type in the place of himself. For every time bomb I gave them one euro.

They will dismember Poland so as to split it in two. The German was hitting the west part and the Russian the east one.

What if though I was Montefeltro on the imaginary first level and my assassins were Lucy and Guillaume?

The Polish man was spitting on their faces when that was allowed.

The Germans’ Protestantism and the Russians’ Orthodox Christianity were like an agent with the lighters on his wounds since he suffered complete burns…

Blood was chipping his body like the crossing rivers were doing to Germany and Russia.

His palate was burnt by their two cigars that had a reversed course than the expected.

I had to give a bottle from the sea battle of Arginousses to the collection of the dead.

I sealed the nozzle with a message to an unknown recipient that the paper included so as a few days later the English Channel could be supplied.

It was not enough for me that the bottle came close to the vulgarity of war. I wanted to be a protagonist at the battle of Pydna.

He lit my cigar so as to get third degree burns. It was a matter of time or natural specs for these three seats of fire to be damped down.

In the huge fires the villagers pray for rain that never comes. The same happened with our little Polish. We sprinkled his land with water from Epiphany and we hallowed everything so as the impure creatures would be released to the fields.

Unique archetype of a religion you would say but as alive as my vision!

Three debauched bishops we were who banished his goblins so as to admire them in all their glory.

Like another Napoleon I was charmed by the one pretending to be my Maria Valefska.

I was as competitive as the other local super powers which were fighting in Berlin for who will finish first or simultaneously.

When my vases-thoughts emigrated to Guillaume and emptied the place, I had to think of a plan.

The Polish would become Guillaume’s wax doll. A role reversal…

I always prefer natural ingredients to artificial ones when it comes to my art.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 300

  Lucy Sanguin to Claire Beaumont

10-8-2001, Paris

 Dear Claire,

My Parthian arrow finally managed to make the apple over Damien’s head mosaic.

He is simmering inside. It is not enough for me. The spirituality and the end of omnipotence in Guillaume’s envious eyes will stop.

The cause of feelings is the most successful indicator of results.

I have the golden larnaxes of Vergina in front of me. Should I not take advantage of their discovery by their over exposure to the audience of the Museum d’Orsay? Lots of dollars will flow…

The hooks will be presented as golden pagoda… Guillaume was manna from heaven… Damien was Daniel for the lions.

Men are beings which you can play with, like a harp, if you know their Achilles’ heel. Achilles was a man and Thetis the mother that gave birth to the man…

Women know men’s secrets better than themselves.

Paris or Menelaus? I haven’t decided yet… The verdict will come a few seconds before the winner’s confirmation.

To tell the truth, I would like Damien for my lover and Guillaume for husband-intellectual… Women’s supremacy? When we are pregnant it is only us that know who the father of the kid is…

Guillaume is the perfect victim for me to bring Damien’s dead torch back to life.

Guillaume will offer me money and Damien emotional assurance…

No Boeing of my interests will be misled or bleed from the pilot’s cabin at the Bermuda Triangle.

I feel a bog in my soul that has swollen up like dough.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 310

 Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

10-8-2001, Paris

 Dear Damien,

You received your degree in gynecology and obstetrics over a night. You are a jumper with awful performances. On the contrary, he is the fascinating Fersen of his queen.

He speaks thirteen languages and has a diploma in Political Science. How do you lead your life?

He is doing his doctorate in the Balkan civil wars. His father is Welsh.

Metropolis is getting its revenge for 1776. I expect the Twentieth Century to outlaw your memory.

He wrote to me that you are a heterozygous pathetic son of new born twins and that your hair has become turf from every kind of opium.

He asked me to reunite because you needed me. I showed him lots of your drafts and he said you are a new promising Ensor. He also assigned you a new poetic composure that has been attached to my letter. (1)

I am his heart’s golden intersection and he comes into my cave’s womb like Host.

In his eyes there is an acclivitous road paved with Calycotome villosa as satellites. In yours I see the declivitous with the garlands of Saint Xenon.

He is the philosopher who shows the sky of the Athenian School with his hand and you are its marble ornaments.

He is Saint George and you are the ideal winged dragon. I am Andromeda tied on the rocks with your chains…

He comes from the sign of Boo, you from the sign of Oph and I from the big Dog… A true starry empyrean.

I do not know whether I have to choose Julius Caesar or Marcus Antonius. I feel his mind is a labyrinth and I have to find the end of the strand! But how can I come out once I come in?

He has the eyes of a Byzantine sea eagle and I am the Empress Zoe if the head is not bowed. His heart offers me a lion cub’s tail. His chest a garden that you will never have. There is a kangaroo feeling in his Hermes for the weird names he has given his children. His body is a tropical of testosterone. When you give him a plate with food he carries the whole world in his hands. He is an investor actor of others that understands French Revolution and the ways it affected Europe.

He will be the triumphant.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 338

   Damien Adaleux to Juan Lamouz

5-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Juan,

It would be dishonest of me to claim that I’m not a maniac these days.

Surprise is more preferable than block. I decided to approach the ideal husband so as to sink his ships in Actium along with her who belonged to the South of the empress which I will enfilade.

She is the South and I am the North. I missed the West and East to make a Latin or Greek crucifix.

I steered myself in his mind’s Marseilles with a letter. Place of meeting?

My house of course… The palace of my Parisian Rome…

After all, the cathedra of the Popes moved for many years from Vatican to Avignon in France.

I have the Infallibility and I do not plan to give it away to others.

As her Pope, I had to find a way to eliminate my illegal enemy since I will have to return to my Holy Cathedra one day.

Spiritualized… I do not disagree… Of a humble origin though and a shaking morality… Son of a fallen family… All his wealth was lost in the altar of the New City’s Lion.

My fingers became chords in an Apollonian lyre when I impressed the notes he needed on the score…

The contract he signed with his soul’s blood had one condition on the numbered paper of absolution. He would do whatever I commanded.

He was not given thirty pieces of silver… One million euro was a start… I always believed that all people have a price…

The volume, the weight and the quality determine the value of the products. Transmutation brings the data’s rapid change.

I, an ambassador of the Eternal Flowing… The Great Teacher of Imputation and Fallacy…

My manuscripts are illegitimate or forged I dare say. The compass that crosses them is doubt. Only then they are transformed into originality.

Whatever is visible does not exist, but is. Whatever is is visible but I doubt it exists. Whatever exists is not visible but it may be.

Whatever is dictated to him, he will write it and do it.

My Cleopatra will be unwillingly bitten by my megaphone.

My hand is a snake of infinitesimal calculus.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 350

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

20-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Guillaume is throwing down the glove. He told me that you cannot make a square in chess with me, Louis and Jean Pierre.

When the cross evolves from a baboon to a person it will become the fifth terminus in row on the five tangential spots of the circle. Guillaume, without touching your band, claims that Aeolus took the two plane tree’s leaves on which you stand at his branch. He says that the one plies in Gibraltar and the other in the land of Aeetes.

He also saw that I laid out your derivative. Your true father wrote to me that he does not have your surname. Apart from everything else he told me the divine words that you chew LSD like Pythia. He mentioned that you are a conscious Van Gogh as if he knows you from the future continuous.

He must be a native Calchas. How can he know all these things without having his Canis Majoris on your area? I expect your reply.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 360      

   Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

26-10-2001, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

I became the statue of Milos. Guillaume asked for our hands to be united. His word is a Californian ghost. In my room I am Teresa from Avila. I do not drink. I do not eat. I do not speak. I only wet my sheet. Without explanation. I cry over nothing. Is it possible for a Tristan to neglect his Isolde and have a positive sign when he sends her to death?

Two equitant layers of nicotine under my eyes and next to them the feet of a duck.

Ho can this youth go together with its deterioration? Nobody calls me anymore. Who is responsible for my misery and for shutting out my friends? Who?

I miss Damien now. Only he knows how to love me for who I truly am…

We are made from the same material. Cherries on a birthday cake and all the banqueters are poisoned. We do not care to ruin the lives of others. We just use them to hurt each other.

But this cannot really happen. You cannot shoot life. Nor give breath to death.

We are both fire-proof. How can your liver be appreciated by your belly? Everyone was betrayed but ourselves…

Babylon’s pyramid-like gardens! Do you know which our previous reincarnation was? Pharisees, Jewish cantonal judges at God’s crucifixion, a responsibility totally ours.

In 1330 we were reborn as fleas on mice and we exterminated half of Europe’s population with the bubonic and pneumonic plague.

In another life we were guillotines for the decapitation of royal heads but also for the elimination of the people of Revolutionary France.

We are the idea of Typhus and Anomy…

We are Jesus Christ’s miracles! Nothing would be possible without Him!

He gave us a fertile land and our privileges! A better generation than our own sad one will come!

We are not all God’s creatures… Do our mushrooms cause you any problems?

Sophie, when you hurt others you benefit yourself.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 400

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux  

12-1-2002, Paris

 Dear Louis,

The sun’s coronation brought my empire’s rise. Lucy came like the moon in vertigo. I waited for her like a lion waits for the unconscious deer.

I kissed her forehead like the living bury the dead in mausoleums.

In the half lit living room, the electrocution of my kisses penetrated her body’s fire-flies. A new light was sparkling in the half opened door of my room.

A cage with the mystery’s decoder as bait. She laid her red raincoat on the table ready for the undetermined ritual. My hands were hotel keepers in my pants’ pockets having the humidity of the night…

I had chosen a privileged death for her amongst myriads that were out there.

Her hearing on the separative line between lying and truth was stimulating to me, giving it a small push like when we close our house’s door to the canary which came for the locals with bait.

I blocked the door with the keys of Saint Peter and I unlocked my darkest appetites.

The fox that all these years showed me she would be sentenced to death in our arms.

Every small or big Sunday would be drafted on her body by me. She would be paid up for her affair with Guillaume with an increased bank rate.

I stumbled and slightly hit my leg.

She tried to elevate her dignity. She asked for the reason of my action. She had not realized that Louis and Jean Pierre were carved on two chairs in the empty space for painting. One in Japan and the other in America were mobile only with the Floridian asianism.

When she realized it she became a sun with clouds in front of me. She fell down, kissed and cried on my knees. The weaned water of the Repentant Sinner…

I felt like a little God. Every Jehovah though must be affable for his crucifix. I did not intend to quit from the grass. I should not only be part of a miracle but also be the miracle. Nobody had the right to steal my Resurrection.

After all, her tears did not clean my octopuses but only my dusty shoes. Abraham’s sacrifice did not matter at all.

She kept apologizing to me for the shadows she had taken off my body saying that to convey somebody else’s words was one of her most provocative mistakes…

I acted with the Viking executioner’s instinct. I pulled her hair like Neanderthal and threw her roughly on the bed. How could she believe in Thoth’s miracles if she did not take part herself?

They taught us that believing in our God is a universal value. How are you going to teach his religion if you do not suffer his own tortures? But you have the right to steal the name of an anonymous God and be written in the holy incidents of life. Every one of us can become God. Just as long as somebody has the guts to accept the fact that this right belongs to all people until someday it is taken from them. I do not disagree. Bitter acceptance… Necessary for Mother Earth…

I threatened her that if she does not obey like a scout to my wishes I will send her loved one to the Underworld since I will reveal him her dual Aristotelian and her numerous lovers by their names and addresses.

I keep my promises. Fear had become a satellite over her head while Charon was threatening her loved one. I was a mason of the universe and at the same time a God-lamb.

I would once again sacrifice my soul to save the world.

Salvator Mundi above our heads… And us four like guards in hypnosis.

We would face the light of dawn like a pearl and with chameleons discs in the sky as a sign.

I always appreciated Piero della Francesca as a fresco artist.

A vertical sober power which does not doubt its value… Almost like Poussin’s… I am attracted by the monumental… How could I be deified without recruiting painters and religious images or students like Louis and Jean Pierre?

The third cockscomb was blackmail’s four-leaf clover. Of a practical nature I would say…

I would describe details to her Saturn from her rape by her cousin.

Her eyes acquired a tempest like before we were arrested by Efialtes.

Louis and Jean Pierre rose from their chairs and with human bodies stood on the left and right side of the bed for the Rightful Judgment.

Her hands became aeroplanes and hit the Twin Towers. These had collapsed from over heating.

Lots of corpses were flattening her little town. New York became Jerusalem and her mouth became a dump. I should have been a worthy descendant of Innocent the Third at Holy Land.

The remnants of the Birth and the temple of the Resurrection and Golgotha lied heavy on me. I had to reconstruct them with a crusade of dogmatic style and raise my Holy Crucifix.

As king of England, the conquest of Cyprus was a distractive plan.

The Mother of all Nations had received all the believers in her papal mitre while on her knees at the remnants of the Twin Towers. The constructive repairs lasted long.

I preferred to dig her ground so as to steal the cloak under the Altar.

Her papal mitre became river Jordan and I received the fire’s baptism after the flood.

The other two were surrounding me like animals in the barn and she was John the Baptist.

Perhaps we were the three magicians who offered her gifts… A female Jesus! My right side of the left heel… After all, gods cannot be confined in waterproof cases or genders.

I felt the shakes of her buttresses in the cathedral of Reims. I hid in her basements to escape from the outer bombarding that shook my faith and my lion head.

That church was antiseismic. If she resisted like it happened in Paris when conquered by the Germans, she would transform into an African-American fairy.

Knowing though the difficult position I was in, she did not resist at all.

This unconditional faith without precautions could add new fans to those already existing.

I do not pose any new demand for the time being.

Our bodies’ unity was the sumptuous feast of the Christian liturgy.

The friction of the bodies with other believers announcing during liturgy causes cacophony and lighters in the soul that you have as kindling under your clothes. I now saw Louis and Jean Pierre more competitively. But differently too…

Who would take the gold, the silver or the bronze medal in her body? Medal is not enough. Our performances mattered as well.

Who would throw his child further to the hymen which was taking various inclinations?

It seemed like your ectoplasm was rolling on your bathing suit. Nails that were trying to get over each other.

The balloon was about to break. Her look was not much different than that of Catherine the Great. At some point I felt like I saw goddess Astarte.

Thankfully, I quickly baptized her Unholy Altar with toothpaste so as she could write a New Testament.

The other two baptized her and baptized themselves with lather.

The Big Catastrophe always comes from a clarification of calculations. The need for catharsis even stronger…

After this hieratic paroxysm-Louis a catholic and Jean Pierre a protestant- I can claim that Christ’s church endured the reprisal towards the Catholics and the slaughter of the Huguenots without a grumble.

It was a religious cry of intercourse.

With myself beaten by the waves every time Guillaume pretended to be me and projected my most macabre thoughts on Lucy as if they were his.

Our bodies were like seaweeds on our feet carried away by currents of indefinite direction.

We thought touch was an anonymous identity of the flesh, knowing the texture and not her origin. I did not care at all about her details.

The feeling that we were a portion of a New Year’s pie whose levels we had tasted before and not at her completeness which was enough…

It seemed I took my revenge from Guillaume like an angel-avenger, but in reality I had revenged Lucy who was unaware of her breakdown.

A double triumph. I would not have the temples of Rome dead like Augustus. Now I was not only an Emperor but a God too.

This double quality assures you immortality. Why not a vast arrogance like the desert’s grains?

The torture was completed at the same time with the miracle. Combine business with pleasure.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

   LETTER 480

  Lucy Sanguin to Damien Adaleux

4-11-2002, Paris

 Dear Damien,

Guillaume described to me what happened that January sunset with every detail as if he was a witness.

He had called me Mother Teresa and I was so furious that I wanted to erect his stamen and make his hippopotamus emerge.

He wrote to me saying that he will be citizen of your Rome if you obey the following Ten Commandments: 1) you must have sexual intercourse of deconstruction with your Holy one and Louis as your accomplice, 2) you must have sexual intercourse of masons with your “Lucrezia Borgia”, 3) you must rape Abel for his sacrifice, 4) you must become subject and object of a sentence at the same time with your friend Jean Pierre joining too, 5) you must express your love with actions in Lenin’s Mausoleum, 6) you must taste all kinds of addictions with wine and lamb over night, 7) you must be a child molester in Thailand, 8) you must make a woman fall for you head over heels and then break up with her so as she become depressed, 9) you must truly love a boy by kissing it on the mouth, like a lion, and your feeling should be bottled, 10) after you do all these things, you must invite him home to show him in Trilogy (Birth, Peak and Decay) your recorded achievements.

The Ninth Commandment is as impossible as to turn your Creator into Isaac. He specifically told me that only when Christ becomes king of hell will you have pure human feelings and that you are unable to do many things.

He says you were born with lots of “must” and you maintain a proper fame in society like a virtuoso.

He wrote to me that he already knew what kind of hideous actions you will do.

Thus, freedom of will is a rank lie which some people infuse in human beings’ souls so as to tame the caged beasts and keep them from being released and devour them. He told me he dared you to make me realize that you were not the best from those three in the box!

I was the satirical drama and you were the three tragedies. He claims he had won the first prize in the Great Spiritual Dionysia.

He underlined that it is impossible he had contributed in your soul’s rotting; this had happened long ago…

Is he the man of my life? I don’t know… I am sending you Guillaume’s letters so as you can gain Poseidon in your Aphrodite like the Great Wall of China which has been mildewed. I confess that Guillaume has a greater impact on my thought than your sphere of influence.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  LETTER 520      

 Damien Adaleux to Louis Martineux

4-2-2003, Paris

 Dear Louis,

The eighth miracle of the world! Myself! Guillaume succumbed to my money and I persuaded him to break up with my Assam!

My Babylonian communist queen of Star Wars got trapped in the scheme I had planned.

In the corner of the Eternal Geometer, the greatest rival, I dropped his Saturnalia. I took advantage of the situation of Luck and Need.

Poor her! She thinks that her father does not know what her cousin did to her when she was little… She deludes herself… An adulteress with a leaden parental signature… A callous hand holding the lantern. Ignorance is defeat’s best student.

Guillaume was a gift from God. He helped to make her humble-loyal. I fired him when he started having feelings for her. I managed to poison their relationship.

This fortune-hunter, though, must be displaced. I am the culprit… I will make sure she never finds out…

Let her live with her Chimeras! Let the cast of the non-emancipated be away from me. I must have been a Hindu prince in a previous reincarnation.

I believe in Milk of Curable Spurious of Greek Pensive Joy and Sadness and in His good grace. All pathetic people must thank him like Lucy and I in the Olympic Stadium.

How can you appreciate health without sickness? How can you admire the pigeon if you do not separate it from the bat? How can you separate the dump from the beach?

I do not allow anyone to interfere with my private life and decry it as if we have been friends for years.

I am an important person of society. I am not just somebody…

Judgments or prophecies about my name are unacceptable. I am on the peak of my decay. Did anybody ask to be saved by him?

I do not ask for redemption. The county’s nature and my beauty’s charm are gables on my Evening star.

Nobody can count though the size of worms I have inside me with decimal numbers.

I can walk on the sea’s storm and lead you to the Promise Land through it. Christ blesses people like me! Sinners of the world blessed by Christ! My father and I had the Star of David on the ring.

I would not be a Christian if he didn’t lavishly give me privileges. I would search for another boss.

I am a lamb in the sheepfold for whoever makes the most beneficial offer.

Don’t forget! Christ once had a traitor for his student! It seemed he loved traitors and rotten figs very much!

Lucy gives me her scarf knowing I corrupt her so as she can benefit me. The other guy offered her everything and she led him to disaster.

I will not say any more details. I am a discreet person.

Unfortunately, Lucy can only understand about him what she feels.

Since you understand you can take anything and make peace with others.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

  LETTER 550  

 Damien Adaleux to George Labrousse

25-4-2003, Paris

 Dear George,

I am sending you a photocopy of Lucy’s letter. Guillaume’s family is about to be broke. I decided to get rid of him with the cleverest way.

Her father is a puritan. I sent him letters I had that he had sent to Lucy with totally sexual content to seem on one hand catechetical and nice and on the other hand to threaten him and leave her alone.

Complaints and lawsuits were thrown into the downpour. Kill two birds with one stone! Christ’s miracles are nothing compared to mine… Why does everyone admire an invisible God? Why don’t they admire me that I live amongst them? Why should I be deified after my death? I have grape fruit ideas. Like Christ got past Old Testament, I will get past New one. I must be the third in succession. The poor man of God thought he could mess with us Patricians without dealing with the expected consequences.

Where to find money to give to a broke man for court battles? He retreated like a vulture with a wounded wing… Everyone at his place and all of us in our nest…

I am the surgeon and the dissector of the human soul.

My scalpel can estimate sections accurately and cure or butcher. This will depend on my interests or mood.

Us members of high society we use people and situations for our games in order not to be bored. Their right place is in the garbage bins.

I am the state and whoever acts against me will have the end of Fouquier-Tinville.

I want all objects in order and cared for. I want others to be the pawns and I do not want to receive sudden incidents.

That person of divided morality should be away from Lucy. I just helped her father for truth to come out. My ascetic truth…

I am the black sun with its halo. Admire me!

I was honoured by August 11th 1999…

The beams still exist in the darkness. A nature’s miracle…

I know everybody’s weaknesses and I move depending on them.

Even if I chopped her, she would glorify my name during the cut because she forgives everything I do.

I like to step on her foot just to see her kick me. Guillaume swore at her once and she refused to see him again.

He was not blessed with my virtues! I am an amazing lover, painter, sculptor, poet, novelist, composer, lyricist, singer, great hypocrite, band member, founder, director, dancer, journalist, athlete, blogger, hacker, video artist and Lucifer’s admirer and hunter…

The catalogue of new is incomplete. The gift of my persuasion has been spared.

Be sure that since I am good looking, even if I eliminated half of the earth’s population, judges would find mitigating factors and dismiss me.

I have the looks of Bush Jr. God willing I commit crimes without doubt and guilt.

Whoever died by the hand of American Presidents are anonymous. Everyone you know I killed had a surname and a name.

I wish I had the power to exterminate all the earth’s population! For the extra terrestrial civilizations of space! We are the greatest threat, not them…

Greater proof is that the worst kind of man is man, is myself and my memoirs.

For the time being, I enjoy my victory over Iraq and Serbia.

I am the Capitalist of the Round Evil.

I like smashing with my boot everyone that does not belong to my tastes like a cockroach.

I am sure I will get everything I deserve and that I will enjoy everything I deserve for a long time.

All girls must follow Lucy’s example. Treat everything that matters like it is a garbage bin and make a statue for everything that is garbage.

Only such women should exist so as everything I stand for can triumph.

Why then carry a cross on your shoulder while I and my friends achieve everything without labour but with our cheap soul?

You succeed with corruption and immorality. If you look at Sistine Chapel, God gives breath to the creature with his hand.

Whatever the painting is, this is what its Creator is too. Are you something different from what you excrete?

We are our actions and our thoughts. Not the ideas… These belong to Heaven and to the dead so as we Gods can resurrect them and make them owe us dinners.

We kill them and we resurrect them. What is simpler than that?

This way we seem important hunting dogs.

Yours,

Damien Adaleux

LETTER 720

Lucy Sanguin to Sophie Caron

10-8-2008, Paris

 Dear Sophie,

What would the revolution of the Franks be without the enlightened nobles of the Tennis Court? Ganges does not flow backwards. The New French Revolution is a fact.

Pierre revealed everything to me. The king must be transferred to Kerameikos from Versailles. I am tired of waiting for him in Trianon’s circle to promise he will multiply the few ignorant pieces of bread.

I possess all his letters to Jeremy. The clones of his letters are in the hands of his own ministers. Much more so, his revolutionaries.

The scene of the phallus’s fall, which was described in a letter of his to César, is everywhere in the circles of high society. Definitely a Menander’s scene.

Our Louis became Paradise’s Adam!

The libels that circulate against him have no precedent.

Before I do those actions though, I avenged him in a different tone.

I invited him to an exotic dinner. I, he and Louis who had demanded we broke up. The place of meeting was an unknown to them apartment of immigrants in the capital.

The house belonged to an anarchist friend of mine whom I had met in Sorbonne. I had taken its keys so as our king and his Kalon could be locked up in Korydallos.

I was the virgin of Leucippus between Castor and Polydeuces.

Why experience Paradise alone when you can embrace Hell with someone else?

If you do not throw the seed for the almond tree to grow and get bigger with your mouth’s liquid, how can she produce blooms and leaves?

How am I going to imitate Dryope? An offering of green blood should be made.

An angelic knife came out of my bag. Their shirts fell on the dusty marble ground like revolutionary nurses, highlighting the muddy memories that somebody can have from a life without golden coins.

A life stung by a sting. I drew a heart on their shaven by arson chests.

Maybe because I wanted not to reforest but to found a New Civilization.

A Gothic civilization… Or maybe because their hairs were not from chlorophyll.

I wanted red trees and rivers, like the soul’s flames. I gave a lighter tone to their contentious chests with my tongue. To be exact, a rosy one like life is not.

I drew Damien our relationship’s sunset without him having any premonitions about it.

Their clothing scissors and their intermittent cardboards had been taken away without any hesitation.

I had taken the position of a tiger on the half-weathered, dusty bed.

My flexibility was like an erection that offered Louis various expressions depending on the displacements of Damien’s head: one time at the temple that was on my two hills and other times on the reversed side of earth.

Damien was cleaning the path that led from Omar’s temple to my Vatican.

His mouth was a Spanish sea. From his tongue’s religion to its heresy or its intention, so as I get troubled for which path to follow and taste virtue’s garden.

His waves were about to swallow the two most sacred cities of Christians. A subsea earthquake in the Cretan Sea of a magnitude of Pharaoh’s ten wounds was coming to drown all Christians.

Jews and Muslims of those areas. I felt the lack of land like the castaway fighting with the waves.

I was melting too… I was almost absorbed by his liquid, magic wand and I was about to drown with my guards of ancient cities, like Atlantis.

The culprit was the collision of the African slab with Greece. Or better the collision of interests of Sickness and Power.

All believers would get drowned from the comet Louis would throw on earth. Rome and Jerusalem would be of the sea now… Instead, their immoralities in continuous tense.

At some point my mouth became Bagdad constantly bringing missiles and bombs of Louis.

My teeth were collateral damage asking for their toothpaste.

Maybe Damien thought that having a father from America means he can blame others for the mistakes he makes.

I am afraid this cannot happen this time… The American guy and his friend may have eliminated cities and killed non-combatant with biological weapons but time had come for: “The payment of the tax.”

Christ was absent in the middle of the composition.  The arrangement of the fantasies was circular. Damien gave knife and will receive more knives.

I converted to Judaism. Suddenly the Door opened. It was not Christ… They were my ten Seraph Labradors.

“Peter” and “John” were upset for the tax their God had to pay to the Tax-collector’s temple.

They froze with mechanical procedures. Their hands were Gordian as it is common before the time of the guillotine comes.

Those two thieves with the big teeth and the long ears… They were screaming… They were yammering… And I in the middle waiting for the end.

I was the Elevated Christ of Antonello da Messina to initiate heaven.

They became ancient Minoans by a razor with forest’s strip to remind to everyone that there is always hope in Sahara and to straighten the sail in the reprisal. They were mercilessly whipping them with stock whips for forty minutes.

Their condemnation was guilt. The ten jurors declared it with judicial and religious conditions without a chance of appeal or absolution.

Acropolis was a holy place to the Alkmeonides.

I decided to send their microphones with a scalpel to the guillotine to silence them.

Prices were a little atrocity in two plates with tomato and acorns.

I devoured the fish so as they will not thrive anywhere else.

We left them half-unconscious in the lake of Bartholomew.

I was later informed that their disability was spreading like a cancer in hands and feet.

They remained deficient. Unfortunately not in the head. But this was not enough for me. I had arrested all his friends at the port.

I sent all his letters with his hideous crimes to the tabloids.

The government collapsed. Damien and his father asked Russia for refuge so as not to go to prison.

It is too late for Guillaume though. I heard he committed suicide.

I will go to his grave tomorrow to leave an orchid knowing that sooner or later Brick-Fielder will blow her dried leaves to the four points of the horizon.

Yours,

Lucy Sanguin

  THE END

[chuicide]

Prices For Provides For The Chickens

For those who're contemplating raising chickens at house, one of the primary things that they assume about is how a lot will this project value. It may well seem like it should involve a huge quantity of upfront cash to purchase the chickens and the provides that they need to stay and develop. Some of the fundamental provides that one will need are items such as the chickens, bedding supplies, a feeder, water and feed. The high price provide item is the chicken coop. These will be quite costly until in fact, one decides to build their very own using one among the numerous chicken coop plans that can be found. This is usually a slightly steep sum of money for one to place out especially at the beginning of the pastime. A superb alternative, which can also be a enjoyable undertaking, is to make the hen coop and run by yourself. That is a substantial savings and through the use of a set of rooster coop plans, one can alter the plans to accommodate their private need. There are a wide variety of chicken coop plans that one can purchase at hobby outlets or via on-line sources.

It has been a tough couple of weeks right here on the farm. Two weeks in the past, my nice Grandma Josephine passed away at the age of 92-years-old. It was so sad to lose such a creative and sensible soul. Then a little over per week ago, Noah was grinding paint off of a chair carry pole at work and got one thing in his eye. He thought it was just sand or one thing else and would get flushed out on its own. It only acquired worse and by the subsequent day, I may see one thing over the pupil in his eye and his imaginative and prescient grew to become blurred so we ended up making a trip to the ER. Sadly, the physician said it was a chunk of steel in his eye and was starting to rust, which is the spot I may see. On Saturday, we went to a specialist, who was capable of take away the metal piece and a lot of the rust with the Burr device. He left just a little bit of the rust as a result of he stated that otherwise, he must drill by the whole cornea leaving a gap and it would be better to go away just a little rust.

Now Hollister was named after a trendy clothes store apparently, unbeknown to me. I've since investigated this emporium and can declare that there does not appear any purpose in any respect why I ought to darken their door with my wallet clasped in my hand. I don't consider they have suitable attire for, erm, somebody like me. Doesn't he look fabulous though! Patou Tuppence (sire Wimmera Skies Class Act of Reddingvale Alpacas, simply off the A303 in Somerset on the sting of the village of Templecombe). She is utterly gorgeous, an actual knee weakener, a creator of a trembling backside lip, Tuppence is secretly my favourite. And to complete, my favourites, Tuppence, Millichamp and Hollister, in formation preparing for their group dance. Thanks go to Andy and Viv Walker of Reddingvale Alpacas, simply off the A303 in Somerset on the edge of the village of Templecombe, oh and another bloke. I think the stability has been redressed! Publisher: Phil Jupp If you want to explore different breeds, chickens provide that opportunity. There are literally hundreds of different rooster breeds out there. Every space of the world tends to have breeds particular to that space. Choosing breeds usually includes figuring out what you want to do with the animal. Learn on to find out extra! Writer: David Beart Whichever dog breed you choose, remember that the canine, not like the cat, is happier if it does what its owner wants. This means that dogs are happier if trained to be obedient. In the event you train your dog properly and care for it, you can be rewarded with wonderful love and companionship. In spite of everything, it's true that the dog is man's finest good friend. Writer: phil Study which breed of chicken is going to suite your yard chicken coop.There are heaps of variety's of chickens and we give a brief description on the top breeds for egg manufacturing. Publisher: tim warrington The Bantam variety of rooster is a small rooster and the name comes originally from the town of Bantam.

The herd was rounded up for a complete well being check as on Wednesday Le famille Steele heads off to the south of France for our Easter break. We're not leaving the animals on their very own, no sirrreee, every species has been taken into consideration and the appropriate care organised. Bob the cat, Betty, Cindy and Lulu the chickens and all of the alpacas will after all stay at home and a highly educated group will transfer in to look after them. Pete and Elvie, good buddies, and animal lovers are as soon as again taking the reins and might be here to feed, stroke, collect and gaze on the motley crew left behind, At Hensting Alpacas Hampshire (linked internet site) thanks guys. Anyway, checking the herd today taught me a lesson that's related to all alpaca homeowners. Not only was I situation scoring, I was checking and cleaning this years eartags (effectively all of them the truth is). All the eartags regarded good, a number of scabs cleared away however nothing to fret about. Not all alpacas spit, but all are able to it. The "spit" generally comprises solely air and a bit of saliva though it usually comprises acidic stomach contents which is a green, grassy mix, and they mission it at chosen targets. This spitting results in "sour mouth" for them which is characterized by a free-hanging lower lip and a gaping mouth. The reason for that is the stomach acid and the unpleasant style. The thing of this spitting, despite the fact that it causes them discomfort, is a form of protection. Normally reserved for different alpacas, it is sometimes directed at humans. I as soon as was standing again watching a couple of llamas, simply minding my own enterprise. Impulsively, one turned looked at me and spit. Is it one thing in my personality that attracts this behavior? They are also fairly verbal, making a variety of sounds, every being for a particular motive. When in danger they make a high-pitched shrieking whine. When content material, they really hum and a clucking sound means pleasant or submissive habits. Believe it or not, you would say they are naturally potty educated. They use a communal dung pile where they do not graze. Females tend to stand in a line and all go directly. Due to this, some have been efficiently home-skilled and make house pets. If you are considering of moving into alpacas, the value to get began might be as open because the sky itself. Due to the high value commanded by alpacas within the rising North American alpaca market, unlawful smuggling has turn out to be a growing drawback. It is no surprise they have gotten increasingly more well-liked. They make nice pets, produce fleece for a lifetime and females may be bred over and over for her entire grownup life. What more could one ask out of an investment? I'm still deciding if an alpaca venture needs to be added to my bucket listing or not.

As time strikes on, the chickens get acclimatized to the realm, determine the best way to trust the safety of it and the proprietor can allow them to out for the coops with out concern of them flying off. There are some rooster coops that happen to be pyramid-like in structure having a flat high. One leg for the chicken gets tied off to a meter lengthy leash with one end pegged down into the ground. The rooster which includes a meter wide freedom but confined to 1 area at the exact same time. Again, ultimately the hen will get to really feel at dwelling that after they may be finally untied, they don't hassle to fly away. I discovered that there are literally two kinds of the pyramid coops. One is made from heavy soldered wired which may be positioned below the shade of the trees and the other one is strong constructed from many supplies. Most of the coops are really very low-cost, some needing assembly some may well not. They can also be made by anybody who is useful that has a hammer, nails plus a noticed. Building rooster coops need not be an ordeal for anyone. Anyone can simply go on the web and obtain the plans for building a chicken coop then buy the supplies as listed and comply with the easy directions. It is definitely very cheap and simple to do.

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