#it's a bird it's a plane it's a pitchfork

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

May 31, 2022

TEN GUN-CONTROL COP-OUTS

1- Guns don't kill people, elementary schools kill people.

2- The 2nd Amendment says we can have Stinger missiles.

3- Guns keep people safe, especially in grocery stores.

4- Some people are mentally ill — lets ban them instead.

5- A good guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun — unless he's afraid.

6- Without guns Marjorie Taylor Green wouldn't have much to scream about.

7- When guns are outlawed what'll we do with 400 million of them in the U.S.

8- They didn't ban airplanes after 9-11, did they.

9- People love guns — especially teenagers in Chicago.

10- The NRA gives Republicans tens of millions each year. Lock and load.

PROGRESS AT LAST — EDIBLE TAPE

Tired of having their burritos unravel, four engineering students at John Hopkins University invented edible tape — and get this, it's clear, colorless and gluten-free. We are not making this up. They've dubbed it Tastee Tape and have submitted an application for patent. You can use it on any type of wrap — even a lettuce wrap. This could change the landscape of Mexican fast-food forever — would you like that with tape or without? You could use it on those new gigantic burgers at Arby's before the lettuce, tomato and onions fall on to your lap. It's the biggest tape revolution since people discovered they could use duct tape for almost anything — repairing clothes, holding car fenders together and binding and gaging kidnap victims. Tape has brought civilization a long way and edible tape is a true breakthrough. Engineers will surely explore the potentially vast edible frontier. What if we had edible coffee cups so people could eat their Starbucks cup instead of tossing it? And what if we had edible clothes so that if you were stranded in the wilderness or a plane on the tarmac at Kennedy you wouldn't starve to death — just eat your sleeve. But best might be edible books, so when the pitchfork mob comes for the school librarian, she can just eat “Of Mice & Men” and “To Kill a Mocking Bird.”

ANIMAL FARM

We believe in an America where millions of Americans believe in an America that's the America millions of Americans believe in. That's the America we love. All people are equal, but some are more equal. Corporations are people — of course they are. Everything corporations earn ultimately goes to the people. Where do you think it goes? Whose pockets? People's pockets — human beings, of course. There are 47 percent of Americans who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. We'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility for their lives. But we're not going to give up on destroying the health care system for the American people. The media should take a good look at the views of the people in Congress and find out if they're pro-America or anti-America. If this Congress keeps going the way it is, people will really look toward those Second Amendment remedies and say, my goodness what can we do to turn this country around? Do not let them take away our power. Do not let them take away our democracy. Make a plan right now. Make America great again.

Post script — That will do it for another confusing week here at Smart Bomb, where we keep track of Ted Cruz so you don't have to. See, here's the deal, if there's only one door into a school then it will be more difficult for a shooter to get in, said the wily senator from Texas. “There aren't too many guns, there are just too many doors.” Problem solved. On another topic of insanity, the Jan. 6 committee hearings will be televised starting June 9. “It's going to blow the roof off the House,” said Democratic Rep. Jamie Raskin. “It's the story of the worst presidential political offense against the Union in American history.” The committee must make the case that Trump and his mob sought to keep him in office after the election of Joe Biden — a coup d'etat. It has conducted some 900 depositions and interviews, and has obtained more than 1,000 documents. Beyond a written report, the committee will produce a multimedia presentation and include links to key video evidence. After the Mueller report and the first impeachment of Donald Trump, Democrats may have concluded they need to create a narrative on a middle school-level in order to convince the public that crimes were committed. And just as important, they'll be playing to the Department of Justice that would bring any criminal charges if a bunch of evidence was dropped right in their laps.

That was one weird week, Wilson. We sense the band is using a lot of herbs to cope with our age of discontent. But as Hunter S. Thompson said, when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. And yes, he did say, good people drink good beer. So wake up the band and take us outa here so we can go get some good beer.

Is it worth it A new winter coat and shoes for the wife And a bicycle on the boy's birthday It's just a rumour that was spread around town By the women and children Soon we'll be shipbuilding Well I ask you The boy said 'DAD THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE ME TO TASK BUT I'LL BE BACK BY CHRISTMAS' It's just a rumour that was spread around town Somebody said that someone got filled in For saying that people get killed in The result of this shipbuilding With all the will in the world Diving for dear life When we could be diving for pearls It's just a rumour that was spread around town A telegram or a picture postcard Within weeks they'll be re-opening the shipyards And notifying the next of kin Once again It's all we're skilled in We will be shipbuilding WITH ALL THE WILL IN THE WORLD DIVING FOR DEAR LIFE WHEN WE COULD BE DIVING FOR PEARLS

(Shipbuiding — Elvis Costello)

[t3andcrumpets]

The peanut gallery is about to start rioting.

Excerpt:

“You two are the sweetest, and I love you dearly,” Mrs. Jasper said, “but you’re distracting me from finishing dinner. Maybe you should go back in the other room and talk to your family? Surely they can’t all be so bad?”

Jean laughed a little tearfully and murmured, “Mrs. Jasper, I could tell you some tales.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Mrs. Jasper said with a little smile. “We’ll have a nice cuppa and you can tell me all about it, lovey.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #tdbm #doctor blake mysteries #lucien blake #Jean Beazley #it's a bird it's a plane it's a pitchfork

[igglemouse]

Episode 5 ~ Royals

When she returned we had another chat. She was just happy that I was letting her see the town again, her town. 

Luna: It is the same place I’ve grown up in but it all feels so different! The air, the birds, the bees, all of it! It’s all so colorful and-

Julius laughs: My parents didn’t let you go out much did they?

Luna: I didn’t leave the estate except to get on a plane and come back here!

Julius: Well, remember, don’t just go attacking random people. You might draw torches and pitchforks if you do it at the wrong time.

Luna: People still do that?

Julius: If you give them a reason to, sure, although I guess it might be guns and bombs in today’s age.

Index - Next

#season 1 #the sims 4 #the sims #sims legacy #iggleverse legacy #sims 4 legacy #my sims #generation 1 #julius tourneau #beverly downs #luna tourneau

[bbrandy2002]

The Getaway

Part Two

A/N: This is obviously a continuation of a birthday fic I wrote for @ao719 that is now 2 weeks late 🙈 I was dealing with stuff, dont judge lol The writers block and doubts were for real yo! But thanks to my Tumblr bestie, who wouldnt let me quit, encouraged me, talked me through this thing and gave me ideas, it finally all came together.

Anitah, I apologize for being so late and the silliness of this fic and if it's terrible. I still hope you had a wonderful birthday and are blessed with so many more 💜

A/N/N: Thanks to @burnsoslow for beta reading and literally a thousand other things.

Warning: A lot of bad language, a miserable Drake Walker and violence involving tasers, fires, animals and car accidents ... No one dies people!

**Drake and Liam belong to Pixelberry, Nikolas belongs to me, the driver and mailroom guy belong to @burnsoslow​ and Liam's secretary belongs to @ao719​

Drake stepped out of the truck in a furor, cursing under his breath, to check on his damages. The front driver tire had fallen into a deep ditch, and it was evident by the thick mud it sunk into that it would be next to impossible to get unstuck without some assistance.

He shook his head, gritted his teeth, and the veins in his neck enlarged and throbbed. As he knelt down to assess the damages further, Nik hopped out of the truck and stood over Drake. With one glance, Nikolas clutched his belly and let out a loud continuous cackle that soon sent a storm of hot blood that seemed to collect in Drake's crimson-colored face.

And the laughter just got louder and louder.

And the laughter didn't stop.

In Drake's head, it sounded like a thousand Niks laughing simultaneously, each one with two horns, a pointy tail, and a pitchfork in hand. 

His anxiety took over.

He stood up, and in an attempt to let some of his anger out, he kicked the tire with an enraged shout that echoed beyond the heavily-forested valley and sent flocks of birds in a frenzy.

The tire's air must have been over-pressurized by the drop's force and popped as soon as Drake's foot made contact. He fell back onto his ass with a heavy thud causing Nikolas to screech out in more laughter. Drake sat up into time to see the front bumper and side panel fall to the ground.

"I think your truck is broken, Uncle Drake," the prince chortled.

Drake's head whipped around and glared at the boy. "No shit! What the fuck are you even doing here? You're supposed to be on a plane to Paris."

Nikolas shrugged. "This sounded more fun." 

"This isn't fun, you little asshole!" Drake jumped up and attempted to lunge at the boy, but slipped in the mud, caught his balance for a split second by grabbing onto a tree limb, then slipped again, before wiping out completely. "Son-of-a-monkey-fucker!"

Drake laid on his back, staring up at a large tree branch that hung overhead, praying to God the damn thing would just fall on him. 

Nikolas walked over to him and looked down on the face of fury. "Is it time for dinner yet? I'm staaaaaaaving!"

"Nikolas," Drake groaned then took a deep breath, his back mud-soaked and achy. "How? How in the hell did you pull this off?"

Nik plopped down on Drake's stomach, causing him to grunt loudly. "Easy. I told my dad you invited me, and he let me go. He was happy you wanted to spend time with me." The Prince smirked.

Drake gritted his teeth. "And he just believed you? Fucking Liam."

Nikolas shook his head. "No. I got Neal in the mailroom to pretend he was you on the phone."

Drake lifted his head and glared. "You mean that grease trap that lives in the ambulance down by the river?"

The young prince nodded. "Yeah. Except he doesn't live by the river anymore. He moved behind the elementary school .. said it had a better view."

There was dead silence for a moment as Drake grimaced at what he just heard before jerking his hips upward. "Get the fuck off me."

Nikolas stumbled to the ground with an uproarious laugh.

Drake reached into his front pocket and pulled out his cell as he rose to his feet. He was dead set on getting someone from the palace to retrieve this little menace to Drake Walker society before he found himself tied up to a cinder block at the bottom of Lake Boogaloo. The issue with his truck could wait.

Liam and Riley would already be on the plane with Bastien in tow, so calling them right now would be useless. He pressed the contact for the palace operator, hoping to be directed to the mailroom; if Neal was part of helping get Nik into this, his shady punk ass could come pick him up in the renovated ambulance that served as his home and part-time blood mobile. 

Pacing back and forth, Drake raised the phone to his ear, waiting impatiently for a ring. 

"Trish! Put me through to the mailroom." 

While he was distracted taking care of that, Nikolas was somewhat disappointed the trip was already over -- he had so many plans for his favorite uncle. With his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips, he leaned up against the truck in a huff. "This sucks!"

The sounds of leaves crunching and brush moving around nearby caught his attention. Nik's eyes widened in fear when the black furry coat of a creature with a white stripe down its middle could be seen scampering around searching for food. The boy gasped and pinched his nose as the animal's foul scent started to become thick in the air and made his eyes water. "Uncle Drake," he called out in a nasally voice, "there's a skunk."

With a scowl, Drake lowered the phone and scrunched up his own nose. He took one glance at the animal, who didn't appear to be a threat, then glanced back at the kid. "It's probably more scared of your evil ass than you are of it. Just keep your mouth shut and don't move." The call with Neal resumed.

"But, Drake ..." Nikolas whined, trying to plead for him to listen but could tell his uncle would have none of it.

Frantic to scare the smelly animal away, the young boy searched the ground for something to throw at it: a large stick, a rock, Drake's Air Bud soundtrack. Those things might scare the skunk off, but they posed a risk of it spraying before doing so. Memories of the smell of Madeleine's office when he had one shipped to her came flooding back. It took a month for the palace to lose that scent. The prank was hilarious until it affected his comfort.

 A devilish smirk took shape as an idea popped into his head. “I need my backpack.”

Nik grabbed the top of the truck bed and stepped up on the rear tire and swung one leg over, then the other. He found his backpack and quickly unzipped it, pulling out night-vision goggles and a rope, then placed them beside his feet. He proceeded to move aside a bottle of industrial-strength super glue and the glass jar holding his tarantula, Barf. Finally, at the bottom of the bag, was the taser he “borrowed” from Bastien’s desk, and he quickly took it out. Holding the electrical gun in front of his face and twisting it around menacingly, he said, “Okay, Mr. Skunk. Get ready for a shocking experience.”

“No!” Drake yelled into the phone at Neal, “You can’t borrow my binoculars. What the fuck are you gonna use those things for at a children’s museum anyway?”

“The … the …” the man scrambled for an answer, “those dinosaurs … yeah … the dinosaurs. They’re, like, really tall, ya know? I want to be able … to, uh … see their faces and stuff.”

“I call bullshit,” Drake bit back, “I won’t be an accomplice in your bone watching … dinosaur or small boy.” He resumed his pacing, wanting to get the conversation moving along. “Now listen, my sister and brother-in-law are in Texas, Lord Beaumont is on a book tour, and the guards are off duty until the royal family returns. You are going to come pick up this kid.”

“Oh! I would love to come pick him up. He’s under 10, correct?”

Drake could practically hear the creepy mirth oozing from the man's gruff voice and spat back, "I'll be with him the whole time, you oily ass, ambulance-driving …  è piccola cagna!"

"What does that mean?"

Drake knitted his brows; he didn't really know, just that Nikolas called him that from time to time, and the word just kind of stuck with him. "Just ... just get here now!"

"Okay, okay! I'm coming."

The call ended. "God, I hope he meant that literally, and I didn't just get that fucko off." He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Nik. "Alright, listen up, assh ..." Drake stopped dead in his tracks and stood, stunned, at the first glimpse of a taser-wielding Nikolas with the gun aimed almost directly at him, with a tiny finger wrapped around the trigger.

"Wwwhatcha got there, boy?" Drake's voice sounded calm and friendly. He even managed to fake a genuine-looking smile. Inside, however, he was close to shitting his pants.

Nikolas licked his lips and closed one eye to find the perfect aim. "I'm about to fry that skunk with extreme vengeance. One ..."

"Nikolas, no! Give me the taser." Drake cautiously approached him with his hand held out.

"Two," the small but menacing voice continued the count.

"Nik, don't do it! Give it to me now!"

"Three.”

"Noooo!"

The piercing sound of Drake's shout startled the skunk, and it scurried out from the thick brush.

Nik jumped up with the taser. "Hey! Get back here, asshole." He aimed at the fleeing creature and pressed the trigger.

___________

The instant Drake's mocha-colored eyes fluttered open, an acrid mixture of what smelled like ass, sweat, rotten eggs, and his mother's hairy feet had bubbled up inside his nostrils. The aroma was slightly overshadowed by the 1200-volt prongs that had pierced just below the protruding vein in his neck, causing him to seize up and then drop like a rag doll to the dirt, and muck that littered the ground.

Close by, he could make out the discernible sound of footsteps crunching through foliage and bark and sloshing over wet earth.

Drake's cheek rested against the cold, soggy ground, even as the silhouette of the young prince crouched next to him with his little head tilted sideways and blinking owlishly. He saw the child's lips moving but blocked out the little shit until the feeling of electrocution and muscle spasms had waned.

Drake looked at the small face next to him that resembled his best friend at that age. Liam is a good man, Drake thought; he was a considerate child, too. We had fun together. We always had each other's backs and would do anything to protect the other, no matter the consequences.  Liam wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just the best all around.  So …  how in the actual ass fuck did he produce the spawn of Satan? 

Is there any chance he’s ... Neal’s kid? 

Maybe Riley ... No, fuck, no. She wouldn’t.

The sky transformed from a brilliant blue to one streaked with gold and orange hues before Drake shook himself of the aftershocks that sparked through his body. 

The metal prongs left behind two bright red spots, resembling a large spider bite and stinging like hell when he pulled them out.  A thick layer of mud had dried and clung to his back, while a fresh layer adhered to his front. The numbness in his limbs had dissipated somewhat, but the pins-and-needles feeling remained. He was grateful the back spray from the skunk missed him, but the remnants it left on the nearby trees were stifling.

At this point, the only thing Drake wanted was a hot shower, a clean change of clothes, and to get stupidly drunk to the point he would pass out in bed and sleep for days. He scanned the perimeter and could make out the crystal-blue lake through a small clearing in the trees about 100 yards away.

Removing his filthy shirt and tossing it in the back of the truck, he eyed Nikolas, who was surprisingly quiet and subdued. The child was sitting on the lowered tailgate, swinging his legs, and trying to force his tarantula to eat a dead cricket. Drake rolled his eyes but was relieved the kid was staying out of his hair for now. He just needed to take a quick dip in the water, change his clothes, and hurry back in time for their ride home. Nik would be fine by himself for 10 minutes.

Drake let out a sharp tongue whistle that caught Nikolas' attention. "Listen up, kid. I'm going down to the lake real quick to clean up and change into some clean clothes." He opened the driver's side door and reached across the seat to toss his cell phone and wallet in the glove box while he continued, "You and your spider get in here and lock the door until I come back."

Nik dropped Barf in the jar and slapped the holed lid on it. "It's not a spider, Drake. It's a tarantula. A tarantula," he corrected with emphasis as he slid down from the tailgate.

"I don't care if it's your grandma's bladder control protection, get your ass in the truck, and don't move until I get back."

Stepping up in front of Drake, Nikolas sneered at an annoyed Drake towering above him. "I'm telling her you said that. And why can't I go with you? I wanna go to the lake, too," he whined.

Drake nearly doubled over in fake laughter. "There ain't no damn way I'm taking you. For one, you've ruined my entire trip. The one good thing I had in my life to look forward to, and you ruined it! And two, I don't know what the rules are about grownups, and nakedness, and with kids around, and all that shit. So the answer is no." 

Drake could tell by the beady little eyes glaring back at him that Nikolas would not give up on this. He let out a heavy sigh. "Look. Do what I tell you right now, and when I come back, I'll build a campfire, and we can make up some s’mores. How's that sound?"

“Okay.”

“Really?” Drake shook his head in astonishment that he actually won that argument. Without another word, he watched as His Royal Highness happily climbed into the cab of the truck and gave a thumbs up.

Did that taser kill me? I’m dead, right? He did it. Do you smell that, Cordonia? No, not that fucking rank ass skunk. It’s the smell of victory! Drake Walker is a god! I have the power back.

Grabbing his duffle bag from the back, Drake hurriedly made his way toward the lake. He felt a little on edge, leaving Nik by himself for even just ten minutes, maybe even somewhat guilty. But he was caked in mud from head to toe, and the grime was starting to seep and burrow around certain parts of his anatomy. Nothing was worse than having monkey ass.

Within minutes, Nikolas sat on his haunches and looked out the back glass. He hadn’t wanted to show it, but he did feel a little bad for shooting Drake to the point it drew blood. Also for causing him to crash his truck. And even though it was funny as hell to watch, the second slip in the mud was kind of brutal. Perhaps a little remorse was starting to set in as the words of his Uncle Drake telling him that he ruined the one thing he was looking forward to repeated in his head. Tomorrow he would return to normal, but Nik was determined to do something nice for a change for the rest of the evening.

With the quick snap of his little fingers, an idea formed, and it would be the perfect thing to make Drake feel better. Nik unlocked the door, grabbed his spider, and jumped out of the truck. He headed to the back and rummaged through the bags of camping items laid in piles until he found what he was looking for: a lighter and lighter fluid.

“I’ll make the bestest s'mores ever for Uncle Drake. That’ll make him happy.”

Nikolas had never built a campfire before, but he’d seen it done in a movie once, and that was good enough in his mind to practically make him an expert.

Feeling clean and refreshed, Drake dried off from his dip in the lake and put fresh clothes on. Making his way back to the site, he caught a glimpse of thick, black smoke protruding above the trees and the smell of burning rubber that traveled with the approaching evening breeze.

“Nikolas,” he muttered as his heart crashed into his stomach. He raced back as fast as he could, fearing the absolute worst thing had happened to the Prince of Cordonia. “I knew I shouldn’t have left him alone. Liam and Riley are going to kill me, and I would deserve it. I just hope he’s not …” he trailed off when the site came into full view. It was worse than he imagined.

His eyes searched frantically until relief washed over him when he caught his first glimpse of Nikolas sitting under a tree, eating, and seemingly unconcerned by the inferno that had lit up the dusky sky.

Drake rushed over to him and lifted him into his arms and held onto him tightly.  “Are you okay, buddy?”  

Nikolas chuckled, “I’m fine, Uncle Drake.”

He lowered him back on the ground and started patting him down, looking for burns or injuries. 

Drake let out a sigh of relief. “How? How did this …” he turned to look at the fire, then raised his voice. “Wait! You caught my goddamn truck on fire?”

Nik followed his uncle's gaped-mouth stare to the truck engulfed in flames, then screwed up his face. "Yeah ... about that. I think I used too much of that lighter fluid stuff building a campfire. But I made you something." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a s'more, licked the melted chocolate off the side, then proudly held it up to Drake. "The marshmallow is exactly the way you like it, too: completely charred."

Drake dropped his head into his palms and repeated a slew of curse words and sounds that were not even human. As badly as he wanted to destroy everything around him at that moment, to release a fit of anger the likes of which no one had ever seen in him before, it appeared Nikolas had beat him to it: There was nothing left around there to destroy. 

He dropped his arms to his sides in defeat and looked to the heavens before surmising, “This is my punishment, isn’t it? I stole that taser from the guard as a kid and let Liam take the blame for it. I insisted Liam come with me in that boat during a storm, and he nearly drowned when it overturned. He got lost in the woods on my time. I pushed him too hard once during maze tag. I got stuck in that laundry chute all night, and Constantine took hide-and-seek away from him. This …” he motioned to Nikolas, who was smiling back at him with a big cheesy grin, “this is how he got me back for all of it. Well, you win, Liam! You win!  I hope you are having one hell of a time in Paris, schmoozing and laughing your ass off, because I have nothing left in this world but this …  hairy, lint-filled s’more with your son’s saliva all over it …  and it’s not even toasted right!”

“I didn’t make it right?” Nikolas asked thoughtfully. “Hang on. I can make you another one.” He bent down, pulled out a marshmallow from the bag and rammed a mud-covered stick entirely through its center. Drake watched as Nik skipped over and held it next to the flames shooting out the window of his truck.

For several seconds, Drake contemplated whether he should just leave the child there and let nature take its course. Glaring back to the star-filled sky, he groaned, “You owe me big for this.”

Tugging Nik by his jacket hood to pull him away from the hot blaze, he startled the boy who then whipped around with the burning marshmallow and accidentally got it stuck to Drake’s shirt. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Ten minutes passed, and the two were on the dirt road heading back to the highway’s main stretch. After patting out the fire on his shirt, Drake planned to call the fire department to report the inferno taking place in the woods. He laughed wryly when he realized the phone was still in the glove box of his burning vehicle. And it appeared Neal’s skank ass wasn’t coming after all, so the pair would have to flag down someone and hope they actually stopped. Thankfully, Nikolas had his backpack on, and Drake used the night vision goggles to direct his way along the darkened path.

Hand in hand and approaching the main thoroughfare, Nik’s legs were starting to tire, and his droopy eyes looked up. “Uncle Drake, will you carry me?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeease,” Nikolas begged in a high-pitched squeal that grated Drake’s teeth.

Drake stopped with a huff and crouched down. “Get the fuck on my back,” he commanded, “you’ve burned and shot the front part of me, so your ass is gonna have to hold onto the back. And I swear to God, Nik, if you so much as drool on me, you can sleep in the woods with the wolves and bears and poodles. Understood?”

With a tired nod, Nik wrapped his little arms around Drake’s neck and held on. As they proceeded ahead, the prince asked, “Would you tell me a bedtime story?”

Drake grunted, “You wanna bedtime story? I’ll tell you a bedtime story. It’s an ol’ Bianca Walker original that she used to tell me every night called ‘Go the fuck to sleep!’ The end.”

Nikolas sleepily chuckled. “I already have that book, Uncle Drake. My dad’s secretary, Charlotte, gave it to me and told me to put it in my room. She said if my mom or dad found it, just to tell them you gave it to me.”

“Of course she did,” Drake scoffed, thinking about the other person who found pure delight in annoying him.

Through the night-vision goggles, the headlights of a random car could be seen driving by, and Drake let out a relieved breath, knowing they were so close.

The night couldn’t end that easily, though. A sudden sense of unease enveloped Drake, telling him that everything was not as it seemed. His steps quickened, and his heart pounded away in his chest.

Feeling like he was being followed, he turned on his heels, then widened his eyes. 

A large brown bear let out a roar that echoed past them.

Drake shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Yep. That’s about right.”

The survival training he’d learned from his Campers Anonymous group about bear encounters kicked in, and he completely stilled his body. That was until he heard, “BEEEEAAAR!” screamed over his shoulder and felt Nik’s body drop to the ground.

“Don’t move, Nikolas,” Drake ordered through a whisper.

It was too late; he was gone and headed toward the road.

Drake whirled around to see the bear on its hind legs, drumming its chest and licking its lips. “Shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Wait for me, Nik!” He took off running.

--------- 

Alyssa was headed back to Cordonia earlier in the night than she expected. With her hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel, she complained to her friend through the car's Bluetooth, “The guy showed up one hour late to our meeting spot, then drove through a McDonalds, asked if I wanted anything, proceeded to park behind a church and tell me he has condoms before the cops picked him up on a warrant! Worst. Date. Ever.”

Driving around a bend in the road, Alyssa slammed on the brakes when her headlights reflected off a small child darting into the road. As her tires screeched, she let out a deafening scream when a man came out of nowhere, followed immediately by a bear. The frantic man shoved the kid out of the way.

Though  the brake pedal was pressed to the floor, the car collided with Drake, and his body flew onto the hood before falling feebly to the road.

The bear sniffed at Drake and batted him around a couple of times before taking off into the woods.

When Alyssa was sure it was safe to do so, she and a crying Nik both crouched around a moaning Drake.

_________

The following morning, Drake's eyes fluttered open. His vision was a little fuzzy, but he could make out a doctor hovering over him and a worried Liam standing with Nikolas at the foot of his bed. He tried to speak, wanting to know what happened, but was unable to open his mouth.

"Don't try to speak, Mr. Walker. Your jaw was wired shut to protect the small fracture you suffered from the car accident. You also broke both legs and sprained your neck. You have a long recovery ahead of you, but shouldn't need to spend any more time in the hospital. You’re a very lucky man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will get the discharge papers and check to see if the ambulance transporting you to the palace has arrived. His Majesty has offered to allow you to recover in his home." 

Drake took one look at a gleeful, bouncing Nikolas and shook his head as best as he could with a neck brace on and emphatically mumbled his indiscernible objections.

Liam chuckled, "Quit being so modest, Drake. I assure you it’s no trouble at all. Besides, it's the least I could do after you saved my son's life. And Nik here even offered to let you stay in his room to keep you company."

Nik nodded with a grin. “Yep. For the next eight to 12 weeks, it's just me and my Uncle Drake hanging out all day and night.”

Drake tried to escape from his bed but couldn’t move without use of his legs.

Liam walked around to the side of the bed and put his hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Look at you trying to protest. You never were one to accept charity. I told you, I’m more than happy to help. You deserve this and more.”

A knock at the door diverted their attention and a head popped in. “I’m here to transport Mr. Walker back to the palace, Your Majesty.”

“Perfect! And on such short notice too. So glad my secretary could arrange this ride,” Liam exclaimed. He glanced down at his injured friend in the bed and smiled. “You ready to go home, my friend?”

No! No! That’s fucking, Neal. He doesn’t even have a real ambulance. I’m not going. Somebody, anybody, heeeelp!

#Happy Birthday Anitah #2 weeks later #hahahahah #better late than never #drake walker #king liam #little shit #I'm so sorry this is ridiculous

[musicollage]

Joanna Newsom. Divers, 2015. Drag City. ( Recorded By – Steve Albini )     ~ [ Album Review | Pitchfork ]

On her fourth album, Divers, Joanna Newsom comes down in size if not scope. A love letter in the form of a reckoning with death, Divers deals with making tangible the huge mass of impending doom about the loss of love. You know, the small stuff. It's a gorgeous record, full of her usual harp wilyness and baroque rhythms.

Joanna Newsom's Divers is an album about a profound love, but it hardly features any love songs. The singer/songwriter recently explained to Uncut that her marriage in 2013 had invited death into her life, "because there is someone you can't bear to lose," she said. "When it registers as true, it's like a little shade of grief comes in when love is its most real version. Then it contains death inside of it, and then that death contains love inside of it." There is only one domestic vignette on the record, towards the end of "Leaving the City", where Newsom and her love go running on a beautiful day. Immediately, though, her high dims: "The spirit bends beneath knowing it must end." 2010's Have One on Me traced the death of a relationship as Newsom tried and failed to defeat a proud man's human nature. On Divers, she attempts to defeat time to stave off death.

To bear the weight of its subject, Divers fits to scale, ornate and roaming after the intimacies of Have One on Me. The arrangements—tackled by Newsom along with eight different musicians, including Nico Muhly, Ryan Francesconi, Dirty Projectors' David Longstreth, and her brother Pete—cover the ground of all her past work in a fraction of the time, making this her most dynamic and exhilarating album. The first half in particular veers between baroque poise, jaunty blues, and rococo beauty, as if searching for answers in disparate places. Landlocked between the dry, acoustic arrangements of "The Things I Say" and "Same Old Man", the lilting harp and piano of the title track casts her lover as a deep sea diver and measures the distance between them, "how the infinite divides." The meticulous internal rhymes in the chorus of "Leaving the City" contract against the tug of her harp, a cascade of tiny parts that form a huge, billowing whole, like tiny bones in a vast wingspan. "The longer you live, the higher the rent," she sings inside the frenzy.

Divers makes a landscape out of this abstract fear of loss. On the courtly "Anecdotes" and "Waltz of the 101st Lightborne", she is part of a battle fought by birds to try and wrest control of time. "You Will Not Take My Heart Alive" is the most Ren Fair piece here, on which Newsom contemplates ascension to some transcendent plane, "[severing] all strings to everyone and everything." Its sister song "A Pin-Light Bent" descends sadly back towards reason and reconciliation of her unsuccessful quest to outrun time. "In our lives is a common sense/ That relies on the common fence/ That divides and attends," she sings with palpable mourning, accepting that her life, "until the time is spent, is a pin-light, bent." Where this kind of cosmic existentialism could come off like a stoner marveling at the moon, Newsom pulls it off with balance of poetry and reason. Her fantastical world is sometimes hard to get your head around, but it brings surreal, sometimes sci-fi delight to a record that's otherwise often lyrically despairing.

Where Newsom's second and third records each overhauled what came before, Divers is a refinement that draws on elements of each of its predecessors. The shapes of her records often get misinterpreted as concepts themselves, rather than the sign of a writer attuned to her work's needs. Ys from 2006 was the five-song suite; Have One on Me from 2010, the three-disc opus. On its surface Divers is more conventional, a single disc where nine of its 11 songs are under six minutes long, but it also happens to be a wild, genuine concept album. The final song, "Time, As a Symptom", ends with Newsom in raptures, commanding white stars, birds, and ships to "transcend!" On the very last burst, she clips the word to "trans—". The first word on opener "Anecdotes" is "sending." It is a perfect loop.

Most artists on their fourth album settle into atrophy, or at least comfort, Newsom delivers such complex, nuanced music, filled with arcane constructions, that she is only her own yardstick. (In a recent interview about Divers, David Longstreth cited The Milk-Eyed Mender as one of the reasons he quit college: "[What] am I doing here if someone is already out there making music like this, on this level?") Her consummate craft is a given; what surprises every time is her ceaselessly renewing sensitivity for life's vicissitudes and the fantastic ways she finds to express them. D**ivers is not a puzzle to crack, but a dialog that generously articulates the intimate chasm of loss, the way it's both irrational and very real. Nothing will stem the fear of a loved one's death, which western culture does little to prepare us for until the very end, but by pulling at the prospect of mortality from every angle, Newsom emerges straighter-spined, and invites you to stand alongside her.

#folk rock #rock music #singer songwriter #pop music #female performer #joanna newsom #drag city records #steve albini #2015 #2010s #2010s rock #pitchfork #review

[dork-empress]

The Coinside Pantheon

This is a pantheon of goddesses I created for a D&D-esque universe. This is the universe my OC’s Haze and Prosperity are in. It is VERY religion based, the goddesses are involved in every portion of their lives. Many have their main goddess, (or maybe angel!) but will respect the others

Each Goddess has a counterpoint, the opposite/reflection of who they are, but in some ways they are the same (sun/moon, plant/animal, etc.) Each have different relationships with their doubles, and they have a combined name as well as separate names. (for instance, Sun and moon have the shared name Kys, and separate names Orlas and Urlan) 

There are 5 levels of deity, the most important on the outer edges, and going down inwards towards the Material plane (see chart below cut) Each goddess is master of their own plane, though each plane also has angels, denizens, devils and demons (Angels support the goddess, Devils and demons use the Goddess gift to hurt mortals) Tieflings, Aasimar, and Genasi can come from any of the planes (Genasi in this world are just children of Denizens)

Each goddess also has an associated animal, plant, and weapon, and maybe something else. They also have their unique worshippers, prayers, temples, and Ceremonies. 

Level 1 

Kys

Sun-Orlas/Moon-Urlan

Light/Dark, World/Dreams

Goddess appears as a dragon or Dragonborn

Animals:  Insects, 

Other: sunflowers

Weapon: Glaive

Colors: Gold/Silver

Worshippers: Rulers, Philosophers, Astronomers, generic

Ceremonies: sunrise, sunset Solstices, equinox, eclipse, any astronomical event

Temples: At high points, Village centers, outside

Prayers: A song for the astronomical event.

Solar plane is bright light, impossible for most beings to see, let alone maneuver. The stars are the denizens of the world and wander around. 

Lunar plane appears to be a barren frozen wasteland (moon surface) until you fall asleep, and find the dream world, where they create the illogic of dreams. The denizens are dreamcrafters.

Level 2

Meti 

Life--Elfi/Death--Tehad

Birth, death, medicine, time

Goddess appears Human

Animals: Birds, especially doves (pigeons) and Ravens

Plants: Willows 

Weapon: Sickle\

Colors: Black and White

Worshippers: Doctors, midwives/Morticians

Ceremonies: baptism/funerals

Temples: Hospitals/graveyards

Prayer: Silent contemplation

Life Plane nearly pure white, filled with silvery pools, where new souls are fostered. Denizens are soulweavers. 

Death plane: Black and grey stone caves, with dark pools of souls of the dead. Denizens are Reapers.

Dworl

Earth--Terah/Sea--Aneco

Dirt, stone, mountains, earth/water, nature

Goddess appears Elf. Sea elf or land elf. 

Animals: Amphibians, like Frogs.

Plant: Lily

Weapon: Triton/Pitchfork

Colors: Blue and Green

Worshippers: Farmers, sailors,

Ceremonies: During harvest/fishing, sailing

Temples: Open fields/ocean

Prayers: Quiet muttered prayer, keeping things cleaned

Earth Plane: Nearly solid dirt, caves and mountains. Denizens are Earth Elementals and tunneling creatures

Sea Plane: Ocean. I mean duh. Denizens are water elementals and fish creatures

Level 3 

Atrinoce

Mind--Idn’m/Body--Ybdo

Knowledge, creation, plans, crafting

Goddess appears as a dwarf

Animals: Monkeys

Plants: Cherry Tree

Weapon: Hammer

Colors: Pink and Brown (flesh tones)

Worshippers teachers, artisans, librarians, builders

Ceremonies: Beginning or ending a project

Temples: Schools, craft shops, libraries, forges

Prayers: Blessing on project

Mind Plane: Clockwork pink metal disks/mazes, etc. Denizens are robots

Body Plane: Rock mazes, need to move them. Denizens are like, Goliaths.

Laentigm

Civil--Ilvic/Wilds--Ildws

Chaos, order, Civilization, government, 

Goddess appears as an orc.

Animals: Snakes

Plants: shrubs

Weapon: Spear

Colors: Grey and purple

Worshippers: Kings, judges, lawmakers/barbarians.

Ceremonies: Beginning of lawmaker services/looking for luck.

Temples: offices, capitol buildings/wilderness

Prayer: Chanting prayer/song.

Order Plane: marbled towers, just endless towers like graveyard stones. Denizens are a hive mind clone system. 

Chaos plane: Thick wilderness, have to fight way through brambles. Denizens are monsters.

Tiomoen

Love--Velo/Hate--Taeh

Emotions, bringing people together or breaking them apart. 

Goddess appears as a fairy. 

Animals: Swans

Plants: Roses

Weapon: Scimitar

Colors: Red and Pink

Worshippers: Soldiers, wedding leaders, family leaders,

Ceremonies: marriages/beginning of battles,

Temples: Wedding ceremonies, taverns/battlegrounds

Prayer: Join hands with loved ones, dancing/kill an animal

Love Plane: Lots of silks, bedding, full of luxury and baccanal pleasures, dancing, wine. Denizens are Concubi

Hate Plane: Endless warzone. Denizens are soldiers

Level 4 

Noocyme

Trade--Draet/Thief--Fihte

Economy, moneys, Gems, greed

Goddess appears as a gnome

Animals: Rats/Rodents

Plants: Mint

Weapon: Dagger

Colors: Gold and Wine Red

Worshippers: Bankers, shopkeepers/Thieves

Ceremony: When bank opens, before a job, big transactions

Temples: Banks

Prayers: sacrifice a coin to an alter

Trade plane: The biggest damn bank in the world, full of bureaucracy and offices. Denizens are Bankers

Thief plane: Elaborate city full of nothing but shadowy corners and hidden treasures. Denizens are all sorts of thieves. 

Teruan

Plants--Lafor/Animals--Unfaa

All plants, all animals, hunting, gardening

Goddess appears as a satyr

Animals: Deer/Antlered animals (but all really)

Plants: Vines (grapevines especially)

Weapon: Long Bow and Arrow

Other: Pan Flute

Colors: Green and Brown

Worshippers: farmers, hunters, gardeners

Ceremonies: At planting, harvest, hunts

Temples: shrines at Farms, Gardens, Forest entrances

Prayers: Burn old matter—leaves, feathers, fur, etc

Plant Plane: jungle full of every plant imaginable, denizens are plant people

Animal plane: A hunting ground, lots of dirt and obstacles, denizens are personified animals

Srat

Comedy--Decymo/Drama--Mraad

Arts, especially performative, expressing emotions

Goddess appears as a halfling

Animals: Dogs

Plants: Berries

Weapon: Rapier

Colors: Orange and Purple

Other: all instruments, but especially mandolin

Worshippers: Artists, bards

Ceremonies: before a performance

Temples: Stages, taverns

Prayers: Songs

Comedy plane: Artists paradise, full of laughter and light

Drama plane: A somber reflection of the Comedy plane. Denizens for both are masked audience members

Fystae

Travel--Dasor/Hearth--Ahreth

Safety, safe travels, homes, warmth

Goddess appears as a goblin

Animals: Cats, horses

Plants: Weeds, especially dandelions

Weapons: Club

Other: Shoes

Worshippers: housekeepers, travelers

Ceremonies: When arriving home or leaving for a trip

Temples: Hearths, Crossroads, hostels and other community living spaces

Prayer: when encountering a shrine, place a stone or other relic from journey on top, and take one for the next stop. 

Level 5 

Sanoses

(note--Sanoses is rare in that she is 4 goddesses, not 2, encompassing all 4 seasons)

Spring--Gsrinp/Summer--Mursem/Autumn--Untaum/Winter--Trinwe

Weather, Seasons, etc. 

Goddess appears as a giant

Animals: Bears, turtles

Plants: Trees, especially oak and pine

Weapon: Quarterstaff

Worshippers: Anyone, especially farmers

Ceremonies: Start of new season, during bad weather

Temples: In the open

Prayer: drink water from a special goblet

#OC's #D&D #Goddesses #pantheon

[burlybanner]

Dust (ScienceBrosWeek, 2019)

Summary: Tony Stark is a rose, is a rose, is a rose. Or: I do not think that name means what you think it means (okay, really, I just thought that summary sounded cool. It means nothing...).

Disclaimer: This is different from my usual style and I’m not sure where this story is going. So I’m not sure when I’ll continue. But keep me honest; it’ll happen eventually.

Enjoy. Unbeta’d, as usual. **

Bruce simultaneously wiped his forehead and cupped his hand over his glasses, protecting his eyes from the glare of rusted junk scattered across the clearing. Besides machine parts there wasn’t much here other than brambles, scraggly brown weeds, and burnt patches of road gravel - and the occasional ugly ragged bird, scratching at burnt crumbs. The place hadn’t seen rain for weeks, or maybe even months, and the abandoned farm looked exactly like what he expected to see. Or worse. 

A sudden gust from the föhn-ish winds lazily shoved the air like a tired toddler and kicked up clouds of gravel dust, choking off the oxygen in Bruce’s throat. 

So, okay. Definitely worse.

He hazarded a glance at Tony who, despite the blistering heat, looked ready for a photo shoot. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Was there ever a time Tony looked anything but perfectly put-together? Apart from the days he crawled beneath a clunker’s belly, to spin grime into polished chrome? 

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Sweat trickled from the hairs on Bruce’s neck. He could feel the droplets settling uncomfortably beneath his collar, merging with the grimy dust. The only positive? The weather was too hot and dry for mosquitoes - just gnats, pestering the hell out of them.

Bruce swatted back a gnat cloud before it got too close. “Scenic tour, is it?”

Tony’d gone strangely quiet, but then he’d also been uncharacteristically silent since their Cessna landed on the camouflaged airstrip a few hours ago. Their driver sped from the tarmac and over the twists and turns of winding county back roads. For ninety minutes Tony silently sipped from a flask off and on, until they unearthed this dead place. The most Bruce got from him in an hour was a few rough, “uh huhs,” some “maybes,” and a chuckle or two. And already unsettled from the plane ride (he was a terrible flier, everyone knew it), Bruce let the bumpy ride lull him to sleep. He’d been too tired and frustrated to question Tony’s silence. 

When the limo slowed Bruce opened his eyes, shaking the lingering sleep from his bones. He listened as the limo’s tires popped and rumbled over craggy rocks and pebbles and groaned and stretched as the limo lumbered to a stop. After they exited the car, he briefly watched as it receded into a canopy of knotty trees and wondered if Happy would ever find them again.  

Tony inhaled sharply and twisted his body in Bruce’s direction. “Not exactly.” The metal frames of his glasses caught the sun, causing Bruce to squint. Tony’s grin didn’t reassure him. “Let’s head inside. Away from the heat.”

Bruce tried, failed from halting a comical double-take. “Where?” He scrunched his face at the distant “barn,” a careening red structure and one strong wind away from becoming rubble. “Surely not--”

“Appearances, Brucie,” Tony said, taking off his jacket and slinging it over one shoulder. He strode towards the barn before Bruce angrily trudged after him. “You of all people should know what that means.”

“It’s a mile away, so you better be right,” Bruce grumbled. He wasn’t in the mood but admittedly he’d been spoiled. Years ago, dry, dust-choked places like this wouldn’t have phased him in the least. They were paradises, in some lands. But he’d hung around Tony’s sweet life for far too long now and  yearned for temperature controlled buildings and AIA-winning environments. 

He made a face and huffed after Tony’s rapid retreat, suddenly hating how mercilessly soft he’d become. He knew that meant more than one thing but it hurt to poke the truth. He’d rather be angry at himself, at how quickly his former physique had devolved to flab.

Tony flipped around and walked backwards so Bruce could catch up. “If you went for a run with me every so often,” he grinned, and Bruce wanted to punch his gleaming teeth, “you wouldn’t be so out of breath.”

“I’d rather be fat, than a drunk,” Bruce retorted hotly, but Tony’s grin didn’t falter as Bruce matched the billionaire’s steps. 

“Tsk. Temper, temper, Brucie. And touche.” Tony gave Bruce a cursory nod and slowed his pace. “You’re not huge, you’re chub light. High side of average for a red-blooded American male.”

“Are you going to keep jabbering on about my weight, or are you going to explain why we’re here?”

Tony’s smile thinned, catching Bruce off-guard. He preferred their banter, honestly. Much better than the sadness he caught from Tony’s eye. “Do you remember,” Tony sighed, “when my father died?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” Bruce’s tone softened and Tony further slowed as they trudged toward the barn. “We’d gone our separate ways. Rhodey to the armed forces, me to the Peace Corps. You were finishing up your doctoral thesis, as I recall.” 

“Mmhm.” The rest of his response died a little, muffled by their feet scraping the gravel pathway. “Howard Stark, entrepreneur extraordinaire. I took over the business, kicked out the old guard, fought my way back to the top before buying you back from the government a decade later—”

“Not true,” Bruce puffed. “I was an aid worker then.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Barely scraping by. Ross still had your patents. Once you ran out of money, you would’ve crawled back to him soon enough. He was counting on it.”

“Whatever,” Bruce rumbled. “Anyway. Yes. You bought back my patents from the government. And you turned SI from a monster into a clean tech leader, turned Rhodey into SI’s government liaison - with their blessing - and turned me into a fat desk jockey.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, giving Bruce the side-eye.

“Fine,” Bruce rumbled. “Sitting and eating behind a desk turned me into a fat desk jockey. And before you ask, no I’m not blaming you. It’s my own doing after becoming SI’s R&D lead.” He waved off his anger, pretending to swat another cloud of gnats. “So? What’s your point? That’s ancient history. We know that.” He gestured between them. “You, me. Rhodey. The three of us know that.” 

“However. I never told you the whole story.”

Bruce opened his mouth but couldn’t find anything to say. He’d known Tony for over twenty years, but never knew Tony to hide anything from him. Or Rhodey. “What story?” He finally asked. 

“That Pops was a...Secret Agent, man,” Tony sang, off-key. “Helped run covert ops with my Aunt Peg.”

Bruce stopped dead and only partly because his feet hurt. “You’re putting me on.” But after a few beats of silence he realized the man wasn’t joking. “Seriously, your Dad? The asshole?”

“Hey, now,” Tony admonished. “Only I’m allowed to call him that. And don’t stand there like a dead pigeon. There are spies around and they get trigger happy if people linger out here.”

“What?” Bruce ducked and wildly glanced around the plains.

“Sorry. I’m joking.” Tony snickered and waited until Bruce caught up. “At least I think I’m joking. Honestly, I don’t know how spies operate.”

“Jesus Christ. Don’t joke about that. I still get nightmares of the DRC.”

“Sorry,” Tony repeated, and Bruce could tell he was genuinely sorry. Then, after a pause: “I...didn’t know you still had ‘em.”

Bruce rubbed his brow ridge with a shaky thumb. He would’ve let him off, told him he was joking, but it would’ve been a lie and he never was any good at fibbing, either. “You never really forget.”

“True.” 

Bruce opened his mouth then quietly shut it; it wasn’t the time or the place. If they wanted to swap more horror stories and compare pasts it’d take a lot of time and beer. Copious amounts of both. 

He’d heard about Tony’s kidnapping while abroad and although it mirrored some of his experiences, Bruce’s own detention had been...longer. He’d broke from his initial captivity before spending years on the run, fighting his way from militia group to militia group and running illegally through foreign checkpoints. Sometimes he got caught. Sometimes good people died. He regretted much of what he did to survive, to get back. And Rhodey hadn’t been around to rescue him like he’d done for Tony. 

Still. They both realized how lucky they’d been. Despite how it changed them.

Tony stopped and Bruce realized they’d made it to the barn; it was just as bad up close. “Not much to look at,” he grumbled at the gaping front. He assessed its dilapidated state while trying to catch his breath.

Tony grinned and pulled a rickety sliding door. Bruce briefly massaged his hamstring. “What did I tell you about appearances?”

Bruce shot Tony a rude gesture.

Tony laughed, hopping inside. 

When they passed from the blazing sun into the barn, Bruce shielded his eyes again. He blinked to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change from light to dark and briefly made out a few motes, dancing between streams of warped wood. When he could fully see he saw what he expected: A pitchfork, some old bales of hay. A broken tractor.

But the man surprised him.

“Hey, Clint,” Tony said, waving to a guy casually chilling in the corner. He had sandy blonde hair and was reading a magazine while chewing on a straw. He could’ve passed for a farmer, apart from the black tactical coveralls. And sidearm. 

“Mr. Stark.” Clint didn’t even look up. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Dr. Banner’s with me.”

Bruce unconsciously began backing away. “Tony...”

Tony squeezed his shoulder and Bruce found himself melting into Tony’s touch. He hated the pull Tony had over him, but he’d take whatever he could get these days. “Don’t bolt, Brucie,” he murmured. “Promise, it’s all good. No one’s gonna stuff you in a trunk.”

“That’s what they said at the Sudan border. Look how that turned out.”

“Bruce.” Tony waited until Bruce turned to him. Tony’s eyes had hypnotic qualities, Bruce swore they did. His heart slowed and his panic fled as Tony stared him down. For good measure, for Bruce’s peace of mind, he bumped foreheads with him. “Trust me.”

“All right. Okay.” Bruce licked his dry lips. “Okay.”

Clint had been shadowing them but Bruce hadn’t noticed. The man had slipped to the door and gestured to a wall switch, still flipping through his magazine and paying them no mind. Bruce’s paranoia spiked. Really, this guy was good at his job. Too good. 

“Goin’ down?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce staggered back when flaps rose out of the floor, revealing a platform lift growing from the ground like a flower.

“Like I said,” Tony said, when the lift stopped. “Appearances.” The platform was only big enough for four small people, but at least it had a safety cage with handrails so they couldn’t fall to their deaths. 

Tony pulled the metal gate and stepped inside. Clint followed behind him.  “Coming?”

Bruce swallowed, but Tony’s voice lingered in his mind: Trust me.

“Guess so.”

Bruce tentatively followed Tony onto the platform,  allowing whatever fate had in store.

#sciencbrosweek #sciencebrosweek2019 #dust #chapter 1 of a I have no idea where its going fic #bruce banner/tony stark #sciencebros #bruce banner #tony stark #stanner #Rhodey's in here somewhere too

[abzilp]

The modern German novel begins with The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus (Der abenteuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch, 1668) by Hans Grimmelshausen (1622?–76). One of the greatest novels of the 17th century, this 5-part, 400-page book is a boisterous Oktoberfest of genres bumping bellies: bildungsroman, picaresque, allegory, (anti)war novel, hagiography, fantastic voyage, romance, ghost story, sermon, and utopian novel. Referring to the frontispiece depicting a leering satyr/phoenix/bird/fish creature pointing at a book, one German critic admitted “the history of literary forms stands helpless before such a Tragelaph.”64 Initially, it resembles a picaresque novel, especially Alemán’s Guzman of Alfarache, which had been adapted into German by Aegidius Albertinus in 1615. Beginning about halfway through the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), the narrator explains how he was raised nameless and uneducated among peasants until the marauding Imperial army looted his village when he was 12 or 13; he escapes into the nearby forest and is taken under the wing of a religious hermit who names him Simplicius because of his ignorance—he’s never seen a horse, and assumes soldiers riding them are a centaurlike hybrid of man and wolf—and brainwashes him with Christianity before allowing him to read more books borrowed from the local pastor. After the hermit dies, Simplicius returns to the world at war and yo-yos from one camp to another; treated like a fool, he becomes a professional jester until he can work his way up the ranks. He becomes a marauding prankster known as the Hunter of Soest, and on one occasion discovers an abandoned treasure in a haunted house, which seems to ensure his fortune. Knowing he’s betraying his Christian upbringing but powerless to resist, Simplicius then accompanies a young nobleman to Paris, where he becomes an actor and a gigolo, the beginning of a downward moral spiral that takes him back penniless to Germany, where he scrapes by as a traveling quack until he’s forced back into the army. Determined to settle down, he marries a country lass (who turns into a drunk), reunites with his “father” (who tells Simplicius he is actually the son of the hermit who raised him, a Scottish nobleman who abandoned the world in disgust), travels some more (Russia and Asia) before returning home disillusioned with everything, and becomes a hermit—choosing the life that had been forced upon him as a frightened boy. So it seems the entire novel has been a sermon against unchristian behavior, and a religious call for renunciation of the sinful world. 

But Grimmelshausen complicates this picaresque pilgrim’s progress in many intriguing ways. On the one hand, the novel is graphically realistic, much more so than spiritually oriented works are. The attack on young Simplicius’s village is described in sickening detail: the soldiers ransack and torch everything, torture the peasants, and rape the women. Later, peasants capture a soldier, cut off his nose, and force him to lick their assholes before they bury him alive in a barrel; when other soldiers capture the cleansed peasants, “They bound their hands and feet together round a fallen tree in such a way that their backsides (if you will forgive me again) were sticking up nicely in the air. Then they pulled down their trousers, took several yards of fuse, tied knots in it and ran it up and down in their arses to such effect that the blood came pouring out. The peasants screamed pitifully, but the soldiers were enjoying it and did not stop their sawing until they were through the skin and flesh and down to the bone.”65 Young Grimmelshausen was an eyewitness to such atrocities—the first third of the novel is somewhat autobiographical; his handling of a child’s POV is superb—and his willingness to report what he saw so unflinchingly makes Simplicissimus a primary source for historians of the Thirty Years’ War. (You’ll recall the Spanish Estebanillo González is also set during that conflict and captures some of the chaos of war, but Grimmelshausen focuses on the civilian population.) 

Such language also makes the novel a primary document in the rise of realism in fiction; not since Thomas Nashe had any novelist dared to describe the aftermath of battle in such gruesome terms as he uses: “there were heads that had lost the bodies they belonged to and bodies lacking heads; some had their entrails hanging out in sickening fashion, others their skull smashed and the brain spattered over the ground; . . . there were shot-off arms with the fingers still moving, as if they wanted to get back into the fighting, . . .” (2.27). The dialogue is equally realistic: “Pox on you, brother, are you still alive?” one soldier greets another. “By the holy fuckrament, the Devil looks after his own!” (1.26). As a licensed fool, Simplicius doesn’t mince words when asked to describe a fashionable visitor: “This lady has hair as yellow as baby shit and the parting is as white and as straight as if she had been hit on the scalp with a curry-comb. And her hair is in such neat rolls it looks like hollow pipes, or as if she had a pound of candles or a dozen sausages hanging down each side. And oh, look at her lovely smooth forehead, is it not more beautifully curved than a fat buttock and whiter than a dead man’s skull which has been hanging out in the wind and rain for years?” (2.9). Simplicius often embarrasses himself by farting noisily; people vomit, shit, swear, scratch at lice and fleas. There’s sex and some nudity: sailing on the Danube for Vienna, Simplicius “had eyes for nothing but the women who answered the calls from the boats with literal rather than verbal bare-arsed cheek” (5.3).66 The point is religious writers don’t write like this—nowhere in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress does a farmboy tell a dairymaid “that she could kiss his arse and go fuck her mammy in the bargain” (3.23)—which calls into question the ostensibly religious orientation of the novel. Something else is afoot. 

Though highly realistic, more so than most pre-20th-century novels, Simplicissimus is, on the other hand, highly unrealistic and brazenly supernatural. Grimmelshausen’s novel often reads like a Grimms’ fairy tale, for Simplicius lives in a demon-haunted world where people still cast spells, foretell the future, and consort with devils. When he leaves the forest for the town, some citizens “thought I was a spectre, a ghost or some such phenomenon” (1.19)—phenomena as real to them as the butcher or the baker. In book 2, Simplicius is foraging at night and sneaks into a farmhouse, where he spies a few people who “had a sulphurous blue lamp on the bench by the light of which they were greasing sticks, brooms, pitchforks, stools and benches. Then, one after the other, they flew out of the window on them.” Puzzled, he sits on one of the benches and instantly shoots out the window and lands about 150 miles northeast to witness a witches’ dance, described with Boschean extravagance. Invited to join the dance, “I cried out loud to God, at which the whole crew vanished” (2.17). Simplicius insists this actually happened, and wasn’t a dream; citing similar stories from reputable scholars, including the story of Faust, he dares the reader to disbelieve him: “if you don’t believe it, you will have to think up some other way in which I went in such short time from Hersfeld or Fulda (I still don’t know where I was, wandering round in the forest) to the vicinity of Magdeburg” (2.18). There he is taken into a regiment that includes a prevost-sergeant who “was a true sorcerer and black magician who knew a spell for finding out thieves and another to make not only himself as bullet-proof as steel, but others too.” To find a thief, “the sorcerer muttered a few words and puppies started to jump out of people’s pockets, sleeves, boots, flies and any other openings in their dress, one, two, three or more at a time” (2.22). A little later, Simplicius invents a pocket-sized instrument that enables him to hear things taking place miles away, and again taunts the reader: “However, I am not surprised if people do not believe what I have just written” (3.1). The treasure he discovers is guarded by a “ghost or wraith” (3.12), which is not a product of his imagination, nor is the demon who speaks to him from inside a man undergoing exorcism (5.2). Near the end is the greatest test of the reader’s incredulity: tossing some stones into the “enchanted” Mummelsee, “a supposedly bottomless lake” (5.10)—a real lake in the Black Forest, but now known to be only 55 feet deep—some sylphs come to the surface, give him a magic jewel that enables him to breathe underwater, then take him to the center of the earth for a 16-page tour of their subterranean world and discuss their place in the Christian scheme of things.67 

All this takes place on the “factual” plane of the novel, and doesn’t include numerous instances where people are mistaken for devils, or Simplicius’s allegorical dream of the military establishment as a tree (which allows Grimmelshausen to criticize further the suffering inflicting upon civilians) “with Mars, the God of War, on the top, and covering the whole of Europe with its branches” (1.18). One chapter is entitled “How Simplicius Was Dragged Down into Hell by Four Devils and Treated to Spanish Wine” (2.5), followed by “How Simplicius Went to Heaven and Was Turned into a Calf” (2.6), but these are merely pranks soldiers play on the naïve lad. Later he meets a madman who calls himself Jupiter, whom Simplicius plays along with by referring himself to Ganymede or Mercury, and layered on top of other references to classical mythology and German folklore is an elaborate set of references to Chaldean astrology. It’s tempting to call this magic realism were it not closer to the aesthetics of the medieval morality play, where figures representing devils or the sun shared the same stage as mortals. Christianity is part and parcel of this magical/medieval world: throughout the novel, saints and angels are evoked in the same breath as figures from myth and folklore, supernatural events are defended with citations of similar events in the Bible, and Christian theology is indistinguishable from the world of myth and magic. If you believe in the miracles in the Bible, the novel implies, then you’re no different from those who believe witches ride broomsticks and sorcerers cause puppies to magically crawl out of your pocket. As in Don Quixote, there is a clash between old-world and new-world weltanschauungs, and by the end of the novel, Christianity has been so thoroughly contaminated by its association with outdated mythology that Simplicius’s quixotic decision to renounce the world at age 33 and become a Christian hermit can only be regarded as the act of a simpleton. The novel encourages figurative detachment from the world, not literal. 

Grimmelshausen certainly didn’t drop out to play the holy fool: he managed estates, ran several inns, was the mayor of a small town, had 10 kids, and wrote more than 20 books. He converted from Protestantism to Catholicism when younger (to help his careers, it’s been suggested), but he knew the only real magic is the act of artistic creation. There’s a lovely passage near the end of book 1 in which an officer’s secretary praises writing as a way to make a living; Simplicius thinks he’s talking about magic (and is reminded of “Fortunatus’s inexhaustible purse”), but Grimmelshausen is also praising the novelist’s art of creating something from nothing: 

I once criticised him for his dirty inkwell but he replied that it was the best thing in his whole room for he could draw up out of it anything he wanted: fine gold ducats, fine clothes, in short all his possessions had been fished out of his inkwell one by one. I refused to believe that such magnificent things could be obtained from such a paltry container. He replied that it was the spiritus paperi, as he called the ink, that did it, and that an inkwell was called a well because you could draw up all sorts of things out of it. (1.27) 

Out of Grimmelshausen’s dirty inkwell came this devilishly clever satire on 17th-century society, a world “so full of foolishness that no one takes any notice or laughs at it anymore,” as Simplicius notes (3.17), encouraging him to “castigate all follies and censure all vanities” (2.10). Simplicissimus begins like a picaresque bildungsroman but opens up into a Menippean satire, a blitzkrieg against pretension, hypocrisy, superstition, and especially the alleged nobility of war. There’s no bullshit here about dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, a con kings and politicians have been using to recruit cannon-fodder ever since Horace penned that piece of propaganda. The Thirty Years’ War was essentially a family squabble between the Hapsburgs and the Bourbons for territorial control over Europe (with some Protestant vs. Catholic window-dressing), about as noble as a mob turf war, and though Grimmelshausen sarcastically notes war is good for business (5.5), he rubs his reader’s face in its barbaric nature with a force that wouldn’t be felt again until the antiwar novels of the 20th century. As Simplicius fools his way through war-torn, phantasmagoric Germany, I was remind of Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow; Grimmelshausen even indulges in some Pynchonesque personification: on one of his foraging expeditions, Simplicius sees “a sight for sore eyes or, rather, empty bellies: hanging up in the chimney were hams, sausages and sides of bacon. They seemed to be smiling at me, so I gave them a come-hither look, wishing they would come and join my comrades in the woods, but in vain; the hard-hearted things ignored me and stayed hanging there” (2.31). Simplicissimus belongs to the same insubordinate platoon as The Good Soldier Švejk, The Tin Drum, and Catch-22. 

Though Grimmelshausen drew upon personal experiences for the early parts of the novel, he drew mostly upon his extensive reading. Scholars have shown that more than 150 books went into the making of this erudite novel, ranging from classical authors and the medieval Parzival to the 6-page passage from Antonio de Guevara’s 16th-century theological tract that concludes book 5. A German translation of Charles Sorel’s iconoclastic antinovel Francion (see pp. 182–86 below) was a major inspiration, but Grimmelshausen also drew upon Italian novellas and German jestbooks (like Till Eulenspiegel), encyclopedias and almanacs, and manuals on witchcraft like Johann Wier’s De Præstigiis dæmonium (2.8). A battle scene that sounds like an eyewitness report actually comes from a German translation of Sidney’s Arcadia (which should give military historians pause). On one occasion, Simplicius visits a pastor and finds him “reading my Chaste Joseph” (3.19)—a biblical novel Grimmelshausen published in 1666, though it’s only 1639 at this point! That’s so obviously an anachronism that it has to be deliberate, another taunting call for the suspension of disbelief like Simplicius’s magical bench ride and his sylph-escorted journey to the center of the earth. It’s all one to “the old inkslinger” (2.4). 

Cervantes waited 10 years to publish a sequel to Don Quixote, but Grimmelshausen jumped on the unexpected success of Simplicissimus. When the 5-book novel was reprinted in 1669, he added a 6th book simply entitled Continuation (Continuatio), though scholars are divided on whether this forms an organic whole with the previous part, or is the first of several sequels Grimmelshausen published over the next few years. 

Like most hastily written sequels, the Continuation isn’t very good. Picking up where book 5 left off, Simplicius’s solitary life as a hermit seems to be driving him crazy, for first he recounts a long, allegorical dream that starts in hell with Lucifer gnashing his teeth at the declaration of peace that ended the Thirty Years’ War, which morphs into a didactic tale of a rich young Englishman who ruins himself through conspicuous consumption. Our hairy hermit then encounters a statue that comes to life, and—after Simplicius decides to hit the road as a pilgrim—he gets into an argument with some toilet paper, who delivers a long economic history of its many metamorphoses from seed to paper (a remarkable set-piece that again brings Pynchon to mind). Mistaken for the Wandering Jew, spooked by ghosts, Simplicius has further bizarre adventures as he travels to Egypt, then is shipwrecked on a deserted island off the coast of Australia, where he leads a Robinson Crusoe-type existence—this section was based on the popular English novelette by Henry Neville, The Isle of Pines (1668)—and there he writes the entire Simplicissimus novel on palm leaves. Refusing rescue by a Dutch sea captain, Simplicius intends to live out the rest of his pious life on his island hideaway, “an example of change and a mirror of the inconstancy of human life.”68 Although the book offers further displays of the author’s outlandish erudition, it’s too didactic, too medieval. 

Grimmelshausen returns to form in The Life of Courage (Die Landstörtzerin Courasche, 1670).69 Near the end of Simplicissimus, our protagonist had boasted of seducing and dumping a beatiful lady, a “man-trap” whose “easy virtue soon disgusted him” (5.6); nine months later, she leaves a baby on his doorstep, who Simplicius reluctantly makes his son and heir. Audaciously blurring the distinction between fiction and reality, Grimmelshausen states in a headnote that this unnamed woman read Simplicissimus and was so insulted at her portrayal therein that she decided to avenge herself by telling the story of her life, revealing that the woman he took for an aristocrat was actually a promiscuous adventuress infected with syphilis—which raises an intriguing possibility: Did Simplicius contract the disease from her? Untreated, it can cause insanity, which would explain the underwater sylphic adventure later in book 5 and the talking toilet paper. Indeed, the entire bizarre Continuation can be read as a neurosyphilitic hallucination. If nothing else, it stinks up the odor of sanctity with which Simplicissimus ends. 

Just as the Continuation anticipates Robinson Crusoe, this short novel anticipates Defoe’s Moll Flanders, but with no apology at the end for the life she’s led. (Grimmelshausen, however, tacks on a homiletic warning against following her example.) Inspired by a German translation of Lopez de Úbeda’s Justina, Grimmelshausen backtracks to the very beginning of the Thirty Years’ War. Born in Bohemia, 13-year-old Libuschka disguises herself as a boy to avoid rape from invading soldiers and joins the army: “I made a great effort to get rid of all my woman’s habits and acquire man’s. I took great pains to learn to swear like a trooper and drink like a fish . . . so that no one should suspect there was something I had not been endowed with at birth” (2). When it’s revealed during a fight she lacks that certain something, she defiantly calls her vulva Courage, which becomes her girl-power nom de guerre in her fight against male prejudice as well as opposing armies.70 Over the next dozen years, she is repeatedly married to soldiers, repeatedly raped by other other soldiers, then becomes a prostitute, then a black marketeer, doing whatever it takes to survive the war, and marrying whoever promises shelter from the storm. (Through no fault of her own, her husbands usually perish before their first anniversary.) She’s smart, as courageous as her name implies, and fiercely independent; she doesn’t really descend into criminal behavior until later in life, when she joins a band of Gypsies. And that child she left on Simplicius’s doorstep? Not hers, but her slutty maid’s. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Courage takes self-incriminating delight in telling Simplex (as she calls him) how wrong he was about everything. 

Like Simplicissimus, Courage is graphically realistic but includes a few magical elements. The Spanish Justina tried to dodge sexual encounters, but Courage welcomes them: she’s a novelty in novels of this period, a sexually active woman who doesn’t feel guilty about scratching her itch (as puts it). While we have to remember that a man is writing this, Grimmelshausen was a worldly one and knew that women have sexual desires too, which you wouldn’t guess from most novels published before the 20th century. Like Simplicius, Courage occasionally reads courtly romance novels, but only to pick up “pretty turns of phrase from” for the purposes of seduction (5; cf. Simplicissimus 3.18: “these books taught me how to lure the female sex”). Rebelling against the polite romance tradition, Grimmelshausen opposes his hard-core realism to their unrealistic fantasies; like his model Charles Sorel, he was out to destroy the mainstream novel, and Courage is an earthy and bracing alternative to most 17th-century fiction. 

One of Courage’s longer-term relationships was with a lackey/paramour she nicknamed Tearaway, from the time she told him, “Tear yourself away from that cart and go and fetch the dappled grey from the grazing” (16). After she dumped him for drunkenness and domestic violence, this rascal became one of Simplicius’s gang during his Hunter of Soest period. He tells his story in Tearaway (Der seltzame Springinsfeld, 1670), which begins when the young scribe Courage had hired to write down her memoir runs into Simplicius, lately returned from Australia, and his old servant Tearaway at an inn.71 The scribe tells them what Courage dictated to him—Simplicius interrupts to admit he was also banging Courage’s maid, so that baby is his son after all—and also of her life with the Gypsies. (Grimmelshausen may be the first to write about them in fiction.) We learn that Simplicius, as pious as ever, is annoyed that readers are treating his Simplicissimus merely as a jestbook like Till Eulenspiegel instead of the Christian allegory he intended. Incongruously, he is now making a living as a traveling salesman peddling an elixir that improves wine, using a magic book as part of his spiel—another occasion Grimmelshausen uses, like the dirty inkwell, for a tribute to the power of imaginative writing—and after nine chapters of metafictional scene-setting, Tearaway tells how he spent the war. Like much of Simplicissimus, Tearaway is a grim, grunt’s-eye view of war, where greed for booty trumps patriotic duty, and which brings out the worst in everyone. Tearaway admits “Soldiers are there to persecute the peasants and any that leave them in peace aren’t doing their job properly,” but also notes “some peasants were worse than the good soldiers themselves. They not only murder soldiers, innocent and guilty, whenever they managed to get hold of them, when they had the chance, they stole from their neighbours, even from their own friends and relations” (13). This section is sketchy, obviously worked up not from firsthand experience but from the same war chronicle Grimmelshausen used for Courage, Eberhard von Wassenberg’s Erneuerter Teutscher Florus (1647). After the war is over, Tearaway marries a widow and becomes a crooked innkeeper, abandons both, then marries a hurdy-gurdy player and scrapes out a living accompanying her on the fiddle as wandering musicians. This colorful, realistic account of tramping morphs into a fairy tale in which his wife discovers a magical bird’s nest that confers invisibility on its owner; Tearaway’s too cowardly to use it for gain—she isn’t, and winds up being burned as a witch as a result—and the tatterdemalion is still playing for pfennigs when he runs in to his old master. Simplicius tries to recall him to Christian principles, which Tearaway initially dismisses as “a load of monkish tripe” (27), though he repents just before he dies. 

“The Miraculous Bird’s Nest” (Das wunderbarliche Vogelnest, 1672 [part 1] and 1675 [part 2]) is the title of the last two sections of what Grimmelshausen eventually called the Simplician Cycle. In part 1, a do-gooder named Michael uses the cloaking device to obstruct various misdeeds while searching for an honorable way to make money; in part 2, an unnamed merchant, less scrupulous than Michael (and more like Tearaway’s wife), takes advantage of invisibility to commit various acts of greed, lust, and sorcery. The miraculous bird’s nest functions as a “lens through which the bearer perceives reality” (Negus, 124), another analog for one of fiction’s purposes. Simplicius’s son appears in one episode in part 1, but otherwise the 2-part novel is only thematically related to the preceding novels, emphasizing once again the inconstancy of fortune, the prevalence of evil, and the consequent necessity of adhering to Christian principles. Books 1 through 8 of the Simplician Cycle depicted a world at war, but in these final two books Grimmelshausen argues that the world at peace is just as dangerous. They sound mildly entertaining, but as they’ve not been translated, I can only direct the interested reader elsewhere for more on the conclusion to Grimmelshausen’s 10-part, 800-page meganovel.72 

Unlike part 2 of Don Quixote, the second half of the Simplician Cycle isn’t as impressive as the first half (i.e., Simplicissimus), but that doesn’t prevent Grimmelshausen from occupying the same lofty position in early German literature, and his influence on later German writers is profound. He impressed Ludwig Tieck and other German Romantics, the Grimm brothers and Goethe, and his work played a patriotic part in the unification of Germany in the 19th century. Most major German novelists of the 20th century have paid tribute to him: Thomas Mann borrowed from his work for his Felix Krull and Doctor Faust, and in his introduction to a Swedish translation of Simplicissimus, he wrote: “It is the rarest kind of monument to life and literature, for it has survived almost three centuries and will survive many more. It is a story of the most basic kind of grandeur—gaudy, wild, raw, amusing, rollicking and ragged, boiling with life, on intimate terms with death and the devil—but in the end, contrite and fully tired of a world wasting itself in blood, pillage and lust, but immortal in the miserable splendor of its sins.”73 Hesse greatly admired Grimmelshausen, and from him Bertolt Brecht conceived the idea for his play Mother Courage and Her Children (1949). Grimmelshausen’s earthy, erudite, punning language was an inspirational starting point for Arno Schmidt’s even more outlandish diction. I implied earlier that the young Simplicius has something in common with Oskar Matzerath in Günter Grass’s Tin Drum (1959), and Grimmelshausen steals the show in Grass’s erudite critifiction The Meeting at Telgte (1979), an imaginary conference of several German authors in 1647, in which Grass affectionately roasts the old inkslinger: 

In his green doublet and plumed hat he looked like something out of a storybook. . . . [After he] had offered his services in a long-winded speech well larded with tropes, Harsdörffer took Dach aside. True, he said, the fellow prates like an itinerant astrologer—he had introduced himself to the assemblage as Jupiter’s favorite, whom, as they could see, Venus had punished in France—but he had wit, and was better read than his clowning might lead one to suspect. . . . His lies, said Harsdörffer, are as inspired as any romances; his eloquence reduces the very Jesuits to silence; not just the church fathers, but all the gods and their planets are at his fingertips; he is familiar with the seamy side of life, and wherever he goes, in Cologne, in Recklinghausen, in Soest, he knows his way about. . . . Hofmannswaldau stood dumbfounded; hadn’t the fellow just quoted a passage from Opitz’s translation of the Arcadia? . . . His words seemed as trustworthy as the sheen of the double row of buttons on his green doublet. (6–7) 

In this novel Grimmelshausen is still in his mid-twenties, but someday, the narrator predicts, “he would let every foul smell out of the bag; a chronicler, he would bring back the long war as a word-butchery, let loose gruesome laughter, and give the [German] language license to be what it is: crude and soft-spoken, whole and stricken, here Frenchified, there melancolicky, but always drawn from the casks of life. Yes, he would write! By Jupiter, Mercury, and Apollo, he would!” (112–13). 

#steven moore #the novel: an alternative history 1600-1800 #hans jakob christoffel von grimmelshausen #simplicissimus #tom nashe #miguel de cervantes #bertolt brecht #arno schmidt

[boyintheradiator]

Landmarks vol 6. Girl, Interrupted: 15 años del debut de JoJo, la superestrella que no pudo ser.

Los caminos del pop son verdaderamente misteriosos: Con talento y un puñado de hits potenciales, a veces solo se necesita un empujoncito por parte de un sello para triunfar; Sin embargo también se necesita el más pequeño descuido legal para verse acorralado frente a una industria despiadada que siempre verá primero por sus propios intereses… Ese fue el caso de Joanna Levesque, más conocida como JoJo, quien a la temprana edad de 13 años se convirtió en una estrella mundial con un potencial grandísimo, mismo que se vería frustrado por un mal manejo por parte de su disquera. 

It´s Jojo In The Place To Be 

Evidentemente el éxito de JoJo no fue casualidad, sino resultado de dedicación desde la infancia y un talento asombrosamente prematuro. Su habilidad y técnica vocal son tan impresionantes que a la edad de 6 años ya tenía ofertas de contratos, pero no fue hasta los 12, cuando su madre consideró que estaba estaba lista para afrontar la fama, que firmó por nada más y nada menos que 7 discos con Blackground Records, disquera que editaría ‘JoJo’ el 22 de junio del 2004.

‘JoJo’ está conformado primariamente por una fusión de pop, R&B y Hip Hop, (formula estándar que ha conquistado la industria durante las ultimas dos décadas) y contiene tal cantidad de números destacables, que pareciera más un trabajo de una artista experimentada que la obra de una debutante. 

‘Homeboy’ es la composición más sofisticada del conjunto, construida sobre un sample de ‘Chasing Me into Somebody Else's Arms’ de Scherrie Payne, al más puro estilo de las producciones del Kanye West de la época. Similar en estructura y muy próxima en calidad es ‘Breezy’, número urbano que abre el álbum e incluye un sample de MSBF. Por su parte ‘City Lights’ de prominente motivo percusivo es cercana al clásico ‘1 Thing’, lo cual no puede leerse más que como un gran halago para la primera. ‘The Happy Song’, más orientada al R&B, es un tema romántico de excelente manufactura, que se desarrolla alrededor de un loop de piano eléctrico y percusiones. Con este mismo estilo encontramos otra de las canciones más notables del disco, ‘Not That Kind Of Girl’, que nuevamente tiene como base un loop de piano eléctrico y un patrón de percusión y que combina una deliciosa sucesión de acordes con una melodía perfecta y un pegajoso riff de sintetizador. Temáticamente este es el momento más “JoJo from the block” del disco, compartido con otro de los tracks sobresalientes, ‘Baby it´s You’, compuesto con un ritmo reminiscente del dembow que lo convierte en el más bailable y arriesgado de la colección. La secuencia más clásica está formada por las baladas ‘Never Say Goodbye’, la impresionante versión del estándar del R&B ‘Weak’ (arriesgada elección de la que JoJo bien librada gracias a su extraordinario talento vocal) y la optimista ‘Keep On Keeping On’ de tintes Gospel, compuesta en su totalidad por la cantante a su prematura edad y que con algún arreglo más grandilocuente no le pediría nada a temas cómo ‘Fly Like A Bird’ de Mariah Carey o ‘Holy’ de Jamila Woods. El hit del álbum evidentemente es ‘Leave (Get Out)’, de un infeccioso riff de guitarra y estribillo “larger than life” (emparentado con ‘Since U Been Gone’), que llevó a su intérprete directamente a lo alto de las listas, alcanzando el número 12 en el Billboard Hot 100 y otorgándole el récord de la cantante más joven en obtener el número 1 en el Billboard Pop Chart (que aun conserva). 

Gracias al triunfo de ‘Leave (Get Out)’ el álbum gozó de un éxito espectacular llegando a vender más de 1 millón de copias tan sólo en estados unidos y 3 millones a nivel global. En un cerrar de ojos JoJo pasó de ser una adolescente común a convertirse en la joven promesa de la música urbana. Pronto el éxito se extendería a otras disciplinas, obteniendo papeles protagónicos en los éxitos de taquilla ‘Aquamarine’ y ‘Runaway Vacation’. Gracias a esta exposición mediática, Joanna superaría su propia marca con ‘Too Little Too Late’, el primer sencillo de su segundo disco, ‘The High Road’, que escalaría hasta el número 3 del Billboard Hot 100 y el número 4 en UK Singles Chart entre muchas otras altas posiciones en mercados decisivos y aun más importante, le daría la aceptación de la crítica. La cima estaba cerca, sólo hacía falta un poco más de proyección mundial y otro sencillo contundente que anunciara su tercer trabajo para que JoJo ocupara el lugar que hoy tienen Rihanna o Ariana Grande. 

La existencia de ‘Acepto Que No Puedes Volver’, versión en español de su éxito ‘Too Little Too Late’ demuestra los planes de establecer a JoJo cómo superestrella en todos los mercados del mundo.

And There Might Be Some Rain

Y fue entonces, a las puertas del estrellato internacional, que JoJo se enfrentó a las crueldades de la industria. Su tercer material se compuso, grabó y produjo en varias ocaciones, cada una de ellas con una respuesta negativa por parte de Blackgound Records, quienes detenían el proyecto sin extender explicación o retroalimentación alguna sobre que cambiar o mejorar para dar luz verde a su publicación. Las especulaciones indican que la mala administración del sello provocaron que perdiera relaciones con todas las distribuidoras que estaban a su alcance, por tanto le era imposible lanzar cualquier material al no ser capaz de sacarlo al mercado y tenerlo disponible para los consumidores. 

Sin embargo, al ser JoJo la artista más exitosa de la disquera, y teniendo un futuro prometedor con el que lucrar, Background se negó a liberarla de su contrato, según el cual aun debía publicar 5 álbumes con el sello. De esa manera dejó a la cantante en un limbo, sin posibilidades de lanzar nueva música ni relacionarse con otra discográfica para continuar con su carrera. Ante esta situación JoJo se refugió en las nuevas herramientas de publicación musical, lanzando un par de mixtapes y algunos singles sueltos (con su aclamada versión de ‘Marvin´s Room’ de Drake de por medio). Sin un sello como respaldo, toda oportunidad de obtener difusión, promoción y/o remuneración económica justa se vio suprimida.

Finalmente en 2013, 7 años después de la publicación de ‘The High Road’, JoJo decidió iniciar un proceso legal en contra de Blackgound Records, proceso que se desarrollaría por un año y tendría como veredicto la liberación de la intérprete tras un largo aprisionamiento creativo. No obstante esta libertad tuvo un precio: Joanna era libre para encontrar una nueva disquera con la que publicar por fin nueva música, pero sus dos primeros álbumes se quedaron en manos de Blackground, quienes debido a sus problemas de distribución no los han hecho disponibles en servicios streaming o compra en linea oficiales y los mantienen a día de hoy fuera de impresión; Incluso se argumenta que estas acciones se realizan para que JoJo no obtenga ninguna ganancia a través de ellos. Mas allá de las consecuencias económicas, el verdadero impacto de esta situación se vio en el ámbito profesional… tras casi una década fuera del radar del público cotidiano y sin tener control de su repertorio antiguo JoJo tendría que reiniciar su carrera desde cero, con casi nulas posibilidades de alcanzar el éxito internacional que se auguraba para su tercer álbum.

Keep On Keeping On

A pesar de las dificultades, JoJo no se dio por vencida y poco tiempo después firmó con Atlantic Records para la publicación de siguiente disco, que se lanzó en 2016 con el nombre de ‘Mad Love’. Este recibió las mejores reseñas de su carrera y aunque se quedó lejos de las 3 millones de copias vendidas por sus anteriores entregas, tuvo un desempeño bastante favorable para las adversidades que enfrentaba, alcanzando el número 6 en el Billboard 200 y obteniendo excelentes números de streaming (las verdaderas métricas de popularidad en la actualidad). 

Evidentemente, a pesar de su regreso triunfal, para la artista era importante recuperar su legado, no solo como una deuda consigo misma, sino como agradecimiento a los fans que estuvieron con ella durante esa década de silencio. Después de analizar sus posibilidades legales y sin oportunidad de recuperar sus masters originales, la única opción disponible fue la de regrabar todo el material para volver a publicarlo ahora en su nuevo sello. De esta manera el 21 de diciembre del año pasado, coincidiendo con su cumpleaños número 28, los álbumes ‘JoJo (2018)’ y ‘The High Road (2018)’ así cómo los sencillos ‘Demonstrate (2018)’ y ‘Disaster (2018)’ aparecieron en los servicios de streaming y tiendas digitales, dando por terminado un proceso de injusticia y reclusión artística que frustró una carrera prominente, más no el talento y la dedicación de una artista dispuesta a vencer todos los obstáculos. 

One And Only, Nothing Less

¿Por qué el debut de JoJo destaca entre una infinita cantidad de Ameries, Ashantis y Keyshias que triunfaron en el pop urbano a principios del milenio?… ‘JoJo’ es un álbum maduro y con enfoque que cuesta creer que haya sido lanzado por una intérprete de apenas 13 años; Además de eso, directa o indirectamente ayudó a encaminar al R&B durante los años siguientes a su publicación en cuanto estilo, composición y producción: Cómo destaca Pitchfork, JoJo trabajó con productores nórdicos antes de que se convirtiera en un patrón a seguir, estableciendo una fórmula de balada de desamor que vería su más fructífera encarnación en las composiciones de la dupla Stargate/Ne-Yo y alcanzaría su cenit en el clásico de Beyoncé, ‘Irreplaceable’, pasando por otros números 1 cómo ‘So Sick' del mismo Ne-Yo o ‘Take A Bow’ de Rihanna. A pesar de no ser un triunfo de críticas inmediato, el público lo sigue aclamando a 15 años de su lanzamiento, incluso haciéndolo trending topic en twitter el pasado Junio, expresando lo importante que ha sido tanto en sus vidas personales cómo en el desarrollo del R&B contemporáneo. Indudablemente, la calidad del álbum, su influencia en la industria y todo el drama que envolvería a la artista a través de los años siguientes le han dado un estatus de álbum de culto entre los entusiastas de R&B, quienes valoran a Joanna cómo la mejor vocalista de su generación y una veterana destacada del género a sus escasos 28 años (LEGENDS ONLY).

#JoJo #music #r&b

[wednesdays-in-paris-at-cafes]

reputation aesthetics

…Ready For It?: island getaway, riviera views, cocktails by the sea, yacht club party for two, lace and silk little dresses, bird cages, satin sheets, dim lights through velvet drapes

End Game: leather jackets, sky-high heels, bathtubs of diamonds and pearls, red lipstick, broken guitar strings, last four words

I Did Something Bad: broken violins, dust-covered mirrors, chairs burning in front of a content blonde woman, night clubs with blaring music, disco balls, burning playboy magazines, witches running from the hunt, pitchforks, fireworks over sad empty towns

Don’t Blame Me: lockets around necks, bottles of vodka and tequila downed, wine spilled on white button-ups, broken glasses, shatter ceramic hearts, mascara-streaked cheeks, wanting to rip your hair out in frustration, that inexplicable longing that kills you inside little by little, daisies and cat screeches, never wanting to let go

Delicate: whispers under covers, broken promises, champagne for two, back rooms and underneath stadium stages, unsent letters, unread texts, tight ropes, sleepless nights, tangled necklaces

Look What You Made Me Do: piping hot tea, plunging necklines, red robes, snakes and rats and lobsters, things burning, black leather everything, stilettos, broken clocks, breaking things, gates and keys that don’t match, cutting holes in and burning boyfriends’ white dress shirts, nightmares of women in capes

So It Goes…: hymns, piano melodies at two am, gold cages, chipping paint and ripped vintage wallpaper, smeared lipstick, wrinkled clothes and tousled hair, skipping boulders in rivers but end up making a single splash that drenches you, memorized phone numbers, silk night gowns, straps falling over shoulders, dressed like a duchess and a prince, breathless nights

Gorgeous: heart eyes, hands brushing, fleeting touches in darkened rooms, wanting to drown in their eyes, blushing all the way home, that little dance you do in your kitchen after you get home from meeting your soulmate (they just don’t know it yet), love/lust at first sight, enchanted on repeat, playing the cello at midnight, hugging your pillow because you can’t hug them, emotional range of a whole fucking galaxy from dying of joy to dying of longing, passing notes, stories told at dinner parties, screaming names down hallways

Getaway Car: first editions of A Tale of Two Cities, black ties and white lies, shades of gray and candlelight, Old Fashioned in shot glasses, gunshots at glass bottles, red maserati driving into sleepless nights, the first taste of freedom, circus clowns, sirens, rapidly beating hearts, stolen keys, crying in backseats

King of My Heart: crowns and tiaras, lonely apartments after long days, unanswered phone calls, dancing banners in early winter breezes, broken bones mending, nights watching stars on rooftops, drinking beer out of plastic cups, UK flags

Dancing With Our Hands Tied: literally dancing with hands tied, beige string bracelets, hidden romances, melting hearts, golden glitter paints, pictures on lockscreens, moving the furniture to dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator lights, when Lizzy and Darcy danced at the Netherfield ball and everyone disappeared, lights going out and rooms burning down, floods and drowning in rivers but holding on to a branch that would save you, being able to finally breathe after you’ve drowned because you are finally clean, saviors in the form of people (a dangerous combination)

Dress: seeing one’s face in every crowd, holding hands in crowded lobbies, waves down long hallways, whispered goodbyes, silence and zero patience, pining and desperately waiting, shaking hands, spinning rooms in slow motion, names carved into cherry trees, being pricked by rose thorns, drinking wine in bathtubs, cryptic social media posts, instagram lyric captions with double meanings that no one picks up on, flashbacks to first meetings, true love real love first love golden everlasting love, a love story that doesn’t end in heartbreak or burning flames and one that doesn’t spontaneously combust and explode

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things: cheshire cat smiles, smirking hostesses who may have just poisoned your drink, eye rolls and ripped up invitations, black lipstick, girls who reign over their kingdoms and are fully aware of their power, pettiness, gorgeous girls who take the r out of pretty but put the art in smart, broken vases, champagne being dramatically served, mothers in trench coats with their hair in french twists, shaking heads and marching away in a storm of dust

Call It What You Want: crumbling castles, losing fights, going MIA without a word, radio silence and notifications blowing up, buying a plane ticket twelve hours before and leaving without a note, home in a person, forts under covers, knowing with absolutely certainty that you did something right, someone who loves you enough to forgive you for a world of wrongs, no longer giving a shit what the worlds thinks of you, initials on necklaces that never leave your neck, folklore

New Year’s Day: glitter on the floor after the party, girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby, candle wax and polaroids on their hardwood floor, antique copies of books and diaries from years ago, bottles scattered on floors after a party, three squeezes for ‘I love you’, yellow taxis in New York City, soft guitar strums, piano ballads, photo albums, being too afraid to make or ask for promises of forever, wanting an eternity, someone who is the one constant reminder that life is a beautiful gift even after everything, love that saves you, memories that will break your every fall

#mine #taylor swift #reputation

[abzanascendancy]

Race to Ixalan!

We know dinosaurs are going to be on the plane of Ixalan, and we know from the image we got accompanying its announcement that humans will also make an appearance.  Well, so much for a non-human plane (return to Lorwyn/Shadowmoor when?)

But anyways, I’ve done somethinking, and  I’ve come up with some races I want to see in Ixalan:

Viashino.  C’mon, this is a dinosaur plane.  They’d fit perfectly, and it’d also mean we get feathered viashino!  If we do, I hope the males have the most colors: not only is it biologically accurate, but I can have gay lizard people too.

Merfolk.  C’mon, this is a pirate plane.  And with Merfolk vs Goblins announced as well, it could be a pretty fair indication that we’ll be getting some merfolk cards with Ixalan.  But also give us pretty-boy merfolk, alright?  Or muscly male merfolk.  Gotta attract everyone on that ship.  Speaking of allure--

Sirens.  More of a minor tribe, but we should at least see a few scattered cards.

Ratfolk.  Call them Nezumi if you will, the term bilgerat could very well be a compliment on this plane.  Stabilizing tails that can hold onto rigging and weapons, can fit in cramped quarters, and it’s pirates.  What better place to see a return of ratfolk?

Aetherborn.  Look back at the art.  Either the mage with the eyepatch is powering the harpoon, or else we’ve got aether on this plane.  And where there’s aether, there’s bound to be aetherborn.  Let’s see them make a comeback!  Actually, looking back at it, it does kinda look like the Aether Revolt symbol in eyepatch-mage’s hands...

Nagas.  They already made a comeback in Amonkhet, and I don’t know how they’d navigate the rigging, so I’m less hopeful of their reappearance.  Still, this is a jungle world, and tribal synergies could arise with Amonkhet & Ixalan in standard, so I’ll keep a weather eye open.

Homarid. I debated whether or not to include Cephalid on this list, but I’d want them to be more akin to Ursula, and we already have a half-human blue-aligned tribe with merfolk.  So why not bring back the Homarids?  It’s a predatorial plane, and you gotta be tough to survive.  I also just want a homarid with a pirate hat.  And it speaks like a blustery british military-type with a bushy moustache.  The homarid doesn’t have a moustache, the military-type does.

Aven.  Parrot aven.  *mic drop*  Besides that, this is a Mesoamerican plane as well, and we have the beautiful Quetzal birds to draw inspiration from.

Thallids/Treefolk/Dryads.  I want a plant or fungal race to be prominent.  I don’t know if that would just be dryads, but I want one!  Grow your own ship! Regenerate from vicious attacks! Filter out clean water for the crew! Be vored by a dinosaur but since you’re a fungus you take over its brain from the inside!  Now that would make a neat card!

Homunculus.  Hear me out.  Instead of a parrot or aven-parrot, what about a homunculus mascot?  Eh?  What about that?

Races I don’t want to see in Ixalan:

Goblin.  I know we haven’t had goblins since BFZ, and have gone three whole blocks without them, but unless they’re portrayed to be remotely competent, I’m tired of goblins being portrayed as an incompetent race.  The only goblin I’ll allow is Squee, somehow finding himself as a cabin hand again.

Catfolk.  I want Ajani to be an anomaly.  Heck, I want Vraska to be an anomaly too!  I want it to be a running gag where people just accept Ajani as this giant cat person, despite having no catfolk on their plane.  Also, don’t know how well catfolk would do at sea.

Vedalken & Kor.  What even are the kor?  They’re humans, but literally white (not caucasian).  Same with vedalken: humans, but blue and having additional appendages, be they arms or fingers.

Dragon.  Hold your pitchforks!  What about a feathered serpent instead, like depictions of Quetzalcoatl?  Wouldn’t that be neat?  Besides, we don’t want a T Rex to take a backseat to a dragon, now do we?  Unless it’s Ugin, in which case it works.

Demons & Angels. After a surprise appearance on Amonkhet, I think I want a break from angels.  Bring back archons, but I don’t think Angels would do well at sea.  I’d be fine with Rakshasas (cat demons) in the jungle, but not plain ol’ demons.

#Ixalan #foresee

[t3andcrumpets]

In Soviet Russia, fanfiction writes you.

Excerpt:

“I just don’t want him to regret bringing me here,” she said very quietly.

“Li,” Jean said, kneeling at the little girl’s feet and taking her hands tightly. “You have no idea how much it hurt your father when he thought he’d lost both you and your mum in the war. To find out that you were alive made him so very happy. He will never – ever – regret bringing you here. He will never regret bringing you home, love.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #tdbm #doctor blake mysteries #lucien blake #Jean Beazley #it's a bird it's a plane it's a pitchfork

[caltheriusdrex-blog]

Chronicles of Drex

I looked ahead of me at the oncoming horde of bandits. They were all swords, rifles and leather. So much leather... The sun gleamed off the polished brown of their vests and wraps and I caught myself wondering how many cows it must have taken to produce such a volume of the stuff. For an instant I imagined a ghostly moo pleading for vengeance amidst the cries and shouts and snickered to myself as they charged toward me. They had certainly taken a great deal of livestock from the village along with all the other loot they could plunder during their previous raids. And now they were going to pay for it.

I smote my staff down directly in front of me with both hands and began to gather my will as I drew energy from the ley line that ran beneath my feet. Under normal circumstances I had enough magic within me to roast a swine, light a candle and conjure an illusory dame to dine with. Stars willing enough energy leftover to bed said dame, AKA my hand and pretend-land... I certainly didn't have the amount of magical spunk capable of taking on the hundreds of men approaching.  Lucky for me we were about to have it out right above the biggest line in the entire Litheran Forest. Suckers.

I felt the energy coursing through my staff and into the spell I was crafting. The staff was slightly taller than I, made of rich dark wood with a horned dragon head carved into the end of it. Within the wooden eye sockets two red gems began to radiate a crimson light. My muscles twitched as the electric sensation of the energy hummed through me. I imagined the emptiness of it, the cold vastness of space and the crystalline plains of the place within the void, the place I'd only seen in my dreams, and I prepared to perform one of the most daring magical feats I'd ever attempted.

They were only about 35 feet away and closing fast. Several members of their DeadEye marksman squad crouched down and leveled their rifles at me. The lead gunner (in noticeably finer leathers) whistled a signal to fire and an explosion of sound answered him as the group unleashed a barrage of bullets at me. Surely they expected to find nothing left of me but bloody scraps of meat, fortunately for me the glyphs I'd made on the ground earlier in the day worked in my favor. The first of the bullets hammered into the air about 1 foot from my face and exploded against the barrier surrounding me. Up until this point the shield was only slightly visible from up close as a wispy transparent bubble but now it glowed orange and then red as more bullets exploded against the same area of it which happened to be directly in front of my face. Assholes weren't called Deadeye for nothing I guess. Without the glyphs I'd prepared there was no way I could have held a shield against so much force. I strained slightly to keep the barrier inplace, but my main focus stayed on the working I was about to unleash on these animals. I waited until they got close enough for me to see the burns I'd added to Rograk's already ugly mug. The arrogant asshat leader of this bunch of two-bit thugs. His iconic redsteel greataxe was raised high and he looked eager to chop a little off my top. I could hear his hoarse roar over the sounds of other war-cries. Though of course there were about several dozen bandit guards positioned to serve as a safety cushion between him and I. Pussy. I waited for him to get close enough that I could see his eyes. And then I did it. "INANIS PATENTIBUS!!!" I shouted as I raised my staff and smote the earth again. Thunder sounded from above as my staff drove into the earth and I unleashed all the energy I'd gathered, focused on the space right behind Rograk's ass.

Time seemed to slow down as the nearest bandit closed and I felt the spell begin to take effect. There was a tiny popping noise followed by a current of air pulling towards the center of the horde. It began as a breeze that quickly grew to hurricane speed which pulled from all directions towards my focal point. Rograk was the closest and he let out a startled cry as he was forced directly back into the small center of the rift behind him. He appeared to be squatting oddly, off his feet in the air. As if sitting on an invisible floating toilet.  His eyes opened widely showing the white of his eyes. And he started screaming. The sounds of suction were very audible, but not more so than his cries. He trembled and shook and struggled helplessly, held in place by the suction behind him. The bandits nearest me ceased their charge when they heard the ear piercing shriek of their leader shitting out his guts into the portal behind him. Serves him right, rapist-murderer. His shriek ceased abruptly as the portal pulled his torso into his legs and his spine cracked and broke then he was swallowed by the blackness entirely. With the portal no longer clogged by their leader's fat ass the void began pulling hungrily at air. The nearest bandits stumbled from the force of the winds and began tripping over one another. The look of fury and rage on their faces vanished and was replaced with utter horror as they realized how thoroughly they had underestimated “that magical asshole”as they had referred to me previously. I marveled at the working I'd accomplished, a sizeable tear in the fabric of space and time. It looked like a large wavering sphere of darkness. I could glimpse stars and odd crystalline structures on the other side. It swelled and grew, and as it did so too did the pressure in the air. The men nearest were whipped and dragged screaming into it, warbled distorted screams coming from their mouths Then everything and everyone in the vicinity began flying towards it.  The wind swirled around me, my black duster flapping wildly within the confines of the shield I had prepared as I worked to protect myself from my own magic. The entire mass of the horde, hundreds of men were squeezed and crammed together towards the portal. There were unmistakable cracking sounds as many necks and limbs were broken from the pressure of so many bodies being forced into the dark opening. I saw an unfortunate man wearing a horned lizard skull soaring across the air into an even more unfortunate man at the receiving end of an accidental headbutt that disemboweled him and broke the neck of the man wearing the skull. The portal continued to grow larger, viciously swallowing everyone into it. It happened so quickly. And then they were gone, hundreds of men pulled into the X-Zone never to return.

I wavered and had to use my staff to keep my balance, it may have been borrowed energy but the amount of will it took to channel and shape it had taxed me, I felt like I was going to faint and if I did I'd simply be ripped towards my death like the others. I fought against the oppressive urge to lie down and take a dirt nap as I focused again on the ley line. I struggled and concentrated in an attempt to grasp onto the magical current for the energy I needed to close the gate, but with my will waning I only caught strands of the mystic energy. It felt as if I was trying to cup water into my hands as it dribbled between my fingers wastefully into the dirt. I felt the shield around me weakening and it became harder to resist the pull in the air. The gate was growing larger still, I watched as an entire flock of birds overhead was briskly pulled and engulfed into the portal. Dirt, rocks and shrubbery nearby was torn from the ground. I was suddenly terrified. I'd prefer a sword through the neck over a trip to the X-Zone any day. What waited on the other side was far worse than death. For one I'd have to deal with any bandits who didn't die in the process of being crammed into the other dimension, and I'm sure they wouldn't be too happy to see me again. My secondary concern would be happening upon any of the denizens of the foreign plane. Without  a line to tap into I'd be nearly defenseless, and the kind of death they would grant would certainly be neither quick nor painless. My third concern was how much devastation the portal would cause in my absence. It wouldn't grow indefinitely, but I'd poured enough power into it that it would likely last several moments, and at this rate that could mean a quarter of the town would be consumed, at least several buildings full of the people I was supposed to be helping.

I redoubled my efforts and reached out to the fear within me, used it, infused my will with it. just as the final threads of my shield were unraveling I reached out and grabbed onto the line with my will, wrangling it. I drew in a great big gulp of magical energy just as I felt the subtle burst of my shield collapsing around me and saw myself lifting off my feet, flying head first towards the gate. I screamed, panic evident in my voice. "PROPE! INANIS PROPE!!!" I pushed my palms out toward the oncoming void and released everything I had left in me...

Evidently it worked. I became aware of that fact as I groaned and rolled myself onto my back what must have been several moments later. I was covered in dirt and sat in a sizable crater staring up at the darkening sky. I heard voices nearby and saw a frightened old farmer in coveralls defensively holding a pitchfork out in front of him as he stared down at me. "I'll take my payment in coin, a bed, and one of your fine ass daughters to join me in it." I slurred. Then everything went nice and quiet and black as I passed out from exhaustion.

#dresden #magic #wizard #story #short story #shortstory #writingopinions #writing opinions

[meltedmagazine]

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE FUNS

______________________________________________________________

The Funs itself was a positive result of a time of negativity. Do your songs reflect this? Are they aimed towards creating a positive attitude?

   To me The Funs is about creating positivity from a dark place. It’s obvious if you pay attention to what’s going on in our music. My lyrics very much reflect what is currently happening in my life and documents our evolutionary time line. The Funs started in a depressed and desperate state. I was limp and basically walking around with no skin. You know, being 21? My immediate family is densely touched with mental illness of the schizophrenic variety. I had to get the fuck out of that head space to make it. I had to reprogram the path ways in my brain. You can hear it in those earliest recordings because they’re blown out, hardly listenable, trashy and lyrics are raw and biting, and as we climb out of that hole, the lyrics get more hopeful and the tones start to get a little softer. There are these glimpses of the sun and flashes of it getting better.

   In the beginning it was me and Philip vs the world, surviving, but now we’ve carved a place for ourselves and we’re really happy and healthy. We’re keeping the shadows in check. I think you see it in our newest stuff that we can breathe now and that we fought for it. We started out as a two piece. I get really sick of calling it that, a two piece I mean. Philip and I have always played together because we are lifers. This is it. Whatever form it takes we’re not stopping. I just get tired of getting labeled anything really even though that’s what has to happen.  But to answer your question yes I am positive person that is riding the REAL into the pink and blue sunset. Every day I work for it and it comes out in the songs.

How has creating music allowed you to channel negative energy and/or escape it?

    Music has been the motivator for getting healthy. Philip and I were living in Chicago and we were both working 24-7 to live in a crappy apartment in Pilsen for $800 dollars a month that only had heat in the kitchen. We practiced at 16th and Western. We lived in that practice space when we got bed bugs, drinking orange juice and eating Vienna sausages. I ate them because my Grandma gave them to me as a kid. Philip wouldn’t eat ‘em. Anyway, it wasn’t sustainable. It was a joke. We were working to live and living to play and barely getting by. I will forever be beholden to Chicago’s basements because they made me who I am today but those spaces and those shows are ephemeral. They’re like a cactus flower that blooms one night and is gone. Change is constant and I was constantly trying to figure out how the hell I could play very loud, punishingly scary, pretty sounds and capture it or record it and keep it going full steam.

   Philip always talked about his Grandpa’s place in the country and how it was this huge old house and how we could move there and clean it up and play music and tour and take care of each other. Music motivated me to move into a hoarded, abandoned, funeral home, in New Douglas IL. That’s the truth. This was four years ago about now. I don’t know how in the hell we did it looking back. It was nuts. We loaded up our mish mash pawn shop gear into a caprice classic (also Grandpa’s) and we broke down before we got out of Chicago’s city limits, so we rented a U haul and got to work. Skin to the bone work. Head to the wall work. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you work. There was a petrified squirrel in the toilet. Mouse shit and bird seed. It took years to get it livable but we started making noise immediately. We got to know our neighbors and to be accepted. I just kept telling myself it was worth it because I’d have the space and opportunity to sustain my visual and performing practice. That’s it. That’s everything. It was all inspired by playing music with Philip every day because that is what I am meant to do. Now after cleaning out an insanely, hoarded, filthy, house and basically rebuilding the whole damn thing room by room, we have something really beautiful and I can walk downstairs and pick up a guitar and press record and it’s everything to me. I’m able to share this exquisite space we made. We call it Rose Raft. It’s a place of peace, music, and making. We are officially opening as an artist and musicians residency next year. It’s all escape. It’s all healing.

How has the Chicago DIY music scene that you're a part of affected and influenced you as a band?

   As I said earlier, Chicago basements and DIY spaces made me. The ethos and ethics that uphold those spaces and their fleeting moments’ drive my being. I can let go and share. It makes me feel so present and alive like how the 1st winter night can cut your face. Chicago will beat you down as a city. Make you feel beat. 

And what do those shows, the kind where audience and band are almost in total sync, feeding off of each other, creating a coexisting mass of energy, mean to you? Do they happen often?

   Life is suffering but to me those shows are about feeling outside of that. Maybe, for some people, at those kinda shows, it’s about being seen, or getting fucked up, or getting fucked and that’s fine we’re all coping but for me it’s the two or ten kids that are really feeling it. Sometimes it’s a whole room. The lucky nights where the energy electrifies the air and it feels like lightning might strike you down. That’s when the room becomes a wave and people crash and break on you. They form a wall holding each other back so you aren’t smashed completely. People throwing themselves into sound blindly like being raptured. We are playing that emotion and hurling it back, and it tugs, and pulls, washing in, and out like tides. It’s mouth to mouth. It’s fucking beautiful and you can’t do that on a stage. It’s just not the same. It’s a whole different production. You can’t have the barriers and the body guards and green rooms and the separation. You have to be sacred and talk to people face to face. You can’t do that at Pitchfork. Not really. And it doesn’t last forever ya know? I’m grateful to have played one show like that, in my lifetime, but Chicago has spoiled me, to my very bones. It’s given me many extraordinary shows. The music there is brave and fascinating, and it carried me home. It’s my heart away from heart. I have to live the country life now to keep from going crazy but I bleed in Chicago. Those shows are endangered wild beasts that I long to visit.

You guys seem to stick pretty close to the definition of a pure DIY band. Releasing your music on cassettes, playing in people's basements, music before money, etc. Is this mentality an important aspect of creating music? Do you believe making music this way is the most fulfilling way and will lead to ultimate personal success?

    Without a doubt yes this is the only path I could have taken to self-actualization. Let me be clear though. Money is not Evil. Greed is what sucks. We all need money to be alive in America in 2016. Being in a band is a privilege that I do not take for granted. A lot of bands do and it’s boring. It makes me fucking gag. You need money to be in a freaking band. It’s why rich dude bro rock jock types get to be heard over everyone else all the time. We know this. It’s boring. But still, the reality is you need money to be in an American band. You need $$$ for a van, to fix a van, to fix a van again, to gas a van, to fix your ancient guitar, to have an amp, to repair your sweet shitty amp. Bands are fucking expensive that’s why it’s a huge god damn privilege to play music. I have to get paid to play music in order to function and I’m clear about that but the real important thing is, and what makes a big difference creatively is that money is not what motivates me to make. Real deal DIY shows take care of touring bands financially and spiritually better than a rock promoter does 9 times out of 10. Writing something that takes me to the other side and makes me feel light is what makes me feel complete always. Finishing an album is the reward. Connecting to other humans in a real and personal way is the incentive, even if they are few and far between. Not fans, not likes, not getting rich. There’s meaning in the work. It’s worth it. I like to share what I have had the opportunity to create. I take nothing for granted. There are lots of different paths you can take. There are suits, and loafers, dinners, jet fueled planes and billboards, twix bars, red bull, chevy cars, and hard rock hotels using “cool” bands to overtly and subliminally manipulate millennials into buying shit. Don’t get lost. There are several potential sources of dopamine out there. There are choices. I’m an atheist that doesn’t believe in the afterlife. I keep death in my pocket. You’ve got to. You’ve got to ask yourself the hard questions and be honest. How do want to spend your time on this momentary spark amongst black dust and diamonds? Every second counts. Who do you want to spend those seconds talking to?  

    DIY has been sold to home depot. I don’t mean to sound jaded. It’s just really tough to keep things pure. A band is business plain and simple. You are selling yourself. You are pushing a product. You’re creating an image and people are selling it. I’m mindful about what I sell but it’s impossible to play out in the world and not compromise something at least a bit. The bigger things get, the messier it gets, and that’s all. I got to be careful and protect my freak flag in the sand. I’ve done stuff for a paycheck so I could buy a guitar and plant a garden. McDonald’s was the best job I ever had in some ways. I’ve done worse. The facts are in and we live in a consumer driven capitalist country that benefits and functions from the oppression of vulnerable peoples. You’d have to live in Canada in the woods, and grow all your own food, and make all your own clothes, and play the banjo, and bathe in waterfalls to stay totally pure. I eat McDonald’s sometimes, but I’m trying. I’m trying to do right with what I’ve got and what I can create. We’re making everything out of nothing. It’s all I can do not to pop. Art is culture. Music is our most basic beauty. To sing a song and connect and express is vividly significant. Too many bands are too busy trying to do nothing but sell shit and aren’t giving anything back. The idea of a commercial rock band grosses me out. I’m more successful than I ever thought I could crawl out of. I’m grateful for my life. I get to have it because my parents made castles out of wreckage. So now, I’ve built a home that I can share with others based in music, art, and love. I’m consistently creating passionate work that I’m fulfilled by and it meets the tall standards I’ve set for myself. I’m only ever competing with myself because this is not a cool contest to me. It’s no joke. It’s my life and it’s meant to be shared. Music is powerful. It can create change and bind us or it can blankly distribute junk food.  I’ve found my voice so I’m able to help others to find theirs. That’s what really charges my batteries the most, to give opportunities to those without the resources, exposure, spotlight or strength. I’m looking in the holes and throwing down ropes. It’s as pure as it can be. It’s a dream inside a dream. It makes me fucking gleeful. I feel splendor every day. Sanctuary.

Do you feel like people these days are lacking a part of the music listening experience when they use stuff like itunes and spotify? Is physicality in music important to you?

    YES PHYSICAL MUSIC IS IMPORTANT TO ME. IT IS ART. We make everything that goes into our albums, it’s like the organic produce of merchandise if organic actually meant anything still and……yes, hello world, buy local, buy direct, not direct tv, but hey ya know amazon is really really really fucking convenient. And CGI sucks! Stop it already all the time. Make it real with your fingerprints I say. It’s more interesting and nourishing like fresh baked bread from your friend. Maybe put down the 3D printer and forge something with your hands? Let me see your hammer blows.   

  I don’t listen to itunes or Spotify but it’s not because I’m too cool. I’m just being honest. It depends on how you want to consume, and how much, and where. It makes sense for most people to use it. I don’t really listen to a whole lot of music. I’d rather be playing or writing. Philip plays a lot of records and I enjoy that. Sometimes. Records are beautiful. But you know they are petroleum based so fuck it all to hell. You can’t win. You got to be you and figure it out. I blast Vivaldi when I clean the house. Our van has a tape deck and it’s lovely to drive at night smelling cow shit and listening to a band that made something special just for you. It feels like a gorgeous secret. It makes my life.

   I get why people do stuff, it’s convenient. It’s the same reason I go to Walmart sometimes because I’m broke and I want something and it’s okay, I can still buy stuff straight from artist’s hands and I make a decided effort to do so regularly because hello?! It makes the world less shitty. People want things immediately. I’m guilty too. We are raised for it now. Instant gratification. You have to learn to play an instrument. You have to write a song. Practice a song. Write the lyrics. Record it decently. You have to mix that shit. Then master it. If you can manage to access all that. Then you got to get it out into the world one way or another. All that shit takes time and money. It’s crazy to put in all that time and work and then have the expectation that it must instantaneously exist on the internet for free. I had to rehab a totally fucked up house, rearrange my brain, and barrow a 4 track, to get to place where I can do that and sustain myself in a healthy way. You can find yours. It is possible. It’s not easy. Nothing worth having is. I’m so grateful to be able perform, record, and tour and not compromise myself or my work. That is very rare thing for an artist.

Is there an artist/song/album that makes you feel a heavy dose of nostalgia? 

   I just listened to Summerteeth and it made me super nostalgic because Philip and I used to drive around and listen to it as kissin’ teenagers, in love out in the cornfields. And Jeff Tweedy cut his teeth not far from where we are now and I think he has kept it about as real as you can. The Breeders of course for always and forever. Little Fury and Off You take me away to a bliss-state. Flock of Seagull’s Space age love song reminds of me of the day I fell in love with Philip forever walking around lost and alone in downtown Chicago with giant headphones. Everything looked grey. Grey sky. Grey buildings. Grey concrete. But I felt a rainbow in my chest like a divinizing, dowsing rod pulling me along. That’s what music and love can do. I can’t really listen to Neutral Milk Hotel anymore because it makes me too sad. My older brother died when I was 19 and NMH, Nirvana, and Sonic Youth and Beck all remind me of him. There’s a lot. He gave me so much. He showed me another planet.

what's it like being a musician/band in the 21st century? 

    Big question. OK. You know it’s weird to be a band now but it’s weird as it ever was I’m sure. It’s weird to exist. Derealization is fucked. Anyway, I know I love to tour pretty city to gritty city via interweb connects. I’ve figured out how to do that well.  I camp and touch a redwood if I’m near one. I hug a person and shake hands when I see them. Now is a good time to be alive even though there’s climate change and Trump. There’s always something: war, terror, Reagan, nukes, neoliberals, crusades, famine witch hunts, plagues, divorces. The Big music industry is inherently flawed, sex obsessed, exploiting as the day is long. It’s in its nature. It’s in our basest nature. Luckily one can exist outside of it. If you try hard enough. Bullshit consumerism and main stream media blows. These systems prevent musicians from financially benefiting from their designs even if they are popular. You’re encouraged to sell guitar center and start a clothing line. It’s a machine and there’s a lot of people in line getting paid before the laborer. There’s no quick fix. It’s always been difficult for artists to make money from original work. Who cares? You can’t give up. You got to be relentless. Besides, it’s romantic to be a starving artist. I say fuck that. Find a way to feed yourself. Build a bridge out of tooth picks if you have to. It takes Disney channel talent and trash bag full of four leaf clovers to “make it” and what is it worth? It’s like hitting the ultra-mega million. It takes Michael Jordan riding a unicorn crying One Direction’s tears.  America’s tastes are constantly regurgitating and changing like a hungry monster in a Miyazaki film. I understand that we live like kings on a red white and blue hamster wheel. The world is relatively at peace right now, historically speaking, with 7+billion people. It’s a miracle. That can change at any moment. We are talking about trans issues in politics in America. I’ll take that. There’s some good stuff out there within the horror show. You got to fight for it. That’s what art is and art gets dissolved in industry like pop rocks in a can of coke. 

    I have hope that we will keep evolving toward symbiotic peace in a world where everyone has the choice to create and not just work to live. Most people are working to live. I’m grateful to be the age I am, 30 yrs. because I grew up not having the internet and then having it. So, I feel like I see it for what it is…An insane tool. It’s mind blowing. My freedoms are obscene. It’s all in what you choose to learn and what you choose to connect to. My childhood was cell phone free and I read a lot and ran around in circles outside. I watched MTV and VH1 until it morphed into road rules. I dug in dirt for fun. I still do. I like to sweat to accomplish a goal. It’s remarkable when labor is a choice. 

   Discovering music as teenager felt magically powerful and holy. Like a whisper in a church. I think that’s harder now to feel like that but it still exists and always will in a world I want to live in. I love science and technology. It’s thrilling. Things are happening the only way they can. I don’t long for the past. The good old days don’t exist. The past is never better. I wouldn’t go back if you paid me. But being in a band in a constant wash of media bombardment with PR campaigns and competitive sports can wear me down sometimes. Still, I don’t lose sight of what matters. I won’t let myself be jaded. That shit is sad. If you’re jaded you’ve givin’ up so try something else Sound Guy. Never be bitter. You have a choice, so use it.  Be mindful. Facebook can be a sad hole so make good habits. Reach out. I channel all that shit into making work and into real time connection. I check myself regularly. Skate and make art. I keep my fire lit and light house burning. Don’t get put out by the drool.

LISTEN TO THE FUNS HERE

interview by AL SMITH

#melted #melted magazine #the funs #music #chicago #interview #band #art

[ipodclassic160gb]

2016 Year End Album List

The year is officially over now so here are my top 20 albums of 2016.  It was a great year for music and my list has a lot of stuff that has already been talked about but still I gotta do a list! If you’re reading this thank you. I’m mostly making this for myself but I hope you all enjoy.  

20. Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith - EARS  I kept seeing Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith’s name pop up on pitchfork and I never listened to her because I thought I would be listening to long droney ambient pieces (which I like but I was never in the mood for this year). But I listened to this one a few weeks back and I’m glad I did because this album is ALIVE.

19. Frank Ocean - Blonde This album is good but I don’t think it really lived up to the hype? It’s probably just me honestly. Like it’s a great album but I feel like I’m not really relating to it so that’s why it’s not higher on the list. Plus I hate it when “Facebook Story” comes up on shuffle

18. Radiohead - A Moon Shaped Pool Also kind of overrated. But it’s still a Radiohead album. Like it meets that standard. It’s better than King of Limbs. Let’s move on.

17. Chairlift - Moth Chairlift really stepped it up this year. I saw them open for someone years ago and getting really bored. When I saw them tour behind this album this year it was like a completely different band. I can’t help but thinking that working with Beyoncé gave them the confidence to bring it like they did on this album. Too bad they broke up.

16. A Tribe Called Quest - We got it from Here…Thank You 4 Your service Some of this album’s success I think might have to do with timing. The political messages on a lot of these songs hit harder in the wake of the election. But most of this album’s success comes from how these guys can still make their sound work after like 25 years. 15. Leon Vynehall - Rojus (Designed To Dance) I don’t know a lot about house music so I think it makes sense that I would be into a house music concept album about birds.

14. Kvelertak - Nattesferd I didn’t hear very much good metal in 2016. I wasn’t really seeking out dark music as much because the world seemed dark enough already. But this album filled my need for heavier music without being too gloomy. Kvelertak (I do NOT know to pronounce their name) blend a lot of more older rock and metal styles together here to get a kind of unique black metal party vibe??? I don’t know it works for me

13. Blood Orange - Freetown Sound This album captures a lot of what made music so great this year. Warm sounding nostalgic songs with strong political messages. This album has a lot going on in it and sometimes it feels like musical ideas are dropped before they’re really complete. But at it’s best this album is some of my favorite music I heard all year. Also my dad liked it

12. The Avalanches - Wildflower This album doesn’t achieve the same classic album status as Since I Left You but it’s still nice to visit the Avalanches’ world again. In the summer I would make breakfast while listening to this album so I guess it probably helps that I associate it with eggs.

11. Young Thug - No, My Name is JEFFEREY This is the first time where I’ve liked an entire Young Thug mixtape. Usually he’s working at a level that’s beyond my level of comprehension and that’s how he loses me. This is definitely an easier listen overall compared to his previous work, and while he’s still rapping from another plane of existence it feels like I’m hearing it from a more comfortable place.

10. Carly Rae Jepsen - Emotion Side B/Emotion Emotion Side B is really good in it’s own right but Emotion felt as much like an album from this year as it was from last year. It’s an album for every year. A timeless classic. When the world ends in nuclear holocaust (soon) I hope this music survives. 

9. Nicolas Jaar - Sirens It took me a while to get into Nicolas Jaar because there were so many sides to his music. Every time I tried to get into him I’d hear something different and it would change my perception of him drastically. This album is a good blend of all the things I’ve heard from him and it comes together to make something really unique and different.

8. Jamila Woods - HEAVN I was really surprised to not see ANYONE talking about this album outside of music publications. If you liked Solange’s album and haven’t heard this please listen to it!

7. Xenia Rubinos - Black Terry Cat THIS ONE TOO I DIDN’T SEE ANYONE TALKING ABOUT THIS ALBUM!! I LITERALLY HAD TO HEAR ABOUT THIS ONE FROM READING THE FUCKING “OVERLOOKED ALBUMS 2016” THING ON PITCHFORK. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR WITH THIS ONE PLEASE

6. White Lung - Paradise White Lung took their sound into Warped Tour Compilation 2004-2006 realms on this one and it pays off big time. Mosh pit anthems for adults. 5. Beyoncé - Lemonade To say that the release of Lemonade was a major cultural moment is an understatement. For weeks it was all I listened to and all I wanted to talk about. And after the all the hype, articles about if the album’s narrative was true or not and whether or not it mattered, and buying a $40 Boycott Beyoncé t shirt I wore myself on Beyoncé. But even after seriously overdoing it with this album you can’t deny it’s impact.

4. Mitski - Puberty 2 Aside from being my favorite title for an album in recent memory this album makes me feel like I am dead and empty but happy at the same time.

3. Solange - A Seat at the Table I think this is the most relevant album to come out this year. There’s not a lot I can really add to the discussion about it but I really do think it’s an album everyone needed this year.

2. Bon Iver - 22, a million Trust me I do feel bad placing Bonny Bear above Solange but this album was so fucking cool. Like he went full on fucking WEIRD on this one. It’s like Kid A but from Wisconsin. Lyrically I think this album is about…nothing??? But musically this album feels huge

1. Chance the Rapper - Coloring Book This one got me through the hell year. I don’t even think it was the best album this year objectively (Juke Jam ft. Justin Bieber for most skipped song of my life) but as the world grew scarier and scarier this past year the more I clung to this music. I used to be put off by Chance’s unrelenting positivity but this year I needed it and it seriously helped me so much. I think my favorite thing about this record is how all the guest features are brought into Chance’s world. Future makes some of the darkest sounding rap music today but on Smoke Break he shines as bright as Chance. I have loved watching this guy succeed all year. Give him the Grammy.

HONORABLE MENTION: Kanye This was a truly difficult year to be a Kanye fan. I loved TLOP when it first came out but as time went on I liked it less and less. Some of it has to do with Kanye’s actions testing me as a fan but most of it has to do with the fact that this is his weakest album. His genius still shines throughout it, but it just feels like he didn’t give a shit about this one. He starts off so strong with Ultralight Beam (which is honestly a Chance the Rapper song like it plays more into what Chance put out later in the year than the rest of TLOP) but by the next song he is giving us the bleached asshole line. Kanye has never been the best rap lyricist by any means but with the rest of the album feeling so thrown together it’s working against him more than before. While it’s interesting how the album falling apart (intentionally?) mirrors Kanye’s public persona also falling apart this album just doesnt sit right with me anymore. Hope he’s okay.

#2016 #list

[dork-empress]

Coinside Pantheon Part 2

This is info on some goddesses i made for a D&D esque world. See here for more info.

Goddesses level 1

Kys

Goddess of: Creation

Appears as Dragon or Dragonborn

Domains: Sun (Orlas) Moon (Ulnar)

Associated with: Glaive, Insects, Gold and Silver, Sunflowers, Orbs

Patron of: Philosophers, Sorcerers, Rulers, Astronomers

Holy times: Sunset/Sunrise, Moonset/Moonrise, Solstices & Equinox, astronomical events

Holy sites: Temples at high points, town centers

Prayers: etherial songs

Plane 1: Sun plane--bright light, impossible for most beings to see, let alone maneuver

Plane 2: Moon plane appears to be a barren frozen wasteland (moon surface) until you fall asleep, and find the dream world, where they create the illogic of dreams

Denizens: Living Stars

Level 2

Meti

Goddess of: Time

Appears as: Human

Domains: Life (Elfi) Death (Tehad)

Associated with: Birds, Willow trees, Sickle, Black/White, Medicine

Patron of: Healers, Midwives, Morticians

Holy times: Birth, funerals

Holy sites: Hospitals, Graveyards

Prayers: Cleansing with sanctified water

Plane 1: Life: nearly pure white, filled with silvery pools, where new souls are fostered

Plane 2: Death: Black and grey stone caves, with dark pools of souls of the dead

Denizens: Soulweavers (sometimes called Reapers)

Dworl

Goddess of: The World

Appears as: Elf

Domains: Earth (Terah)/Sea (Aneco)

Associated with: Amphibians, Lillies, 3 point staff (triton or pitchfork) Blue/Green

Patron of: Farmers, Sailors, Mountaineers, Druids

Holy times: Harvests

Holy sites: Docks, Mountains, Beaches, Fields

Prayers: Holding hands, Giving Thanks

Plane 1: Earth: Dirt, tunnels, mountains

Plane 2: Sea: I mean. Its an ocean. 

Denizens: Elementals

Goddesses level 3, Goddesses level 4 (pt1) Goddesses level 4 (pt2) & 5

#Coinside Pantheon #OC's