#she’s erased poor old gill

[simpsonssimp]

Redraws ✨🖋

#the simpsons #my art #blue haired lawyer #lionel hutz #fan art #bhl #she’s erased poor old gill #bcos I can #BHL looks so fierce in that Tudor outfit #it gives #yass Tudor marge take half girlie #marge simpson #homer simpson #bart simpson #lisa simpson

[sp4c3-0ddity]

15 with plance would be very entertaining if you get a chance. Please and thank you!

okay, it’s not exactly the prompt but it IS close. also some, uh, weakly implied sexy times ahead (you have been warned). in any case, enjoy!!

(15) A Hope We Don’t Get Caught Kiss

Long ago, the feuding Marlins and the Atuns put aside theirdifferences to unite against a common enemy, but now that the Galra werevanquished, they reverted to their old ways, much to Allura’s chagrin. And in alast-ditch effort to diffuse the building tension between the two planets, shesent one envoy to each of them.

Unfortunately, that threw an unexpected wrinkle in Lance’splans that concerned Pidge, because with each of them on different sides of theconflict – despite the fact that they insisted they remained neutral asPaladins of Voltron – their respective sides expected them to maintain acertain…aloofness around the other.

It was stupid, Lance thought when he finally spied Pidgeacross the room at yet another diplomaticmeeting that would almost certainly devolve into yelling and threats, that hecouldn’t even talk to her in private,let alone kiss her. He was constantlyshadowed by an Atun soldier, ostensibly to ‘protect’ him.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he told the Atun Prime Ministerwhen he introduced them.

“Please accept him, Paladin,” said the Prime Minister, his gillsfluttering more rapidly. “It would look poor if a Marlin attacked you while younegotiated on our behalf.”

Lance didn’t point out that he was only there to make surethe Atuns complied with the temporary truce; Allura was technically the negotiator.

Besides, Lance was smart enough to understand the so-calledbodyguard’s true purpose:  to spy on him.

Pidge stood with a Marlin that he’d spotted her withearlier, presumably serving the same purpose as Lance’s own shadow. She watchedthe proceedings – with Allura sitting at the head of the table, a vein jumpingin her temple as the Atun Prime Minister yelled obscenities at the Marlin Queen– with the glazed-over expression he’d come to expect from her after too much talking.

Lance glanced sideways at his bodyguard; his whole head wasturned towards the conference table, eyes fixed on the meeting. Then he lookedat Pidge, eyes widening when she turned her head and met his eyes.

Later, she mouthedat him.

Lance blinked, frowning in confusion. Later? Their every step was monitored, these fish people watching them like hawks! How the quiznak could they meet later?

But it was Pidge, and if anyone could slip a shadow’snotice, it would be her. So he decided to wait, and trust her.

The only time Lance had any semblance of privacy was atnight, when the day’s failed diplomacy ended and he retreated to the smallbedroom provided for him.

On his first night, the water bed amused him, and he spentmore time than he’d ever admit to anyone but Pidge and Hunk trying to make itburst. But by the third night, the constant watch wore on his nerves,especially when he stepped out of the room during a bout of insomnia and theguard posted there offered to escort him to wherever he wanted to go.

The only place he ever wanted to go when he couldn’t sleepwas wherever Pidge was, and, well, he’d rather their private reunion not be witnessed by a handful of fishy aliens.

Now he sat leaning against the wall. His room had no window –the rooms with windows were coveted by guests more distinguished than thePaladins of Voltron – so he couldn’t sneak out that way. Besides, Pidge’spromise of later suggested that she would seek him rather than the otherway around.

Lance hummed softly to himself while knitting, the clickingof the needles soothing him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he sat inthe living room in his grandparents’ house, listening to his grandmotherknitting. She would drop a stitch on purpose so he wouldn’t feel bad about hisown dropped stitch, and then she would show him how to recover it, so smoothlyit erased the mistake.

Something shifted in the walls, and Lance stopped humming,stilling the needles in his hands. He strained to hear, turning his head andpressing his ear to the wall behind him. But he didn’t hear or feel anythingelse, and so dismissed the sound as the building settling into its foundation.

Lance returned his attention to his knitting, but only foranother moment. He put it aside, suddenly feeling too restless to sit mostlyquiet in one place, his mind buzzing with Pidge’s promise. After getting to hisfeet, he paced the small room end to end, past the water bed, then changeddirection so that he walked from the bedroom door to the strange crack in thewall across from it.

The crack widened.

“What the quiznak?” Lance hissed, lunging for his bayard,left abandoned on the vanity.

A piece of the wall swung out in a cloud of dust, and whenthe dust settled, Pidge stood in a gap – a doorway– so short her hair brushed the top. “You’re lucky I’m not claustrophobic,”she said, greeting him with a pleased smirk.

Lance’s jaw dropped as he took her in in all her dustyglory. When he recovered from his shock, he crossed his arms and asked, “So youcouldn’t reach the air vents?”

Pidge snorted as she ran her fingers through her hair,trying to disperse the dust that seemed to drain it of color. “I tried ourfirst night,” she admitted, “but I was caught. Too loud.”

“And that wasn’t?”He gestured at the hole in his bedroom wall.

“Shh!” Pidge hissed, stalking towards him. “Keep your voicedown!”

Before Lance could retort, a harsh knock sounded from thedoor. He froze, exchanging an anxious glance with Pidge, as his appointed Atunkeeper asked, “Is everything all right in there?”

“Everything’s great!” Lance called, and it was, becausePidge was there.

“Are you sure, Paladin?” said the bodyguard. “I heardvoices.”

“Oh, I’m just talking to myself,” Lance lied, smilingabashedly and hoping he sounded sheepish.

“…if you’re sure,” he said, though he sounded uncertain.

He left it at that, and Lance smiled widely at Pidge, whogrinned back. “So…does that tunnel through the walls connect to your room?” hewondered.

Pidge scoffed, “I wish.If it did, I would’ve been here the first night.”

“The first…? Pidge, how soon did you start breaking into walls?”

She strolled around his room, stopping right in front of hisdiscarded knitting and picking it up. “The first night,” she said. “I don’tlike being told where I can and can’t go.” She glanced over her shoulder athim, a glint in her eyes. “Or who I can and can’t see.”

Lance’s heartbeat quickened, responding to her teasing.

“What’re you making?” she asked. She clicked the needlestogether as she approached him again. “A scarf? And where did you get the yarn?”

“Arusian wool,” Lance said. “And it’s a hat.” He snatchedthe knitting and yarn away from her, cradling it protectively.

“Hmm.” Pidge only eyed it for another second before shefinally looked up to his face. “Is it just me,” she said, any teasing betweenthem dispersing, “or is this frustrating?”

“It’s not just you,” he agreed. He dropped his knittingunceremoniously on the bed and turned to face Pidge again. “It’s weird notseeing you, you know, casually.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” she said, the slightest smiletilting up a corner of her mouth.

Lance blinked at her, surprised. “It’s not?”

“No,” Pidge said. Her smile widened as she stepped closer tohim, close enough that her toes touched his. “It’s frustrating being this closeto you and not kissing you.”

Lance flushed, but recovered quickly enough to lean down, cuppingher face and tilting her head back. She smiled as he finally kissed her, herarms winding around his neck and pulling him closer.

His frustration at their current mission evaporated, thewarmth and reality of Pidge’s presence soothing his nerves. But when theyparted to catch their breath, Lance asked, “What do you think happens if we do get caught?”

“At best, Hunk probably replaces one of us,” Pidgesuggested. “At worst, Allura kills both of us.”

Lance raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical. “Wouldn’t it beworse if the Marlins and Atuns started fighting again?”

Pidge sighed, looking down. “I’m starting to think that’sgoing to happen anyway.”

“Oh.” When Pidge still didn’t look at him, he said, “Hey, it’snot our fault. We’re doing the best we can.”

“We’re just here to put pressure on them to cooperate,”Pidge complained, turning her head back up. “And so far, it’s not working.”

“Well, stuff like this takes time,” Lance reassured her. Hepressed his lips to her forehead, and when she giggled – she did love it when he kissed her forehead –he closed the gap between them again.

This time Pidge tipped her head back, away from him. “Nowyou’re trying to distract me,” she said.

“Is it working?” Lance wondered.

She rolled her eyes and said, “Yes.” She kissed him, walkingbackwards and dragging him with her until they sat on the water bed. Her handsslid into his hair, his own drifting down to her waist.

Before long, Pidge was lying down, Lance hovering over her,balancing almost uncomfortably on his arms. She smiled against his lips, as ifit at a private joke she was about to share with him, but not without flippingtheir positions, her surprising strength rolling them so he lay down and shestraddled him.

“Ow,” Lance said as something hard dug into his back.

“What?” Pidge asked, sitting up. “Did I—”

“No, it’s not you.” He half-sat up, reaching underneath. “Huh,my knitting.” He felt along the yarn until he found the needles, somewhere athis lower back, but when he shifted, a soft popsounded beneath him.

Water seeped into his shirt.

He stared up at Pidge, eyes wide with horror. “So I justpopped the bed,” he said.

“You did what?”Pidge hissed, her own eyes bugging in alarm.

“This is fine though!” Lance tried to reassure her quickly. “It’sjust a leak!”

Pidge stood up, backing away from him, and Lance followed,but it was too late for his yarn, his clothes, the sheets, the bedspread, andthe carpet. “Quiznak,” said Pidge as they stared at the damage.

“This is going to be fun to explain in the morning,” Lanceagreed with a backwards glance at the door.

Pidge then took his hand. “Well, I guess this means I cantake you on the all-access tour of the building,” she said, a fresh smilealighting her face.

“Oh yeah?” Lance said, brightening when he met her eyes.

That familiar glint of mischief filled her eyes as she ledhim to the hole in his bedroom wall. “I just hope we don’t get caught,” shejoked.

“And if we do?”

“Maybe our tryst caninspire these fish to reconcile, huh?”

Lance smirked. “I like the way you think, Pidge.”

“Hmm, now that’s somethingI would love to hear more often.”

#plance #pidgance #lidge #i wanted to avoid the standard 'hiding our relationship' thing #hopefully this isn't too weird though #qna #voltron #reem writes fic #Anonymous

[sunaddicted]

Lilies 1/2 (nygmobblepot, tw: mentions of past child abuse)

Once again, with his heart full of dread, Oswald realised that hadn't paid a visit to his mother's grave in months; falling from his throne and the subsequent struggle to claw his way up to the top - a viciously painful cycle he had went through a little too often for his tastes - had driven his mother's memory to the back of his mind, shadowed by more immediate problems that required his attention unless he wanted to join her in the afterlife.

Which he highly doubted it would have made his mother happy - Oswald could imagine her gently scolding him for having such morbid thoughts as if she was standing next to him, her fingers petting through his hair stiff with pomade.

Still, it didn't erase the fact that he was a terrible son and guilt tied tight knots of his squirming insides, making Oswald feel nauseous just at the thought of his ungrateful behaviour: he should have been able to spare a few minutes for the woman who had raised him in a house that, while poor and lacking when it came to the most material things, had always been full of love and acceptance.

Gertrud hadn't batted an eyelash when he had tentatively implicated that he wasn't remotely interested in those scandalously painted women she was afraid would take her son away from her.

She hadn't tried to drive his most flamboyant habits out of him, teaching him instead how to style his hair and put eyeliner on without poking his eye out.

Despite being unable to afford it, his mother had fought with Oswald for months and taken up all the odd jobs she could to persuade him to stay in high school until graduation.

And Oswald knew that she deliberately had chosen to never speak out aloud about his unsavoury career of choice: she wasn't a stupid woman - a little untethered sometimes, but far from obtuse.

His mother had been a rare breed, as plenty of Oswald's acquaintances had showed him: it seemed that too often the love of a parent was denied to children who were different.

Freaks.

Oswald knew that amongst them, he was one of the few who could boast about having had an happy childhood and nurturing parents - even his father, who he had met too late to form the deep bond he had with his mother, had loved him despite his plentiful flaws.

He also recognised that it probably was the reason why he had the slightly unhealthy habit of collecting unique people that had only known hatred in their lives to give them a semblance of a family to count on - a support network of sorts. The fact that his kindness - not that he purposefully broadcasted it as such: he needed to be feared and respected, not regarded as some sort of mothering figure by all the villains around town - was repaid with loyalty, it was an added bonus that he obviously wasn't going to turn down, seen as most of them had abilities that helped Oswald to keep his hold onto Gotham's underground firm and tight.

Oswald shrugged on his coat and went to the kitchen where he could hear the steady murmuring of Fries' voice talking science to Martin; he hated to interrupt the tutoring sessions, but he had quickly learnt that the boy would restlessly look for him around the Manor and become antsy when he couldn't find him: when Oswald realised that Martin probably acted out of fear of being abandoned once again, his heart had done a little painful summersault and he had promised himself to always warn him when he was going out.

Silently leaning against the doorframe, Oswald took a few seconds to admire the scene playing in front of his eyes: Victor Fries was surprisingly good with children - or maybe he just particularly liked his ward - and, apparently, also very good at explaining maths without being boring if Martin's captivated and focused expression was anything to go by.

He cleared his throat, smiling as he limped up to the table to squeeze Martin's shoulder "I'm going out for a bit"

Immediately, Martin retrieved a discarded scrap of paper with a big question mark doodled on it - the symbol briefly made the blood in Oswald's veins freeze before he realised that Martin must have used it to ask questions to his impromptu teacher to better clarify a piece of information - and thrust it in Oswald's hands. They had both been working on sign language, learning it together in the evenings after dinner, but Martin still hugely preferred to use his notepad.

"To the cemetery" Oswald answered, handing back the note "I'll be back in an hour or so"

/Can I come?/

"Aren't you in the middle of solving a problem?"

"It's fine, Oswald" Victor reassured, fingers already quickly gathering their notes to put them away until the next lesson "He's been coped up inside the whole week: take him out for a bit of fresh air"

/So?/

Oswald wanted to argue that a cemetery wasn't the best place for a child for a trip but relented when he looked down and saw those big brown eyes studying him hopefully, waiting for an answer "Alright, go get your coat" Oswald relented with a sigh "How is he doing?" He turned to ask Victor, peering down at the neatly scribbled notes.

"He's a sharp kid" Victor answered "I'm still not sure about homeschooling being the best option but he's not going to have problems passing his examinations"

"I know, I have a bunch of geniuses teaching him" Oswald retorted with a proud smile.

"He needs to interact with his peers, Oswald"

The smaller man sighed "And I agree but he needs to build up his confidence first" he pointed out "I'm not going to send him to school before I'm sure he won't let himself be bullied"

"I suppose that's true" Victor admitted, bringing the conversation to an end when he heard the distinctive pattering of excited feet running over the parqueted floor "Well, I'll see you later. I'm leaving your notes on your desk, Martin - work on the problems we haven't solved today"

Martin signed a quick 'thank you' before he tugged on Oswald's coat, clearly impatient to get out of the house - even if that meant taking a walk amidst graves.

"We're going, we're going" Oswald reassured, rolling his eyes fondly as he led him to the limousine and opened the door for him "Don't squash the flowers" he warned, settling next to Martin's quietly comforting presence.

***

Edward had always been a creature of habit, routines were so deeply ingrained in his brain that, with their disruption, his thinking process halted and he felt like a fish out of water - choking on thin air, gills gaping obscenely in a gain vain attempt at survival; it was in those moments that his mirror self had used to take control, the Riddler slipping through the cracks as sleek as an eel to ensure that Edward Nygma didn't do anything idiotic while weighed down by panic.

Not that the Riddler had been any less fixated on patterns - otherwise, Oswald wouldn't have been able to play him so well, predicting his actions with with almost clairvoyant ability. No, the only difference between them was that the Riddler handled the unexpected better than Edward Nygma did and managed to fiction even when their safety net was snapped.

"Are you hoping that taking up old habits will dislodge the psychological block that's keeping you from using your brain to full potential?" Lee inquired, frowning; Nygma's reasoning made sense - proving to the man that he wasn't actually stupid, if only he bothered to see- but she did worry about what the other man's emotional instability could push him to do.

Living in the Narrows didn't mean that she suddenly condoned criminal activity and she wouldn't turn a blind eye to her patient going on a murderous rampage just to kick his brain into working like it used to. Lee was slowly growing fond of Edward - it rankled her: he had killed one of her friends, after all - but she wasn't yet so fond that she wouldn't hand his arse at the GCPD if he started spilling blood.

"It can help people suffering from memory loss"

"You don't have memory loss" which had been one of the first signals that had made Lee suspect that Edward's damage had been more psychological rather than physical; it didn't make sense that Nygma would loose something as significant as his intelligence but had retained every single one of his memories up to the moment when he had been iced over by Fries. Various tests and scans had proved her right "What did you have in mind?" She asked, noticing the defeated expression on her patient's face.

Edward immediately brightened at the question: doctor Thompkins wouldn't have asked for further clarification on his plan, if she had thought that it was completely stupid; it almost made him feel like his old self "Something small" he reassured "But on which I truly relied on to calm down whenever I felt particularly under pressure"

"Such as?"

There came the embarrassing- and potentially dangerous - part of his plan "I used to bring flowers in Gertrud's grave, every other Thursday" he admitted. Even after discovering Oswald's betrayal - even after shooting him off of the pier - Edward had kept visiting Gertrud Kapelput with a handful of the whitest lilies he could find, critically inspected to ensure that there weren't any brown speckles to blemish the petals.

It genuinely was surprising that every single florist in Gotham hadn't banished him from their shops.

There was no need to know Penguin particularly intimately to immediately link that name to his mother and Lee's frown deepened as she shook her head, lips slightly parted as she looked for the right words to tell Nygma that he couldn't possibly go on Oswald's mother's grave "Really?" She blurted out instead.

Much to her chagrin, Lee was endlessly fascinated by Edward's conflicting behaviours: he claimed that he wanted to destroy Oswald, take everything away from him in retaliation for ruining his last shot at having a normal relationship, but then he had also admitted to using drugs in order to hallucinate his former best friend and have a chat with him whenever he needed moral support or was feeling lonely - and now she discovered that Edward brought flowers on Gertrud's grave.

It made absolutely no sense.

Unless her little theory was right.

Edward flushed a bright pink "Really. The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son"

"Have you just quoted the Bible to prove your point?"

"Ezekiel 18:20. My parents were very religious" Edward offered as an explanation, dismissing her slightly teasing smile and stared at her with a resolute and serious glance. He needed something more than the puzzles and exercises she gave him to train his mind; they stressed and depressed him, made him wonder about whether he'd been an idiot all along - a lying cheater, just like his father had claimed him to be for his whole childhood.

Maybe he had deserved every hard punch against his heaving ribs, every sharp lash of the belt to his quivering back, every cigarette butt burning the tender skin of his inner arms.

No, he couldn't afford to let such doubts take root in his head: Edward Nygma knew he had been abused by his parents, he knew it hadn't been his fault if they hadn't loved him because he was a little odd.

"Nygma, are you alright?"

Edward took a deep breath, fingers pressing down his lowered eyelids "I need to do this" he just said, trying not to sound too desperate.

"Breathe"

"I am breathing"

Lee rolled her eyes, somewhat fondly even as she still recognised the usual feeling of annoyance that Edward would have managed to awaken even in a saint "Do it properly" she retorted with a gentle murmur "I didn't mean to discourage you from this plan" on another plan? Sure "But.."

"But?"

"Two conditions"

That didn't sound too bad, he could deal with two conditions; Edward nodded, eyes following doctor Thompkins as he forced the ferocious thoughts spinning in a whirlwind in his mind to slow down "Alright"

Pleased, Lee leaned back against her chair "I'm coming with you and we won't go until we have Oswald's schedule pinned down to a reasonable level of accuracy"

Edward shook his head "He doesn't plan this sort of things" which had always drove him insane to no end: how could someone as powerful as Oswald stand to live his life in such a.. disorderly manner? Didn't he understand that structure was needed to manage his time as best as possible, avoiding waste? Apparently not, Oswald had always been adamant about the importance of... improvisation.

Edward wrinkled his nose at the thought, just as if he had tasted something that had gone off.

"Then we'll have to go when it's most unlikely that he will do so" Lee insisted; hadn't Nygma been purposefully rallying the Narrows up against Penguin with his little comedy act, maybe she wouldn't have worried so much about the two of them meeting on Gertrud's grave - on the contrary, she would have hoped for such a thing to happen so that, helped by the tenderness of the moment, they would finally talk and stop their ridiculous pining before they became the city's laughing stock.

Because Penguin was still so painfully in love with Edward - had someone of Oswald's goons actually believed the whole "out of revenge" spiel when he had let his enemy go? - and to anyone who bothered to look past Edward's rantings about how much he hated the other man, it was so clear that he still cared.

Personally, Lee thought they just needed to be honest with themselves and pull their heads out of their asses.

Not that she was going to be so blunt: she didn't even think Edward realised that it was alright being bisexual and being attracted to both genders - and it wasn't a realisation she was going to help him to have, he had to work it out on his own.

"Doctor Thompkins?"

"Sorry, I was distracted" Lee apologised "Could you repeat that?"

Edward scowled in annoyance; it already was difficult to string sentences up together sometimes, the least his doctor could do was listening to him without zoning out after thirty minutes "I said that Oswald is too unpredictable - even going out at night, which logic suggests to be the most unlikely time of the day to find him bringing flowers on his mother's grave, wouldn't work since he's quite the nocturnal creature" between working at the Lounge until the wee hours of morning and his insomnia - they had shared many cups of tea in front of the fireplace whenever they had found one another wandering around the Manor, sleep eluding them both - it wouldn't have surprised Edward if Oswald picked a ridiculously late hour to visit his mother "Why are you so concerned about us meeting? I'm not worth wasting any time on, now that I'm stupid"

Was it dejectiom that Lee could detect in Edward's voice? "Is that the reason behind your taunting?"

Edward gritted his teeth, voice leaving his mouth through them in a hiss "No, I'm not begging for his attention"

Except that he was. Lee sighed but let the subject drop, not wanting to make the other man even more upset than he already was "Alright"

"Alright?"

Lee nodded "Alright. When do you want to go?"

A sheepish smile slowly appeared on Edward's lips, dimpling his cheeks at the corners "Now? I already have picked the flowers up"

#my writing #nygmobblepot #edward nygma #the riddler #oswald cobblepot #the penguin #martin #lee thompkins #victor fries #tw: past abuse #bantering

[hermanwatts]

Sensor Sweep: 9/23/2019

Comic Books (Crom the Barbarian): Who is Crom the Barbarian? Crom the Barbarian was created in 1950 by Gardner F Fox and John Giunta. The Barbarian, Crom, is a small speed bump in comic book history. Gardner F. Fox and John Giunta take direct inspiration from the Robert E. Howard, Conan pulps. They pen out their version of Conan and call him, Crom!

Fiction (DMR Books): The third of Talbot Mundy’s Roman novels, Purple Pirate was serialized in Adventure magazine from May to October of 1935 and then published in book form by Appleton-Century at the end of that year.  Set in the time of the founding of the Second Triumvirate in 43 BC, this story continues the adventures of Tros of Samothrace amid the war-torn chaos of a period where half a dozen factions fought for the control of Rome and the seas were stalked by pirate kings who harassed the Wolves of the Tiber when they could and plundered the rest of the world when they willed.

Fiction (Adventures Fantastic): Tanith Lee was born on this date, September 19, in 1947.  She passed away in 2015.  Lee wrote in a variety of genres, including fantasy, horror, and science fiction.  She was highly prolific, and many of her short stories haven’t never been collected.

Until now.  Immanion Press is collecting all of her work that hasn’t appeared in any of her collections.  In observance of her birthday, I read two stories from the collection Strindberg’s Ghost Sonata and Other Uncollected Tales.

D&D (Skulls in the Stars): Time for another edition of Old School Dungeons & Dragons! I did soooooo many of these threads on twitter, I’m kinda amazed and appalled. Still have many to catch up on here…

DDA1: Arena of Thyatis (1990), by John Nephew. This more obscure module is one I’ve had in my collection for a long time, but only finally got around to reading once I started these threads!

Ian Fleming (M Porcius): 007 is back, here at MPorcius Fiction Log. You may recall that I thought that Moonraker, the third of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels, was recycling some of the memorable parts of Casino Royale, the first–Bond gambling against a Soviet operative who claimed to have forgotten his past due to war-induced amnesia, and then unsuccessfully chasing this villain in a car after he had kidnapped a female British agent. Let’s hope that the fourth 007 adventure, Diamonds Are Forever, first printed in 1956, has some new ideas.

Comic Books (Bleeding Cool): Earlier this year, Marvel Comics picked up the Conan license and began publishing Conan and Conan-related comic books, based on the character created by Robert E Howard, just like they used to. And started putting Conan in The Avengers, which was new. But they aren’t stopping there, they are also creating new runs of comic books based on Howard’s characters Dark Agnes, Solomon Kane, and more. Again, just like they used to.

Science Fiction (Brian Niemier): Talk about a signal grace. No sooner do I publish a post on the need for a confident, masculine Christianity willing to engage the culture than a new science fiction genre rises to the challenge. Not one, but two vocally Christian authors have stepped up to deliver something not seen since the heady days of the pulps: men’s adventure novels specifically informed by a Christian worldview.

Robert E. Howard (Howard History): While scanning through “The Eyrie,” the letters-to-the-editor pages in Weird Tales, I stumbled upon the following forgotten Howard letter. It doesn’t appear in any of the bibliographies, to the best of my knowledge, and has never been reprinted. How it has been missed for so long is anyone’s guess. The letter appears in the May 1926 issue, which hit the newsstands on April 1st, so Howard probably wrote it earlier in March.

Cinema (Black Gate): I had an open spot to take in a film I’d never seen before: a 35mm screening of the 1992 classic by Ringo Lam (Lam Ling-tung) Full Contact. Lam passed away late last year at only 63, and so Fantasia honoured him with a presentation of one of his greatest works. Written by Yin Nam, the movie’s about Jeff (Gou Fei in some translations, Ko Fei in others, played in any case by Chow Yun-Fat), a tough bouncer in Bangkok whose friend Sam Sei (Anthony Wong) went into debt to a loan shark to pay for Jeff’s mother’s burial.

Horror Fiction (Paul McNamee): Dover have reissued two hard-to-find horror collections by Joseph Payne Brennan. I’d been waiting to get a hold of THE SHAPES OF MIDNIGHT for a long time. Happy that NINE HORRORS AND A DREAM showed up, too.

These collections are a master class in writing short fiction. The stories contained in NINE HORRORS AND A DREAM are not flash fiction but with a few exceptions, they are short shorts. Brennan gets in, gets to the core of the tale, and gets out. The stories are lean and trim. The stories in THE SHAPES OF MIDNIGHT are slightly longer but still short overall.

Steampunk (Adventures Fantastic): David J. West (no relation) is a prolific writer of fantasy in a variety of subgenres.  His work ranges from horror to sword and sorcery to weird western and everything in between.  He publishes multiple books each year.  The man is making the rest of us look bad setting an example to the rest of us by showing us what pulp speed looks like. Speaking of speed, In My time of Dying is a fast-paced weird western with steampunk elements that rushes along at a breakneck pace.

Science Fiction (John C. Wright): Over the last month, there’s been a concerted effort by identity-politics zealots in science fiction publishing to erase science fiction history in regards to the contribution of one of the most well-known editors of all time, John W. Campbell, whose work with Astounding Magazine shaped the field of science fiction as we know it today. Campbellian-style fiction became the standard with greats like Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein, and Isaac Asimov, and the legacy continues to this day.

Fantasy (Swords and Stichery): Throughout Hyperborea there are pockets & fully integrated populations of Deep Ones. They walk among mankind unnoticed and unchallenged. But there are rumors of older races of fish like men and aquatic peoples with gills who do not have the taint of the Deep Ones running through their veins nor hear the song of Tulu. Atlantis faced destruction & its colonies on ‘Old Venus’ & ‘Old Mars’ were their only hope of survival. Clark Aston Smith wrote about this in the Poseidonis cycle of stories.

Westerns (Western Fictioneers): Did you know that our own Western Fictioneers blog is #1 in the Top 20 Western Fiction Blogs, Websites and Newsletters to Follow in 2019? was surfing the net, as a writer will do, looking for new and interesting information on our favorite topic, and I came across this article. This gave me an idea for a useful blog post of my own, so I present my … Top 10 Old West Blogs, Websites and Newsletters (in no particular order):

Greyhawk (Boggswood): What can we say about this world?  I imagine a place of ruin and desolation, where once prosperous towns are mere ruined piles or half flooded husks where a few poor fishermen eek out a living in the shadow of the ominous Coot. The elves and dwarves have fled (or have they?), but the great elven forest remains, and has spread eastward, engulfing the abandoned ruins of Jackport.

Gaming (Ars Ludi): What do I mean by great player? Knowing the rules? Yeah that’s important if you’re teaching a game, but “rules mastery” is definitely not what I’m talking about. Someone who makes up cool stuff? Someone who talks in funny voices or has their character do amazing things? Naw, none of that. I mean, that stuff’s fine, but that ain’t it. When I cast my baleful gaze on someone and think “that’s a great player”, it’s because I can see that, deep down, they pay attention to the balance at the table.

Sensor Sweep: 9/23/2019 published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[randomconnections]

Good Friday Rambles – Madison to Monticello

Easter weekend. Laura had Friday and Monday off from Furman and decided that she needed to head back down to Florida to check on her mom. She decided that she needed some “sister time” with Amy to talk about how their mother’s care was going. That being the case, I decided to needed some “brother time” with Houston, so for the holiday weekend we headed in different directions.

I arrived at Houston’s farm below Watkinsville, Georgia about mid-morning on Friday. I was loaded to the gills with every toy we might need – kites, cameras, banjo, drums, recording gear, computers, and paddling gear. I was set for any eventuality. We would actually use quite a bit of that gear.

Lynda also had the day off, so the three of us set off on a Good Friday ramble across Georgia. Our destination was Warm Springs, Georgia, and the Little White House of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. It was a 2.5 hour drive, and whether we would actually get there or not was debated several times as we got distracted along the way.

Our first stop/distraction was downtown Madison. Lynda needed to mail a package, so we stopped at the historic post office on the square. Houston and I took photos of an old bank that is in the process of being remodeled as a restaurant.

Chore accomplished, we headed on out of town…and hit another distraction on the way out. Houston, Glynda, and I had explored this area one fall a couple of years ago and had stopped at the old Madison Graded School. However, we had not been able to tour the interior. This time it was open, so we decided to go in.

The lighting for exterior shots was absolutely horrible and backlit. Here are two shots from our previous visit just as a reminder…

…plus one shot of the bell tower from this morning.

The old school now functions as the Madison Morgan Cultural Center, with a museum, art galleries, and an auditorium. We entered and stopped by their gift shop for tickets, and a souvenir.

I told Laura that if I ever bought myself a hip flask she should sign me up for AA. It would be an indication of a problem, if I felt the need to alcohol with me at all times in a pocket. However, the irony of having the image of a school on a container for alcohol was just too much. Plus, its purchase would help with maintenance of the school. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

We were joined in the gift shop by another visitor. Tom Plowden and his wife were visiting from Edgefield, and he had stopped by while his wife was shopping. Plowden was particularly loquacious, and we gabbed for a long time about people we knew in common (he had also graduated from Furman.) Plowden had a keen interest in the Confederacy, hence his interest in Madison as the “town that Sherman wouldn’t burn.”

The old school had been restored in spectacular fashion. The woodgrain finishes were beautiful, from the polished floors to the stairs and railings.

Public spaces on the first floor included the gift shop, a parlor, the auditorium, and the local history museum. In the small hallway that separated the gift shop from the museum hung a thick rope. We assumed this would be connected to the school’s bell. More on that later.

We started with the museum.

Given Madison’s role in the Confederacy they actually had very little on display from that period, much to Tom Plowden’s dismay. I guess if you’re giving a broad overview it’s hard to go in depth into any historical period in such a small space.

We headed on up to the second floor. One of the old classrooms had been restored with period furniture. Houston and I both remarked how similar these desks were to the ones we had used at Ford School in Laurens.

We also remarked that the map on the wall was of Paul’s Missionary Journeys.

The Madison Graded School was built in 1895 and functioned as a school until 1957. Prior to its opening education was mostly one-room, multi-grade rural classes. The name “Madison Graded” was to set it apart, as something new an unique.

Outside of the classroom hung a portrait of Mr. John Morehouse, custodian of the school in the early 20th Century. Mr. Morehouse was illiterate. The story we heard was that when the teachers were done for the day Mr. Morehouse asked that they not erase their chalkboards. He would take care of it. In doing so he taught himself to read and gained a rudimentary education.

The other end of the second floor held art galleries. These were closed as exhibits were in the process of changing. Right in the middle of the floor was a small space now used as an office. A stairway on the right side of the room led to the third floor, and hanging right next to the hapless occupant’s desk was the pull rope for the bell. We chatted with her for a bit.

We headed back downstairs and stepped into the parlor. This was another former classroom, now remodeled as a space for receptions and weddings.

This was also where one Norvell Hardy attended school. After school he would take his father’s name, Oliver, and begin his famous comedy routine with Stan Laurel.

Next to the parlor was the true gem of the school, the restored auditorium. It was a spectacular space, with curved seating area and a small balcony.

The wrought iron work on the ends of the rows was impressive.

As you might imagine with all of these hard surfaces, the acoustics were excellent. I would love to attend a concert here.

We had one last thing to do before we left. We had to ring the bell. Actually, Houston and Lynda insisted that I ring it while they took photos and videos. The bell was quite loud, and I thought about that poor person in the office about us. It didn’t keep me from ringing the bell, though.

Here’s the video, which features Houston nearly tripping down the steps in the second clip.

They DIDN’T give me one of these stickers, though.

We continued on our way. We planned our route to Warm Springs so as to avoid Interstates. Highway 83 took us through the town of Shady Dale, which was little more than a wide spot. There was an interesting old Methodist Church, a lumber yard, an old bank, and not much else.

Looking at the bank photo it occurred to me that I tend to be obsessive about old school architecture, but old banks can be just as cool. The architecture can be just as distinctive. So a short list of building types about one could obsess might include the following:

schools

churches

bridges (of various types)

banks

old country stores

barns

railroad depots

court houses

fire towers

…or, basically anything old with distinctive architecture.

It was about lunch time when we rolled into Monticello. Georgia is divided into many small counties, and each county has its own seat, usually with a unique courthouse. Such is the case with Monticello, county seat for Jasper County.

As with many of these towns, the courthouse sits either in the middle of or to the side of a central town square. We circled the square once, then found a parking spot.

Houston and I wanted barbecue. Lynda, being vegetarian, wasn’t keen on the meat, but these places usually have pretty good veggies, too. As we walked around the square we encountered one of the local denizens who told us that if we liked soul food we should really check out Dave’s BBQ on the other side of the square. We thanked him and used this as an opportunity to walk around the square.

Our conclusion was that for a small southern town Monticello had some weird things going on.

Then there was this place:

Houston wondered if the “All Eyes on Egipt” place was an outpost of the Nuwaubian Nation, a strange cult from Athens. I thought it was just an unusual beauty salon. Turns out Houston was right. There are “All Eyes on Egipt” bookstores all over the nation. I’d never heard of them before this trek, but it looks like it might be worth some follow-up and reading.

Eventually we found Dave’s BBQ and Soul Food. It was late in the lunch cycle, but there was still time to grab a bite before they closed.

There was one long white table down the middle for large groups with smaller tables on the periphery. Food was served cafeteria style.

This being a late lunch, they had already run out of lots of things. There was no barbecue, as I understand the term and cuisine – no pulled pork, ribs, or anything of that nature. Vegetable choices were few, and they only had fried chicken, pork chops, and fried catfish for meat. Dessert was also gone. Lynda does eat fish, so she and I got the catfish and Houston got the pork chop. I rounded out my plate with potato salad and cabbage. It was actually pretty good, especially when I used a generous amount of pepper vinegar sauce.

It also turns out that the table where we were sitting had played a roll in the movie My Cousin Vinny. I’m not sure I’ve watched that movie all the way through. I may have to watch it now, as other parts of the movie were shot around Monticello.

As we were walking back to the car we ran into the same guy that had pointed us in the direction of Dave’s BBQ. We thanked him for his suggestion. He asked if we had tried the vinegar sauce, and I was able to reply that it was great over the catfish. He posed for a photo with Houston.

We rolled out of Monticello wondering if we would, in fact make it to Warm Springs. The day wasn’t over, and there was more to see.

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