#ah and also her tears! which contain those multitudes as well

[bluestation]

i found you in the future

#robin #HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE................. #a TINY bit late but pls forgive me #egghead spoilers #isn't it so romantic that she learned about ohara's survival on the island of the future ............. #one piece #some added commentary: the little white bits can be seen as bubbles of air escaping the books #to symbolize that the lives poured into them continue to breathe on #and also the ashes of ohara thrown into the sea #so the water around robin holds death life knowledge and flowers #(callback in a way to the 'scattered in the sea are the world's grief / the world's secrets' line from my last robi drawinf) #ah and also her tears! which contain those multitudes as well #good things lay in wait 4 ohara : #'-)))

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette and Emma Willard at the Opera

When Emma Willard was travelling Europe in 1830, she visited General La Fayette in Paris in late 1830. The two were close friends, had already met before and especially Willard had nothing but the purest admiration for La Fayette. In her book Journal and Letters from France and Great-Britain (1833) she re-printed several letters where she told her sister every last detail of her visit. Her letters are unusually engaging in my opinion, because they are so personal. Old letters and journals can sometimes feel very stiff, very old and completely removed from our modern reality – but hers is so lively, so ordinary that I could not help but relate to her during certain passages. Due to Willard’s hero-worship of La Fayette, I was afraid she would put him on a gigantic pedestal – but she paints a very humane picture of the ageing Marquis, one that is actually rather refreshing.

With all of that being said, here is a passage from Emma’s letter to her sister Almira Hart Lincoln Phelps from December 7, 1830:

I must now tell you, how it was that we spent the evening together. It was at the Opera Francais, usually called the Grand Opera. You will remember that he told me he had not been at a theatre since the revolution, and the first time he did go, he would go with me. One evening before had been appointed, and failed from the illness of one of the performers. It was the evening before last that we finally went [December 5]. I expected that the people would have cheered him as he entered. But he was in a citizen's dress, and went with a determination, as it appeared, not to be known.

The two boxes next, and each side the king's, were for the evening taken by the La Fayette family. There are places in each for six persons, two in front, and three deep. The General, Mrs. S-. of Baltimore, (a particular friend of Madame George La Fayette,) two of the General's grand-daughters, Col. C-, an officer of his household, and myself, filled the box to the left of the king's. Mrs. S— and myself were placed in the front seats, notwithstanding our entreaties that the General would take one of them; two of his grand–daughters had the two next, and the General was quite back where it was impossible for any one below to see him. The first piece was an opera, “Le Dieu et la Bayadère.” In this I saw the performance of M’lle Taglioni, the first dancer in the world. Much of this French opera dancing is what it should not be; but of Taglioni, though expected much, yet her performance perfectly astonished me; and I exclaimed in a pas seul, where she seemed divested of terrestrial gravity, and to fly, rather than dance, “this is the sublime of dancing!"

The scenery of the theatre — the splendor of the dresses and decorations — the crowds of actors, all capital in their parts — the perfection of instrumental music displayed by the grand orchestra, who were all so perfect in time, that it was as if one spirit played the numberless instruments — all this was admirable.

After we had been in the theatre about half an hour, an officer entered the box, bowed very low, and presented the General a paper, containing a few lines, written, as I observed, in an elegant hand. He looked rather grave, and perplexed for a moment as he read the paper; then said— “the king has sent for me to come to him. I must go, but I will return.” I begged him not to return on my account, if it would incommode him; but he said he could not consent to lose all the pleasure of the evening. Before he returned, the first piece was over; and those of the La Fayette family, in the other box, came in the interval, to greet us. Their countenances seemed a little shaded, and I though they were uneasy that he had insisted on sitting so far back. Mrs. S-. then took her place behind my chair, and all appeared determined that he should take the front seat, when he returned. Just as they had completed the arrangement, he came in, but he refused to go forward. Mrs. S-. now refused to take the seat, as did the other ladies also, who were in the box with us. Just then the sweet Mathilde La Fayette came from the other box to speak to her grand father. He told her to take the seat; and though she would not for the world have done an impolite thing by voluntarily taking the precedence of older ladies; yet she did not a moment dispute, what she saw was her grand-father's will.

Thus seated and arranged, we went through another dancing piece. It was the ballet pantomime of Manon Lescaut. The scenery and the dresses, represented the court of Louis XV. The stiff bows and curtsies,-- and hoops and trains, and elbow cuffs, -- the frizzed and powdered heads, and enormous head-dresses -- the silk velvet, gold-trimmed, long-skirted coats, and silver embroidered white satin vests,-- the little boys and girls dressed like their fathers and mothers, and curtsying and bowing as stiffly, -- the dancing of minuets -- slow, and graceful, and formal, --it was all pleasing: and the representation was historically true.

Gen. La Fayette was much amused. “Why,” said he, “this is exactly my time!” “Voila ce petit enfant!” exclaimed Mathilde, as a little boy, a sprig of nobility, in a long embroidered coat, and flapped vest, with his hair queued and powdered, appeared upon the stage. Said the General, “I was dressed just so, when I was of that age !” “Just so.”

That piece went off. But I observed that the eyes of the people, were ever and anon, turning towards our box; —and when at another interval, we rose from our seats, as every body did, suddenly there was a shout, “Vive La Fayette! Vive La Fayette!” It resounded again and again, and was echoed and re - echoed by the vaulted roof. In the enthusiasm of the moment, I exclaimed, “you are discovered - you must advance!” – and I handed him over the seats, unconscious at the moment that I was making myself a part of the spectacle. He advanced, bowed thrice, and again retreated — but the cries continued. Then the people called out “la Parisienne! la Parisienne!” You know it is the celebrated national song of the last revolution.

The curtain rose. Nourrit, an actor who, in the former piece had the principal male part, came forward. He was dressed as a Parisian gentleman. His figure was bold, and he bore in his hand an ample standard, which he elevated, waving the tri-colored flag. He had himself, been one of the heroes of the three days. He sung the song in its true spirit, amidst repeated applauses. When he came to the part where it speaks of La Fayette with his white hairs, the hero of both worlds, the air was rent with a sudden shout. I looked at him, and met his eye. There was precisely the same expression as I marked, when we sung to him in Troy; and again I shared the sublime emotions of his soul, and again they overpowered my own. My lips quivered, and irrepressible tears started to my eyes. When the song was over, the actor came and opened the door of the box, and in his enthusiasm embraced him. “You sung charmingly,” said La Fayette. “Ah General, you were here to hear me!” was the reply.

When we descended to leave the theatre, the thronging multitude reminded me of the time, when crowds for a similar purpose assembled in America. The grand opera house is an immense building. In the lower part is a large room, supported by enormous pillars, and used as a vestibule. To this room the crowd had, descended, and here they had arranged themselves on each side of a space, which they had left open for La Fayette, that they might see, and bless him as he passed. There was that in this silent testimonial of their affection, more touching, than the noisy acclaim of their shouts. There was something too, remarkable in the well defined line which bounded the way left open. A dense crowd beyond- not even an intruding foot, within the space, which gratitude and veneration had marked. I can scarcely describe my own feelings. I was with him, whom from my infancy I had venerated as the best of men; whom for a long period of my life I had never hoped even to see in this world. Now I read with him his noble history, in the melting eyes of his ardent nation. And I saw that he was regarded as he is, the father of France- aye, and of America too. America! my own loved land! It was for her sake I was thus honored, and it was for me to feel her share in the common emotion. My spirit seemed to dilate, and for a moment, self- personified as the genius of my country, I enjoyed to the full his triumph, who is at once her father, and her adopted son.

I do not know about you, but her descriptions have drawn me in, just if I had been there at the opera that day. The interactions of the family, the merry entertainment, La Fayette joking about his age and sharing childhood anecdotes, the want for historical accuracy being a think way back in 1830, the people singing their revolutionary song, the people lining up for La Fayette ...

A short clarification, the revolution mentioned in the text is not “the” French Revolution but “a” French Revolution – the July Revolution to be precise (also referred to as the French Revolution of 1830, the Second French Revolution, Trois Glorieuses or Three Glorious Days.) The Revolution saw the forced abdication of Charles X and the ascent of King Louis Philipe I. La Fayette played an important part during these events and many people of the time were of the opinion that King Louis Philipe more or less owned his crown to La Fayette. The revolution was also the reason why this visit with Emma Willard was the first visit to the opera this year for La Fayette. He thought people would think of him as vain were he to seek out a public place where the people would undoubtedly cheer for him (as they did).

#lafayette #la fayette #marquis de lafayette #general lafayette #historical lafayette #charles x #emma willard #1830 #1833 #france #french revolution #french history #american revolution #american history #three glorious days #trois glorieuses #louis philippe i

[luna-almighty-god]

Guardian Angel N°19 [EPILOGUE ]

Hello everyone, here's the Guardian Angel's epilogue! The final point of this story! Have a good read!

===

First Chapter  

Previous Chapter

===

Distant voices... terribly distant voices...

Rustle... feeling...

But it's all... it was all hushed up. Smothered by his unconsciousness.

He had no knowledge of anything. Not his environment, not even his identity.

A deep sleep, devoid of dreams and thoughts.

At times he felt a terrible pain, a pain coming from his chest. A pain due to a lack, but a lack of what? He knew the answer, he was sure of it, but like his own name, the answer did not come.

The darkness... nothing but darkness.

There was a time when he was afraid of the dark, of loneliness, of confinement.

And yet... trapped in that space of darkness... He was not afraid. He felt... ...good. At peace. Free of a weight, as it were.

Yet his situation was not to be envied. He was bathed in total incomprehension.

But he wasn't afraid. He had confidence.

Confidence in those distant voices, voices he didn't understand but knew were familiar. He felt touched, caressed, pampered, pampered. He felt that he was being taken care of, despite his chest, which always hurt.

He had confidence.

Completely confident.

In this total absence of landmarks, both physical and temporal, he eventually realized something. After what seemed like an eternity... he realized that it didn't hurt anymore. The pain in his chest had stopped.

It had ceased to give way... to a strange comfort. Comfort he had never seemed to experience.

[And finally, he woke up.]

The first thing he perceived was a flash of light. The outside light, the soft rays of the sun, filtering through the curtains to come and caress his face. He blinked, somewhat confused, and didn't move at once. He let his eyes get used to this sudden brightness, which contrasted so much with the preceding darkness.

He regained contact with his senses. Slowly, very slowly ... the touch of the fine sheets, the smell of freshly washed linen, the familiar sounds of the castle ...

The castle.

He widened his eyes, straightened up completely to observe his surroundings. He was... in his room at Dreamtale. This room that Nightmare had given him. And that realization warmed his soul with a warmth he'd never known so strongly.

[His name was Nyx]

Yeah, his name was Nyx. He was Nyx. Time traveler, son of Nightmare and Ink, but from another timeline. And as all the events came back to his mind, the misunderstanding grew: what had happened? He remembered talking to his father... but then? The dark, just the dark... He'd crossed the line.

He'd... fallen asleep?

Normally, he'd be worried. But, um... (sighs) But he wasn't. Why wasn't he? As if he was released from something, something too big, too heavy to carry.

He got off the sheets, slowly put his feet on the ground, and shivered. He was only wearing a jogging suit, nothing else, and the contact of his bare bones on the floor caught him off guard. He shivered, was unable to get up, and fell back on the mattress. As if he had forgotten how to walk.

But if falling down like that surprised him, he was more shocked by what was revealed to him. His soul had just slipped out of his rib cage, mischievous and playful, throbbing with strange joy, to come and show itself to him.

His purple soul.

...Purple?

[ But...? ]

He doesn't grasp it immediately. Simply because it involved too many things, too many things.

Black apples. How long had it been since he'd eaten them? They had made his soul blacker than the night itself, and if that blackness had now disappeared ... did it mean that he was no longer in the grip of those cursed fruits? That he... was now free from corruption?

To find out, he turned his gaze to the shadow of his bed and concentrated on making his tentacles appear. But... (sighs) But no matter how hard he concentrated, no matter how hard he tried. It didn't matter how many minutes passed. Nothing was happening. His appendages were not showing.

Wouldn't show up.

He hiccupped, not knowing if he should be happy or panicked, not knowing what to do with this revelation. He was just too confused.

He had been addicted to black apples for years, too many years. Lacking these apples caused him to have terrible seizures, as he had experienced hundreds of times before.

Now he was not having any seizures at all.

Suddenly he had a flash. He remembered the pain he had felt when he was unconscious. This pain that was actually a seizure. A long seizure that he had experienced through his sleep.

A seizure ... that had ended.

He was... detoxed? ... He was just... Just like that?

No, it couldn't be that simple. All his problems couldn't be solved in just one night's sleep.

... How long had he been asleep?

His thoughts did not have time to dither as the bedroom door opened, immediately attracting the attention of Nyx, who observed the newcomer... ... and remained silent in amazement.

A heavy silence fell. In the doorway stood a young skeleton, a teenager about 14 years old. A teenager ... ...far too familiar. With black ink-black bones, pink eye sockets, and yellow and blue pupils.

A teenager who became livid when he saw Nyx sitting in bed, wide awake.

“G-big brother... ? “ stuttered the newcomer.

Even the voice, though slightly muted, was familiar. And the name ...

Nyx widened his eyes:

“... Jammy?”

The nickname pushed the poor Paperjam to the edge of tears, and without warning he threw himself into the arms of the elder, pressing him against the mattress with all his weight, coming to curl up against him, the first salty drops sliding down his cheeks.

"You are awake... ! You're awake... ! "sobbed the smallest one, holding himself tighter and tighter against Nyx, as if afraid that he would disappear.

And this only confirmed what the older one feared: he had slept a long time.

[Much too long]

His throat became tied and he came feverishly to respond to his younger brother's embrace, tenderly caressing his back in the hope of calming his tears, but also to reassure himself. A multitude of questions came overwhelming him and he dreaded having the answer. What had been going on all this time? What had he been missing? Were his loved ones well? Or was he thinking of going back in time to change some new event?

“... J-Jammy... what is... ?”

The cadet sniffed softly before standing up, feverishly wiping his eyes without really succeeding. Nyx also straightened up to bring his face closer to his own and put his hands on his cheeks to dry his tears with the back of his thumb.

“It's going to be all right... calm... I'm awake now... I'm awake now, and I'm okay. Okay?“

He gave him a sweet smile and Paperjam sniffed a second time, before slowly nodding his head. Nyx took the time to calm down before daring to question him:

“ ... Jam, do you think you can quickly explain to me everything I missed?”

The youngest nodded his head once more, before coming back to curl up against Nyx and hide his face in his neck:

“Y-You... Oh, that was a while ago... You jumped into the portal to help Oshoku... But when Papink and Nightmare left to help you, they brought you back unconscious...

- A-And my father?

- Oshoku was with them... he was worried about you. He tried to cast his spell to keep you awake, but Lux and Yumerai wouldn't let him. They said you needed to sleep, even if it took a long time... but we missed you so much... Nightmare kept you in the castle. Me and my dads came to live here to look after you. We all took turns looking after you!”

Nyx felt his soul squeeze, moved by the words of his younger brother, whom he questioned a second time:

“And... how long have I slept... ?

- S-Six years...”

Although he expected worse, Nyx petrified, the length hitting him in the face. Damn it. six years wasn't nothing! And Paperjam thought no less ...

“... a-and... did anything important happen... ? stuttered Nyx with uncertainty.

- Well... Yes !”

Paperjam found a fabulous smile, although his eyes were still watery. He looked at his elder brother with some excitement, happy to be the one to tell him everything:

“Under Shiroken's advice, Cross finally confessed to Epic that he loved him ! They are a couple now! Oh, oh! And we have a new little sister! Her name is Shera! DaddInk and Perror fought over a name, but you'd see her! She's so cute! I have to introduce you to her! And Horror and Dust are a couple too! Ah, Insomnia's all grown up! He'll be so happy to see you! And, uh...”

Nyx had a sweet laugh:

“Take it easy, Jammy, catch your breath...

- Ahah, sorry! But I'm so happy... I'm so happy... I missed you so much, big brother...”

And Paperjam seemed to be about to cry again, but he quickly rubbed his eyes to contain himself, before resuming his story more slowly:

“Also... Shiroken, Yumerai and Lux lived for a while in the castle. But I think they felt out of place .... They said they wanted to watch over this multiverse, but on their own side.”

Nyx fanatic smile almost immediately:

“...you... you mean they're gone ... gone?

- Yes, they're gone... I'm sorry, maybe I'm coming at you too abruptly ... We're... We haven't heard from them in a while. But Nightmare and Dream don't seem worried, I think they're still feeling their emotions. So that's all good for them, isn't it?”

The older one did not answer, but bit his tongue to contain the bitterness that was taking hold of him. His uncle... His cousin... His master-of-arms... They were gone. Again, they were separated. And Nyx somehow blamed himself for not waking up sooner, if only to thank them for stepping in. If only to thank them... for taking care of him.

He swallowed his saliva, heavy soul, before feverishly asking another question:

“...and... about my... ?

- ... parents? Oshoku and Etsuko ?”

Paperjam took some time to think. He could see that it was a lot for his elder to assimilate...

"Well... They disappeared too. Etsuko... Etsuko didn't talk anymore about seeing his memories. I think he's... bugged... ? I don't really remember, it was a few years ago... You'll have to ask Papink. But for all I know... he and Oshoku and the Horror and Dust of the Future have closed the portal to your original timeline. I don't know if they stayed in our timeline or not though... Nightmare and Yumerai didn't seem to want them to stay.”

Nyx's soul missed a beat:

“ ... They ...

- I can't say anything for sure, big brother, I'm sorry...”

The eldest son fell silent, feeling a wave of emotion drowning him. He looked away, but his pupils turned blue, showing his inner struggle. Paperjam looked at him sadly before coming to embrace him delicately:

“ ... You can let go Big brother ... I'm right here, I'm right here. You can ... You may no longer have your timeline, nor those who were connected to it ... but now you have a new timeline. You have a new family. And... it's... it's not so bad, no... ?”

A first tear escaped Nyx as he responded to the embrace with trembling, his voice rising in a hesitant murmur:

“Jammy...”

A second tear slid down his cheek as he squeezed his little brother tighter:

“...not so bad... Are you kidding? ... I couldn't have wished for better.”

Both of them suddenly jumped when the door slammed again. Surprised, they straightened up and, through his blurred vision, Nyx saw a small skeleton about 7 years old, with black tears and a terribly familiar azure look in his eyes.

“ ... S-Somnia... ?” he stammered.

Little Insomnia had grown up, just like Paperjam. And if his memories of an awake Nyx went back a long way, he had immediately recognized his emotions, just as he had felt the emotions of Paperjam.

Confused, the child did not have time to speak that Nightmare suddenly arrived, having also felt the emotions that emanated from the room.

He petrified at the sight of Nyx. His mouth remained half-open, in a silent hiccup, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing... and finally he turned around, only to return a few moments later in the company of Ink.

Ink rushed over his two sons and hung them in his arms:

“Oh Nyx! Nyx!” he exclaimed with emotion, caressing the elder's head, kissing his cheekbone, cuddling him as a father would have done if he had been too attentive.

Nyx was unsettled, not having expected such a reaction from the painter. Especially since his last memory of Ink was when he had disowned Etsuko?

But Ink showed him such tenderness that he felt himself melting under his caresses, and when he felt Nightmare hugging them in his appendages as well as Insomnia joining them, he cracked.

He sobbed, and then broke into tears against his youngest son, clinging to him as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And despite his hiccups, his groans of pain, his tear-ridden face...

Nyx smiled.

He smiled sincerely.

[Today was a new beginning.]

=== THE END ===

Thank you for following this story, I hope it took you on a journey! See you for future stories, hope you will enjoy it!

Don’t forget, you can support me on Utip by watching ads! ;)

Have a nice day!

#nyx #inkmare #nightkiller #errink #paperjam #insomnia #nightmare #ink #undertale #fanfiction #alternatif timeline #the end #Guardian Angel

[makeste]

BnHA Smash!! 01 and 02: Smash!!Might is a Fucking Menace

okay, so. I have about a million other things I should be doing instead, including (1) responding to asks and/or finishing in-progress metas, (2) reading Vigilantes, and last but not least, (3) actually making a dent in the ever-increasing backlog of Actual Work That I Really Should Be Doing Instead.

so naturally I’m procrastinating by taking my first stab at reading BnHA’s cute 4-panel omake spinoff series, BnHA Smash!! IT JUST MAKES SENSE. look, I have exactly one thing I felt like actually doing and not procrastinating today, so I might as well do the thing. basically it’s my attention span’s world and I’m just living in it.

anyway! so apparently this series was scanlated by good ol’ Fallen Angels. that’s right; prepare yourselves for some very creative cursing, fellas. other background info for anyone who, like me, is unfamiliar with this spin-off: this series debuted on November 9, 2015, a little over a year after the original series. said original series was currently at chapter 66, meaning the Final Exam arc was just wrapping up.

so now that we’re all properly oriented, let me go over a few disclaimers real quick and then we’ll get started!

all comments are my unspoiled reactions from my initial readthrough of the chapter. I did a quick edit for grammar and clarity afterward, and added a few ETAs in the process, but aside from that there are no changes.

I’m aware that not everyone may be familiar with Smash!! even if they’ve read/watched the original series, so I’ve tried to make this recap comprehensible even if you haven’t read the spin-off. that being said, it’s probably more enjoyable if you have, so you can either purchase the first volume from Viz here, or read the chapter online (I don’t want to link directly, but the spin-off is available on most of the usual sites. literally just google “read mha” and you’ll find some good options).

this readthrough contains a handful of sorta-kinda spoilers for the BnHA manga, although there are no direct spoilers. just an indirect reference to a joke in chapter 242, as well as a reference to a theory which as of now is in no way canon. but just to be on the safe side I’m posting a heads-up.

and I think that’s it! so here we go.

so we’re opening with a brief summary of the series. people have superpowers and shit’s nuts. you know the drill

there’s also a brief description of the way that the superhero economy works, complete with Mt. Lady’s employees unionizing and demanding better pay

...what

guys I keep staring at this and thinking that surely, SURELY it doesn’t say what I think it says. sidekick... what... manager??

you know what? Viz unfortunately doesn’t include this series as part of their subscription package (WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR, VIZ), but it does at least include a free preview of Smash, and I bet you that this, the first fucking page of the series, is a part of that preview. so... let’s see...

okay, see, this actually makes sense! so did the FA scanlating team collectively all have a fucking stroke?! just, what??

this is one of the reasons why I had difficulty reading Vigilantes too, tbh. those early chapter scans were, uh. but at least Vigilantes has a Viz scanlation too. I don’t want to spend 10 bucks just to read one volume of this, but we’ll see. anyways

so now there’s a strip about baby!Izuku watching his favorite clip of All Might saving one hundred people from a bus accident or whatever

lol Inko you should not have left your shrewdly calculating four-year-old son unattended omg

TWELVE MONTHS’ WORTH OF TEXTBOOKS HOW CAN THIS EAGER YOUNG MIND RESIST

and this is why you don’t leave your credit card info saved on the computer when you have kids. life lessons learned today

this is the first indicator we have ever had that baby!Izuku wasn’t perfect and was, in fact, capable of being a little shit and giving his mom plenty of gray hairs in his own special way. ngl, I fucking love it

also 12,800 yen is about $118 USD, which is honestly a really good deal for a year’s worth of textbooks. he got three boxes of books! I just googled the average cost of college textbooks, and the google article said the average student spends about $1200 a year. so this is a fucking steal tbh

OH MY GOD INKO HOW MANY TIMES MUST HISTORY REPEAT ITSELF BEFORE YOU LEARN

at least install a fucking adblocker ffs. you’re lucky quirk supplement ads are the worst of the ads he’s getting! PARENTAL CONTROLS

now we are cutting to a comic about baby!Izuku defending another boy from my problematic fave, as seen in page one of the original series!

lmaooo

I’m not clear on how much of this spin-off can actually be considered canon. my understanding is that it is Horikoshi-reviewed and approved, even though he doesn’t actually write it. but it’s obviously a humor series, so a lot of it is just going to be jokes. that being said, I think my approach is going to be “if it’s not completely ridiculous and doesn’t contradict the actual manga, go ahead and consider it canon”

(ETA: I might change this up after reading the first two chapters. most of these strips would have terrifying implications if they were actually canon sob.)

anyhoo, this actually does contradict the manga in that we saw this encounter play out very differently. but I kind of wish it was canon regardless because looool. these cocky preschoolers and their fucking Battle Tears

the next comic is Mt. Lady accidentally stepping on a guy’s face and the guy being way too fucking happy about it (read: having a fucking nosebleed and taking an upskirt shot). we’re just going to skip this entirely. this is another problem I was having with Vigilantes too. you know, for all my complaints about Mineta and such, BnHA as a whole is so much tamer than it could be, and I need to give Horikoshi credit for that. he mostly knows where to draw the line, and to his credit he’s also much, much better about this kind of thing than he was when he first started. maybe Mineta’s standings in the character poll results are helping to clue him in

anyway, I’ll mostly just skip past the iffy stuff because I don’t have patience for it and there’s still plenty of other stuff to cover. so on to the next strip

which features a bunch of reporters fawning over Mt. Lady’s flashy quirk while Kamui Woods laments in the shadows

and yet we know this kid will have a prominent rise within the next six months. it’s so strange to revisit the start of the series and see how much things have changed in such a short time

oh my god

no one who dresses up as a giant mushroom could possibly have good intentions. I. just

and look at the fucking disappointment in Deku’s eyes. KAMUI WOODS HE BELIEVED IN YOU!

now some strange man is coming up to Deku and is all HEY YOU, YOU’RE A HERO OTAKU, TELL ME WHAT TO BUY MY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD SON FOR HIS BIRTHDAY. better not ask him unless you’re prepared to shell out $120 bucks for some fucking textbooks

hey, what!!

WE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO SEE WHAT HE BOUGHT HIM? unless it’s the action figure the kid appears to be holding? but I’m just going to go ahead and assume Izuku recommended the number one best gift that any seven-year-old child would love, i.e. a giant sword

now it’s a sludge monster omake!

so Izuku is trudging home all depressed after CERTAIN INCIDENTS, and Sludgey is glooping his way out of a sewer towards him

oh no All Might

my biggest takeaway from this is the fact that the entire second half of chapter one takes place after All Might has emerged from a fucking sewer. I forgot all about that somehow. or maybe it never fully processed until just now. but omg. this entire chapter must have smelled so fucking bad. these poor kids

wow All Might

sure called that one wrong. ah well nobody’s perfect

looooool

lmao, Smash!!All Might appears to be quite a bit more vain than the original. wow dude

btw, friendly reminder (and I think this is something that was actually pointed out to me after one of the recaps; that’s one of my favorite things about doing these) that All Might, after saving Deku, actually read his notebook before signing it. super-fast, I guess, because he’s the best. but yeah, so he knew exactly how smart and observant Deku was, and how much he wanted to be a hero. his decision to pick him as his successor didn’t just come out of the blue; even before the “my body moved on its own” thing, there was a lot Deku had going in his favor. this is one of those little details of which BnHA has so many, and which I love

lmao what the fuck

ngl this version of the series would have been amazing in its own way. but yeah. so this is why we clearly can’t assume everything in Smash!! is canon lol. but I can already tell I am going to enjoy the shit out of this series

now we’re cutting to Deku running at Sludgey in order to save Kacchan, oh shit. the most dramatic part of chapter one. clearly no moment is sacred

sob what

I don’t understand this strip at all. is this supposed to be a serious moment inserted unexpectedly among this multitude of joke strips? or did I miss the punchline? heeeeelp

(ETA: okay so. my best guess is that All Might wrote all over Deku’s life-saving advice, and so the joke is that Deku no longer knows what to do when assaulting sludge men because HIS NOTES ARE RUINED. idk. what does 25 P mean??)

now All Might has Done The Thing and saved my boys, and now Mt. Lady is helping with the cleanup. scooping up all the bits of sludge and putting it in trash bags

oh my god

nope nevermind. nope. nope

-- shit. okay, you know what? this first chapter has been a real in-your-face reminder of the fact that the sludge monster was not made of cute sparkly 2018-trending-fad slime, but was in fact composed of RAW FUCKING SEWAGE. (ETA: to be clear, I’m pretty sure the joke in this strip is that she accidentally picked up dog-doo during her clean-up. but still, the fact that it was indistinguishable from the rest of the gunk speaks for itself.) I think I forced myself to gloss over this fact originally due to the nope factor. but just. Izuku and Katsuki were both choking to death on this shit?? and just, how the fuck did they make it out of this not traumatized

and also, like. All Might was straight up going to leave Izuku alone afterwards, just, “well enjoy your autograph, fine citizen” and blasting off out of there. and everyone fucking saw Katsuki almost suffocate to death later on, and after giving him a pat on the back they fucking let him go off on his own too? and you can’t even make the argument that this was Just Another Day In Quirk Society either, because more than a year later, Katsuki is still a bona fide fucking celebrity from the media coverage of his attack. it clearly was not something that happens every day. in conclusion, these kids are resilient as fuck, and thank god for that because people apparently just do not give a shit, holy christ

anyway. at least Mt. Lady had gloves

OH MY GOD

I FUCKING KNEW IT OH MY GOD. THE ROIDS. MUSCLES LIKE THAT DON’T JUST GROW ON TREES, I DON’T CARE HOW MANY LBS OF GARBAGE THIS KID HAULED OFF THE BEACH. THIS BOY BEEN HITTIN THE JUICE

Smash!!Might is so fucking shady omfg. probably sells cheap counterfeit electronics on Amazon

oh shit and that’s the end of the fucking chapter lol. that’s it?? that was only eight pages. fuck it, let’s read another. but first here’s Horikoshi’s note on the spin-off

so he really feels that Neda gets the spirit of the series and understands him. that’s very encouraging. the best spoofs and parodies are done out of love. I really think I’m going to enjoy this series

so! onward to chapter two

so here’s All Might dressed as Mr. 2 Bon Clay from One Piece, I guess??

“you know what’s funny? dressing a man in girl’s clothes LOL.” guys can we grow the fuck up. and also acknowledge that All Might can look good in anything, so this questionable gag wouldn’t have even landed anyway. you work that tutu All Might

lmao check out the past users of OFA here

All for One for All theory fucking confirmed lol. just look. that’s him in the back of the conga line. clearly

so Deku is all “hell yes why would I possibly say no??” but then

HIS LIMBS. lmao. sign here

in all seriousness, given the shit this kid has been through since the part of the series, All Might probably should have gotten him to sign a liability waiver of some sort. not that it would have stood, since Deku is underage! anyways Deku you totally have grounds to sue the shit out of the Symbol of Peace should you ever choose to do so. and the trend of Smash!!Might being shady af continues yes please give me more I love it

so now All Might is giving Deku his fitness plan which has a really elaborate name

given that this is Smash!!Might, I can’t help but wonder if this plan is in actuality some sort of MLM scheme. All Might are you trying to get Deku to do Herbalife

lol what in the fuck

the original series skipped right over a hell of a lot, it would seem. like the time Deku traveled to Arizona and fought coyotes in a poncho

I’m starting to suspect that Neda-sensei might be on some sort of substance. “let’s see what jokes can I make about chapter 2 of BnHA. I know, I’ll send the protagonist to a fictionalized version of the American Southwest in a sombrero, and then turn him into a 65-year-old oil tycoon.” naturally

lmao that’s really it, that’s the strip. moving right along. okay??

now Izuku is staring at the intimidating piles of Beach Trash and is all “I HAVE TO PICK ALL THIS SHIT UP?”

omg Deku no

somebody call Marie Kondo. Deku none of this is salvageable. not even to reuse in a color page photoshoot spread four years from now

OH SHIT

PROVED ME WRONG OH SNAP. SHOWED ME RIGHT WHERE I COULD PUT THOSE SASSY TAKES. MY BAD DEKU I’M SORRY

anyways I don’t know what Smash!!Might is so upset about. he probably wove some kind of clause into the contract Deku signed that allows him a percentage of the profits. unless Deku already spent it all on textbooks

what the fuck is this fucking series lmao

time for a round of “what is All Might casually crushing in this panel?” is it (a) a cardboard box, or (b) like, a mini-fridge or some fucking shit. IT COULD BE EITHER. IT MAKES EQUALLY AS MUCH SENSE EITHER WAY. “HEROES THESE DAYS ARE [FLEEEEEEX] OBSESSED WITH BEING FLASHY” 

holy shit no wonder he ran away to the Sierra Nevada. it’s only a matter of time before this freak fucking kills someone

NOW WE’RE CUTTING AWAY TO KAMUI WOODS DRESSED LIKE A DAFFODIL, IN THE SAME FUCKING COMIC STRIP, BECAUSE REASONS

my jokes about the mangaka being high as a fucking kite when he wrote this are gradually becoming less jokes and more serious inquiries??

lol so he coincidentally just stumbled across All Might and Deku at this exact moment

AND IT WAS A FUCKING REFRIGERATOR OH MY FUCKING GOD

do you guys remember during the final exam when All Might beat the everloving shit out of Deku and Kacchan, and everyone was all “JESUS CHRIST WOULD YOU LEARN TO FUCKING HOLD BACK A LITTLE THEY ARE CHILDREN YOU MANIAC.” but now we can see plain as day that he was, in fact, holding back. anyways Smash!!Might is terrifying as shit and if this had been the main series I would have already pegged him as the final villain by this point

here he is now wearing an old-timey bathing suit but looking more like an escaped convict than anything else

this panel is actually canon. I’ve decided. this 100% definitely happened at some point. especially the swimsuit

now two bikini babes are walking up and they’re all “IS THAT ALL MIGHT??” with excited sparkly eyes because they don’t know that he’s actually a deranged con artist who crushes refrigerators like empty soda cans. this spin-off has truly opened my eyes

LOOK AT THIS SKEEVY FUCK. JUST LOOK

AND NOW HE’S RUNNING OFF AND LEAVING DEKU TO DROWN IN EXHAUSTION, SON OF A

“SUDDEN BUSINESS” KSJLDKF SMASH!!MIGHT IS A FUCKING MENACE TO SOCIETY AND ALSO DOES NOT GIVE ONE SINGLE FUCK. NOT ONE!! HE’S OUT THERE FUCKLESS, AND NO ONE IS SAFE

now Deku is approaching his mom all serious and says he wants to change up his diet

and she’s looking at the menu he prepared all impressed and thinking that she might join him. as long as it’s for your health, Inko. if this manga starts making jokes about your weight, I will beat it over the head with Deku’s textbooks

OMFG

THIS WENT IN THE EXACT OPPOSITE DIRECTION I WAS EXPECTING, AND THIS IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I’VE EVER READ WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. the whole fucking family is on the juice. and the fucking mangaka is on some special juice of his own oh my stars

now we’re cutting to Mt. Lady stomping on a car

thank fuck no one was actually in there. also does she not wear shoes

and also, it only just occurred to me that she must be another person with a special quirk costume, because her suit shrinks and expands along with her. Hagakure and Momo are really getting shafted by the costume design team here. they need to fire some people

anyway so Mt. Lady slipped on this carelessly placed vehicle and fell down and crushed an entire building whoops

bruh, you think you’re “ow.” let’s hope that building was empty too

and now she’s toppling another building just fucking because, I guess. and saying she can’t do urban areas

lmao and now the sidekick [CENSORED] manager from chapter one is back to guilt-trip her omg

I need this man to show up in every freaking chapter. please. respect my wishes

and now Izuku is standing on top of his collected pile of garbage screaming in victory

I only just realized that there’s still a big old Pile O’ Trash on this beach, though. someone needs to haul all of this junk away. or else get All Might and Mt. Lady to crush it all with a combined effort

oh shit here it comes y’all, the famous “eat my hair” scene. potential comedy gold right here omg

lol what the fuck

this man is a fucking billionaire and he’s out here clipping coupons and deleting pictures of his son in order to make room for them smdh

okay now we’re doing the hair scene

oh. oh no. I know where this is going sob please keep this comic rated PG for the children Neda

motherfucker they really --

Smash!!Might is a straight-up felon. this man has no fucking scruples. that’s okay Midoriya-shounen, if you don’t want to eat my hair we could just try some REDACTED, jesus christ I am going to need some bleach for my eyes after this

OR LET’S JUST STRAIGHT UP GO THERE WHY NOT

lmao sob. well, two chapters in and we’ve established that no territory is off-limits here. it’s a brave new world. wow

 so that’s it! our introduction to BnHA Smash!! I enjoyed it a lot and I will definitely be reading more! I’m not sure what kind of schedule I’ll keep, but this is a really good procrastination manga thus far, so knowing me I might actually work my way through this relatively quickly. especially since the Manga At Large is on break this week. anyways my deepest apologies to the many people who have been requesting for me to start Vigilantes instead. I just need something lighter right now, and this is a good fit. one of these days I’ll get my shit together with the other two spinoffs as well.

#bnha smash!! #boku no hero academia #midoriya izuku #all might #midoriya inko #mt. lady #kamui woods #bnha smash!! 01 #bnha smash!! 02 #makeste reads bnha #the pile o' trash is a legit plothole though you guys #are we just supposed to pretend it magically vanished #they really drew deku standing shirtless on top of a heap of garbage #and in the very next panel declared that the beach was spotless?? #so what is the truth #someone #answer me

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Running Home | 02: The Road

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Smut (eventually), Friends to Lovers

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bangchan x Reader

Warnings: No warnings apply

Summary: A journey consists of three essential parts, even the one proposed by an estranged childhood suddenly showing up at the door after years of absence. Although, perhaps begging to embark on an adventure is better befitting of the situation.

After all, the two travellers might find the destination they could not find themselves at the end of the road, inherently constantly running in circles.

Not anymore.

It is time to go home.

The Setting Off / The Road / The Destination

Masterlist

Proposals are a type of commandment left up to an individual’s own volition to agree to or decline, though circumstances or the person uttering the potential decision can influence judgement regardless. However, it also depends on the relationship at the time and that in and of itself.

 Time.

 ‘Run away with me.’ Platinum locks are pushed back by a haphazard palm that afterwards grabs onto the doorway just above where a startled head is resting to stay grounded, mind going insane due to the lack of logic in the demandingly spoken request. The long oversized sleeve rolls back to reveal a stunning grey and black-toned tattoo of a snarling wolf that covers the biggest part of the left forearm, an animal that is nothing like the docile personality of the kangaroo that was first associated with the childhood friend. 

 Then again, everything has changed.

 We do not know each other.

 Not anymore. 

 The familiar scent of mint mixed with a fresh cologne fills every sense when the long lost friend leans in, faces a few centimetres apart in the tiny space of which the air gradually becomes tense, heart oddly beating in a blind panic thanks to Chan’s begging whispering nearness. ‘Let’s do it. We’ve always wanted to. Now’s the time.’

 ‘It isn’t.’ A step backwards breaks the intimate spell, reason breaking through the mirage of wonderful words reminiscent of the rebellious teenage dreams longing to be wildly liberated and build an empire of ink somewhere in the world. It is a harsh truth, but those goals cannot be pursued anymore as the process of growing up has taught an ignorant girl the ways of reality which have led her to become a freelance editor with financial stability after a good while of struggling. The current point is a good place, certain of professional possibilities on the path taken after completing the bachelor in Creative Writing. Why leave behind such an incredible future after working so hard to achieve it?

 ‘Wha- What do you mean it isn’t? Y/N, while we were apart I did my best to actually create what we thought of together, working shift after shift at crappy jobs to save up for the tattoo studio we would open one day. I finally got the money and found a location, but all that is missing is you. Don’t say you forgot what you promised me, that you don’t remember promising to be my business partner.’

 ‘The old me promised that, Chan. I also worked hard to get where I am now, went through stress and money-related hardships to live here and have a steady career. Congratulations on making it. I’m genuinely happy for you, but I left our dream behind when I realized it wouldn’t work, at least not for me. I’ve grown up, moved on.’ A shivering sigh worsens the increase of homesickness because everything within has become aware there is no way to cure the mental distress. 

 College has cost too much in terms of funds and all-nighters to accomplish assignments or study for tests. The multitude of inherently futile interviews had led to too grand an amalgamation of barely manageable stress that could only have been diminished a tad when starting as a freelancer, fortunately landing on the music company’s project after collaborating on a few smaller yet successful projects. The collection of mangas and books on the shelves of a professional are a proud display of the achieved novel ambition to make people read more. Henceforth, there are factors that make giving up the current life impossible despite the craved reunion with Chris. 

 The offer has to be turned down.

 He has to go.

 ‘You’re lying.’

 ‘I’m not, Chan. Really, I’m happy. I get to do things I hadn’t thought possible, work on projects for big companies. See those bookshelves over there? Those are the titles I worked on.’ A convinced digit points at the shelves spread throughout the apartment which support a variety of volumes resulting from all the paid assignments that have carved the road leading here.

 Successful and free of former worries about even making it this far. 

 Only to end up merely as a name in the credits list.

 To be skipped.

 Like the rest.

 A faceless ghost with a name.

 ‘Y/N,’ the gentle softness in speech tells there is no way to deny the presented lie for the inked wolf sees what lies beneath, as he has always done by reading the mind even when it is not wanted, ‘drop the act and be honest because this pains me to see. You aren’t happy, at all.’

 The unconvincing gesture towards the paperbacks falls away, arms stretching forward in longing for a hug from the regained childhood friend and happily wrapping around the waist when a nod gives consent. The heaviness of existence falls away in the warm comforting fabric of the oversized sweater smelling of minty cologne, lashes fluttering shut when the embrace is lovingly answered by a big palm holding the head against the chest. ‘I’m not, haven’t since you were gone.’ 

 A moment of comfortable silence passes before the hush is broken by a confession that has been known all along, confirmed to be so once more as plush lips place a kindhearted kiss on locks that have missed the contact. ‘I feel safe with you.’

 ‘I’m not letting you go again. I promised to protect you and I will. I’m not gonna leave you behind, never again.’ The shivering suppressed sobs are rubbed away by small digits holding on tighter to dusky clothing, a deep sigh slightly calming a frantic heart. ‘Never again.’

 ‘Shh, it’s alright.’ Nothing more can be said without breaking out into tears as well, simply hiding away into wordlessness to let the simple phrase speak for itself. 

 ‘Please, Y/N. Please, run away with me. Let’s just grab the bare necessities and vanish, start anew. We can get food and additional supplies along the way. Even if you decide to turn back eventually, at least come with me today. Let’s just go.’

 ‘I’m not going to turn back.’ The motion of a thumb wiping the tears from pale cheeks is leaned into, molten chocolate irises twinkling in soothed delight before Chris mirrors the gesture on a dry face not yet broken. However, there is something needful in the manner in which the distance is tried to be breached, distinct from how it used to be done in older days in the increased want for intimacy that was formerly solely joked about, only applicable to the situation whereby the friendship would have been of a deeper meaning.

 Something that has never been.

 ‘You promise?’ A suggestive nod almost results in a brush of lips, but shamefully ends in pulling away and ending the closeness that was willingly given into with retracting fingers leaving behind a strangely disconcerting coldness on the skin. ‘Go... Go get your stuff. Or would you- do you want me to... help?’

 ‘Yeah...’ Although likely not needed, it is a comforting thought, a desire that desperately wants to be fulfilled, to have the platinum-haired boy with the wolf tattoo help with packing what little is needed and already present in this empty home. Henceforth, awkwardly avoiding any type of physical contact in the fairly spacious apartment that stills feels too small to move freely in, a small backpack containing what would be enough for an overnight stay at a friend’s is gathered.

 Withal, there is no way to avoid touching at the surprising sight of the sleek motorcycle which will blend seamlessly into the scenery at nightfall parked on the driveway of the apartment complex. Brows furrow as the knot of digits untangles in favour of inspecting the vehicle up close. ‘You have a motorcycle?’

 ‘Uh, yeah, I do.’ A hand timidly rubs the back of the neck, uncomfortable at yet another paradoxically uncharacteristic element of the returned comrade is brought to the surface touched by Time.

 ‘Well, I trust you’ll get us where we end up needed safely or I’ll come back to haunt your ghost.’ A smirk successfully undoes the fit of strangeness, bringing back the once familiar affection free of the judgment from outside, the prejudices deeming us a couple. 

 A concept that seems oddly pleasant as the joking manner is joined when a helmet is handed over. Well, so it seems to be but just as the object is within reach, it is quickly snatched away to be placed on the head with a loving devilish gaze. Knuckles reach up, which results in the annoyingly impactful patting on the top of the thing to ensure it is securely put in place. ‘Or the other way around.’

 Annoyed, the knuckles are stilled. ‘Stop that! By the way, you’re the driver. Besides, I refuse to let you haunt me.’ 

 Confidence fades away into worry at the registration of there being solely one helmet, gazing questioning at the apparent motor mouse with an underlying fear for his safety. ‘Shouldn’t you wear it?’

 The important inquiry is brushed off with a tender smile on the full lips of slightly tilted platinum locks. ‘Ah, don’t worry. I’ll be careful so you won’t actually get to chance to stalk me forever in ghost form.’

 ‘Chan...’ Fingers rapidly grip the edge of the oversized sweater already getting on the vehicle, holding the fabric up enough to see the top part of a melting Victorian style pocket watch outlined engraved into pale skin.

 Time slipping away.

 As it had from us. 

 ‘You’re still as stubborn as ever. It’s fine, Y/N. Come on, get on and we’ll get going.’ The hold on the clothing is made undone by the wearer gently tugging it out of its current grasp, but it is replaced by a new one in the form of once more entangled fingers when the big calloused palm reaching out is taken after patting on the backseat.

 Soothingly protective, the thumb rubs over the back of the smallest hand as deep brown irises sparkle with the true intention to protect like before had always been the case. We have had always had each other’s backs. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’

 But knowing this had never stirred up the same storm as it does now, the stomach tying into an odd expectant knot while cheeks fortunately hidden by the head protection warm up. Regardless of the curious sensations, arms wrap hesitantly around the waist after clumsily sitting down on the passenger seat, clinging like a koala to Chris’s sturdy buff body. 

 Sensing the discomfort, the guarding driver checks at every turn to what extent the distress has grown and occasionally slowing down when noticing the enhanced grip on the middle going paired with an anxious whimper. Thus, the road of flashing streets and open highways leading to an unknown destination is embarked upon.

 Though there is rapidly a stop on it already that makes all the continuous wishes for a car, a probably whole lot safer option, come to a halt at a grand supermarket in the nearest town. Howbeit relieved at being liberated from the insane traffic, it was honestly expected to be travelling at least until twilight colours the sky in a tropical gradient of mango yellow and papaya orange. Even food shopping can be done later since the cold luxurious apartment was not left without taking a few snacks and bottles of water for along the way. ‘What are we doing here?’

 ‘You might have everything you need, but I kinda... went to you unprepared.’ The key turns in the engine, the loud noise of the motor quickly tuning out to vanish completely in the ruckus of chatter against a background of moving wheels.  

 ‘You did what?’ Like a gentleman, Chan extends a supporting hand to take while dismounting the vehicle, monitoring every movement to prevent any accidents. 

 It does not go a smoothly as planned, losing balance regardless of the support point but fortunately getting caught by surprised strong arms. ‘You okay?’ At seeing nothing is the matter after a thorough inspection, tensed shoulders sigh in relief as they relax. ‘I went to you with only a change of clothes, that’s all there is in this big backpack. Moreover, it’s better to do groceries now so we can make some good miles uninterrupted. Who knows where we’ll end up tonight? Wherever it might be, I’d rather have a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush in the least.’ 

 As done many times in the past, strands are fondly ruffled, a cute suppressed giggle betraying the obvious enjoyment of the effect of the irritation the gesture is known to cause. Notwithstanding, as always and strangely more so than before, it is tolerated. Even delighted in, though a blatant display of the whirlwind inside is out of the picture for it best remains hidden among all the other odd sentiments that have come to stir a girl missing her best friend. ‘C’mon, I know you secretly like it when I do this.’

 A roll of the eyes denotes the statement, nullifying the teasing confidence in the transformed yet familiar voice of the young tattoo artist. ‘Keep on dreaming, Chris Bang.’

 ‘You totally like it,’ comes the musing response to the futile verbal counterattack, dark Timberlands easily catching up to the sneakers already on their way to the supermarket. 

 ‘No, I don’t.’ A huff comes from pouted lips, only leading to bubbly laughter from the side that makes the heart melt as it never has before. 

 ‘Yes, you do~’ One hand tucked into the pocket of twilight-shaded ripped jeans, the other comes to rest on the right shoulder and pulls a fellow runaway sturdily against the side. 

 The gesture is answered by an arm snaking around Chan’s waist, holding on tightly out of the irrational fear of any type of separation occurring that will increase the homesickness again. However, the prominent sarcasm in voice hides the anxious thoughts about a premature end of the reunion. ‘Are you really gonna argue like this? How old are you again?’

 ‘The same age as you, although you sound awfully like a grandmother.’

 ‘Oh, grow up.’

 ‘I have.’ And something indescribable in the glimmer of irises signifies the time for joking is over, the sideways contact breaking off to entwine fingers after speaking in a sombre tone with a downcast gaze. ‘Though at times I wish I hadn’t.’

 ‘Why?’

 ‘Because it complicates things, too. Especially how- no, never mind. It’s not important.’ A solemn shake of platinum locks finishes the complete attempt at elaborating on the broken-off sentence, speech lowering to hopelessness as it repeats the heart-wrenching statement. ‘It’s not important.’

 ‘You know you can tell me everything, right? What’s up?’ Whatever is deemed superfluous, it does matter to the one who had to let the problems of the past years unconsciously slide. Finally, there is a chance to find a solution again so each issue can be met head-on either together or solely with a little bit of help.

 Which is denied by a final close to the subject and a squeeze below. ‘Let’s just get what we need and go, Y/N.’

 Not speaking further of the strange behaviour, the pathways lined with food on both sides are navigated while unconsciously switching trolley duty and searching each other when one of the two has wandered to a different section to retrieve supplies for the journey ahead. Of course, as tends to be the natural reaction towards pairs doing their groceries, people throw an inconspicuous glance in our direction while we simply go about while chatting as if there has never been a goodbye. Withal, an uncharacteristic darkness glosses over molten chocolate during the moments a guy without an apparent partner looks in our direction, Chan becoming very touchy by holding hands for no reason, throwing an arm around the shoulders to enhance the intimacy or leaning in as close as possible. 

 The latter happens again when standing in front of the razor section in the drugstore part of the mega shop and a sudden wonder strikes concerning what brand the tattoo artist uses nowadays. 

 The looming presence able to provide a question rising behind the back sends shivers down the spine, though it is not an unpleasant sensation and fuels the want to lean against the buff companion, especially at the sound of an amused hum. ‘Gillette.’

 ‘Huh, what?’

 ‘Gillette is the brand I use. In fact,’ a bright orange packet reading “Gillette Fusion” is taken from the rack and placed in a small palm, ‘this is the one, in particular, I tend to reach to.’

 ‘Good to know for when I have to do groceries for us in the future. For us as friends, naturally.’ The last part is hastily added to not cause any confusion about the status of the current renewed relationship, words coming out in a rapid unbroken stream.

 A seemingly disagreeing muttering responds to the fast additional comment, thoughts gaining a voice howbeit in an incoherent fashion. All that can be gathered from it in terms of intelligibility is the wistful ‘don’t want to’ in the middle of a sentence. Nonetheless, when seeing the curiously raised eyebrow, the former friendly yet oddly protective composure is regained, nodding in a direction away from the current section of the supermarket at the appearance of a possible rival. ‘I think we have everything. Let’s pay and go.’

 ‘Chan, you’re acting weird.’ Reluctantly, broad shoulders are followed as they walk away in the direction of the checkout counter with attention turned unwaveringly towards a point somewhere in the distance. 

 Attention shifts when looking sideways at a tug on the oversized sweater scented with minty cologne which is grabbed in an effort to both halt hasty dark Timberlands and not lose him. 

 Not again. 

 Obviously irritated, a response is nothing short of growled, the fierceness of which instills a paralyzing fear into libs growing suddenly stiff. ‘No, I’m not. What are you on about?’

 ‘Yes, you are. You’re being more affectionate than you’ve ever been, but also more defensive.’ The ice is endeavoured to be knocked off from bones entirely to not lose a sliver of convincing power in the argument about the weird behaviour. In the past contact merely remained at a multitude of hugs and the occasional pat on the head, digits sometimes ruffling hair good-naturedly while proudly grinning.  

 ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not acting anything different from normal.’ Yet the suppressed snarl malforming plush lips tells a different story, revealing the truth underneath the concealing futile lie of normalcy. 

 ‘Then why are we walking away just as another guy passes, eh?’ The last remnant of the abyss between us is breached without letting go of the piece of clothing, the tattooed wolf not tugging it out of the grasp as before, but carefully watching every movement with intent.

 A hand comes to rest on the hip, compellingly guiding the way to the exit, sight ever onwards. ‘He’s got bad intentions.’

 ‘The chap over at the bakery, too?’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘And in the fruits aisle?’

 ‘They were looking at you weirdly. I didn’t like it.’

 ‘Then what about the dude in the health aisle? Was he a suspicious character as well?’

 ‘He eyed you a bit too much.’

 ‘Chan, for God’s sake, I’m a grown-up woman. I can take care of myself.’ Although not a lie, what has really been done is taking care of myself just enough to keep the homesickness at bay, just enough to actually believe to be able to function as a proper independent adult. The blatant truth is that while the surface has been well-tended to, the foundation has been crumbling since the farewell without any hope of being restored as long as there was a distance filled with questions ripping it apart. 

 ‘We’re on this journey together. You and I form a team, a “we”. There’s no “we” with any of those other men, they’re just individuals who can’t be there nor ever will be there for you as I am!’ The strange outburst at a stop in the open passage to the cash registers resembles the experience of a lonesome soul comically ensuring they are fine while being all but that yet never voicing this. Nevertheless, surely there had been someone for him to fill up the gap created by the tear, a beautiful girlfriend to come home to.

 Notwithstanding, if that had been the case, then why is there a sense of prolonged yearning in the raging? All there is, after all, is friendship, which is made questionable by the passage of time. 

 Unoccupied digits place themselves over the heart in a heavily rising and falling chest, the vibrations of an unintended pleased hum reverberating through them. Curious how such a simple form of contact can calm a scarlet frenzy. ‘Tone down. What are you saying? Don’t tell me you’re actually jealous because that’s delusional.’

 ‘Just forget it.’ Passively aggressively, one hand lets go of the waist to envelop the appeasing digits that are left no choice, holding on to them for the silent remainder of the shopping break as the other pushes the trolley.

 Only upon paying and dividing the additional stock of supplies among us does the touch unravel temporarily and once more when the helmet is securely put into place again.

 And though hating the ridiculous rigidity that has surfaced out of the blue, automatically Chris’s waist is firmly held onto when the motor is mounted to continue the journey. However, muscles tangibly relax as the key turns in the engine, kind genuinely apologetic eyes glancing over a broad shoulder to meet a gaze traced with annoyance at the scene-making earlier though that fades away into forgiving softness at hearing the vocal crack which is tried to be dismissed casually. ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved. It’s just- we’re finally- I mean, it’s us together on this road and I want to see it through. I want for us to be at the end like how we started it, with the both of us by each other’s side.’

 ‘You could’ve made that clear another way, you know?’

 ‘Yeah... Yeah, I know.’ Uncertainty undeniably comes through in the manner in which the handles are rubbed as sight is turned towards the horizon again. ‘I should’ve thought before acting, acted differently. I’m sorry.’

 ‘It’s alright.’ Cheek pressed to the large dark backpack of the driver filled with provisions, the embrace is tightened. Speech lightens as the burden of failure to please, the fear of having messed up thanks to triggering so strong a reaction in a recently reunited with soul, is lifted and thus makes room for pure joyous contentment. ‘I’m here, still your travel buddy.’

 ‘You still like me?’

 ‘I do, Chan. I do still like you.’

 ‘Glad to hear that.’ Regardless of not looking back, the smile undoubtedly beginning to form on plush lips can nevertheless be envisioned. A calloused palm affectionately brushes over the digits firmly forming a knot below as the strange restraining undertone curiously returns. ‘I’m really happy to hear you say that.’

 A chance to respond is nullified by the engine roaring to life, reawakening the instinct to do whatever it takes to survive a new encounter with rampant traffic racing at high speed. Yet, the knowledge of who the guide is and the faith put in him fuels the determination to see it through until the destination is reached.

 Until we are like we were before.

 Somewhere side by side. 

 Not footsteps to be washed away by the waves.

 But those continuing to walk together.

 Never alone.

 Never again.

#Stray Kids #SKZ #Stray Kids fanfiction #Stray Kids x Reader #Kpopwonderlandtag #SKZ x Reader #Bangchan #Bang Chan #Chris Bang #Chan

[chilly-territory]

K ~ Four Seasons of K: Sweet x Sweet White Day

The second story from the 4 seasons of K series, which also serves as a continuation of the much earlier short story Sweet Valentine. The original Japanese text is kindly provided by blueseraphima. 

Sweet x Sweet White Day by Furuhashi Hideyuki

"Is this for me...?"

On the 14th of March, in a hallway of Scepter 4's HQ after the all troops general practice, Awashima Seri unwrapped the cloth of a multi-tiered bentou box she had just received, opened the lid and cocked her head to the side.

The inside of the lacquered multi-tiered box the size of a standard bentou container was tightly lined with white dumplings resembling dango that were covered with some kind of milky white paste.

"It's some sort of wagashi with shiroan, I take it... but what exactly are these while dumplings?" "They are marshmallows, ma'am!"

To be exact, it was marshmallow kinton[*] decorated with handmade shiroan, as Hidaka, back ramrod straight, explained to Awashima whose head tilted to the side again.

"On behalf of all the fencing troops... ah, no, i-if you take it as a present from me personally, I won't mind in the slightest."

There was a good reason why Hidaka changed his wording half-way, blushing furiously all the while.

*

"I won't stop you, but do it under your own name," was what Fuse Daiki, Hidaka's coworker, said when Hidaka was making preparations for White Day. "If you give it to her on behalf of all of us fencing troops, she'll feel obliged to return the favor, hitting us all with some potent anko stray bullets in return yet again."

A month ago, on Valentine's day, Awashima shocked all the troops with her obligatory and heart-felt chocolate alike, which turned out to be big and small botamochi cakes, with anko filling and chocolate frosting. Even with no pretext in the form of a marked day, Awashima Seri never passed up the chance to offer people around her anko in huge amounts. While that habit could be chalked up to her being the daughter of a long-standing wagashi confectionery shop owners, everyone within Scepter 4 shared an unspoken understanding that giving her an excuse to bust out her anko was a big no.

The basic policy was to ignore the existence of anko altogether. Hidaka, however, wanted to break away from that guiding principle and, using Awashima's Valentine Day's anko as the pretext, tried to sell the idea of giving her White Day's anko next. That plan was motivated by his personal desire to make up for what he had missed out on, having very little experience with the so called springtime of youth in his high school days, and he was perfectly aware of his selfishness. Still, lacking in experience as he was, he was very serious about dragging those around him in it in the form of holding a 'discussion'.

"Hmmm... if the present was personal... wouldn't she find it hard to accept because of... implications?" Hidaka asked restlessly, giving his colleagues an opportunity to speak up. "Well, 'hard to accept' is, uh..." Enomoto started. "It's plenty hard to accept as it is already~" Gotou remarked. "Yeah, starting with how that kind of a return gift is totally over the top," Fuse cut in again. "Mm... is that so. I don't really get why though," Hidaka pondered, arms crossed. "Just to make sure of something..." Enomoto chimed in. "You don't mean it in the romantic way, by any chance, right?"

Hidaka shook his head. "No, I don't plan to take things that far so all of a sudden. Rather, I mean it in a way that would make you question if there is a name for this aching feeling that's flickering somewhere in-between Love and Like." "Ah... Okay." "Nfufu, here it strikes again, that pure heart of his." "Upon an objective look, you're a pretty disgusting dude, you know."

In the end, the conclusion the majority had agreed upon was "You should present your handmade sweets as only a humble sign of gratitude for Valentine’s Day's botamochi - and keep your weird implications to yourself!"

"Nfufu, a sweets man... that's sure to grab a lot of points in girls' book." "Oh, really, Gotty?!" "Gotou, quit saying useless stuff, he'll take it seriously."

...And so, on White day Hidaka presented Awashima a multi-tiered bentou box with marshmallow kinton and the words along the lines of the above-mentioned, closing this case smoothly... or so he thought.

"Private Hidaka, could I have a minute of your time?" Awashima called out to him the very next day, stopping him dead in his tracks.

*

An hour later, the four members of the squad Hidaka belonged to met in a room in the troops dorm to hold a council.

"Nfu... So, what did Awashima-san say?" Gotou broke the ice. "She thanked me for the present and gave me back the washed bentou box." "...How normal," Fuse commented. "She also gave me beans." "Beans...?" "The brand they use at her family's confectionery shop."

Hidaka produced largish white beans. The amount of about 2 handfuls was packed into a transparent vinyl bag.

"Oh, they're pretty huge." "They're Shirahana beans, I think. Used as cooked, and for making things like white nattou... and also shiroan." "Huh?" Fuse cocked his head to the side. "It's not rare to thank for ingredients you receive with ready made food... but giving raw ingredients as a thanks for cooked food? How are you even supposed to interpret something like that?" "Did the Lieutenant say anything else?" "A lot, actually. Like, how long you're supposed to soak the beans in water, how long you should boil them, how to choose those with thin skin, with what utensils you are to strain them, and more..." "Wait, isn't that..." "Yup, fault-finding, totally!" "Uugh, I see now...!" Hidaka dropped his head into his hands, while his esteemed squadmates didn't pass up the opportunity to kick him when he was already down.

"Nfufu, that is to say~" "That the task of giving anko as a present to the utmost anko authority around was too hopelessly tall from the start." "Still... all things considered, I have to say, I don't quite understand why she gave Hidaka raw beans," Enomoto wondered.

Gotou was the one to answer, "Mnn... Normally, you'd interpret it as a redo order, no?" "Seri-chan sure pulls no punches." "...No, wait, I..." Hidaka lifted his head. "...I interpret it as encouragement." "Huh?" "I don't believe that Awashima Seri that we know would waste anko beans for the purpose of simply being sarcastic or reprimanding. So I'm sure this is her message for me to encourage me to study the subject more diligently." "Study more, huh? You just mixed some random marshmallow with some random boiled beans you bought, no?" "Yes, and I admit that I was too naive. This is something that I should have taken seriously. Alright, I'll start right away!" Hidaka declared, pumping his fist in the air.

The other three exchanged looks.

"Haah." "You sure are pumped up, sweets-man." "This rouses his sportsman's instincts, I bet."

"...So, how did it go?" was a question thrown at Hidaka 2 days later.

Enomoto found a recipe for him that Hidaka used as the base for his shiroan that he made to the best on his amateurish ability. He presented it to Awashima the day before, and today Awashima was to give him her assessment...

"She said 'Still too weak, so you should take time letting the beans absorb more water'." "Whoa, more technical guidance, huh." "She also gave me advice on things like recommended sugar quantity, acceptable moisture levels and such... I took notes. Time to go improve immediately." "You're not losing heart yet?" "What are you going to do about the ingredients?" "No worries. I received 5 kg of beans from her." Hidaka, on his way to the kitchen, suddenly stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Ah right, I almost forgot. Eno, do you happen to know, by any chance, how to make marshmallow?"

...For the next 3 days, barely with any rest, Hidaka kept trial making marshmallow kinton and delivering the result to Awashima. On her part, Awashima kept accepting it with a straight face and giving him useful advice on how to improve.

Broadening the horizons where ingredients were concerned, learning a multitude of cooking methods and acquiring a mindset open to new recipes - Hidaka's knowledge and skill when it came to making wagashi, both of which at the beginning were on a grade schooler's level, were now improving by leaps and bounds thanks to Awashima's uncompromising sharp tongue and Hidaka's own burning reckless enthusiasm.

*

And so, a month later, the masterpiece was complete.

On the plate in Awashima's hand, shiroan formed large exquisite waves carefully shaped with a small crimper. Their shape, lively in its presentation, reminded one of Hokusai's ukiyo-e[**], accented with small beads of marshmallow gleaming like true pearls in all their splendor. The creation was named 'Wave flower'.

Awashima stuck a toothpick into it with a solemn look on her face, tearing off the crest of a shiroan wave, and carried it into her mouth.

Shiroan, sprinkled with a faint cinnamon scent, had just the right hardness, allowing for just an edge of softness. It was the optimum firmness that enhanced the flavor of shiroan and brought out the texture of the marshmallow that was mixed in with it. The marshmallow beads burst open in the mouth just as the teeth felt their pleasant elasticity, adding a slightly salty tang to the mix as the fresh mint fragrance filled one's mouth.

"...Splendid." Awashima put away the toothpick. "It is simple yet deep, traditional yet novel... I have nothing more left to say." "...Thank you," Hidaka bowed his head deeply. But he didn't grin a big silly smile of a happy man at the compliment. No, he had been past that stage already. He only nodded with quiet confidence.

Seeing that, Awashima spoke up. "There is something I have been considering for a while..." she started with hesitation, which was unusual for her. After a small prudent pause, she found her words again, "Hidaka-kun, if you so desire... I would like to offer you to come to my family's house some day and help us with the store."

*

"---You don't have to rush with your decision, but give it some thought as one of your life plan options."

When Hidaka brought Awashima's words to his squadmates, they got thoroughly excited.

"Eh?! Isn't that... basically a proposal?" "Awashima-san doesn't waste time, charging in with no holds barred~" "There's no half-tones or nuances with her, really."

After a while, their shock abated.

"...'Come to my family's house', huh... Oh well, maybe it's worth considering as a possible future course." "A long-standing shop with a reputation to uphold... talk about heavy." "Yeah, actually, you can't help getting cold feet, right?"

"No, I..." Hidaka faced his squadmates and began to speak, completely serious. "At first, I started this wagashi-making project to win the Lieutenant's favor, but now that I've had the chance to see for myself how profound it is... I probably have feelings for the Lieutenant and anko equally."

"Ooh, it's that bad, huh..." "Nfu, in that case, there's no problem, is there~" "Right...!" Hidaka exclaimed with energy. "No," Fuse butted in. "You're the type to fall under others' influence way too easily, so I advice you to exercise caution in this matter."

*

"---About what we discussed yesterday... I'd like to accept your offer!" with soulful spirit like never before in his life, Hidaka gave his answer. "Oh, you have come to a decision already?" "Yes! Since I thought that keeping you waiting would be rude of me!" "You should take your time thinking over my offer thoroughly. It is a life affecting decision for you, after all." "...I see." Hidaka's shoulders slumped, energy leaving him. "...Still, thank you. My brother will be happy to hear the good news." "Eh... brother? What does your brother have to do with it, if I may be so rude as to ask?" Hidaka was a loss at the turn the conversation had taken, and Awashima sensed the need to explain. "Well, you see, my older brother succeeded our family's shop, but we could find no one who could take over the job of the workers of my father's generation... Descriptors like 'long-standing' and 'with long traditions' may have a nice ring to them, but the downside is that there is a severe shortage of suitable workers for a shop that uses the old-fashioned way of doing things like ours." The expression on Awashima's face suddenly changed from pensive to smiling. "On that account you leave nothing to be desired. I will vouch for your talent and your enthusiasm for wagashi-making with no hesitation. ...When you first asked me to sample your creation, I couldn't have thought that you would improve so much." "I see." Hidaka felt the conversation was going off on a tangent. "Umm, so I'll be helping your family as an assistant... and what will you do, Lieutenant?" "Let's see... I'd like to keep working for Scepter 4 for as long as the circumstances allow, but you never know what the future has in store. I'm envious of you since you have already decided what you want to do."

*

...In the end, Awashima seemed to have interpreted the present she had received on White Day as nothing more than a request to taste-test the anko, no mind paid to the meaning of the event or to the implication of the love affair possibility.

"Oh well, my rashness is to blame for this whole fiasco... so wagashi shop worker plans are on hold now," dejected Hidaka confessed. "Idiot, why did you backpedal? It wasn't like there was no chance in hell for you with her," Fuse reprimanded. "True," Enomoto agreed, "getting an acknowledgement of your anko-making skills is the highest rating you could have received from the Lieutenant...." "'Lieutenant, I want to start a branch store with you! Let us hoist the sign curtain of our life together!' is the card you could've played." "Ah, that sounded kind of promising~," Gotou interjected. "I've no regrets. It's not about that anyway." "Then why are you boiling anko beans as we speak, pray tell?"

Hidaka who stood in the kitchen, turned his head. "I'm experimenting with a new brand of beans. The Lieutenant is in charge of coarse anko, and I'm in charge of smooth anko. When she says 'you're the only one in whose hands I can leave this task without any worries', you just can't refuse, you see." "How did it even come to that?" "Leave me alone. This is my own problem." "No, it's no longer only your problem. Now that the Lieutenant has you as her henchman, she's more fired up than ever about that anko obsession of hers," Fuse declared loudly. "---Anko production volumes will skyrocket because of you!"

*

And so, 'Wave flower' had gone on to become a very popular product at Awashima Traditional Confections as the 'New Excellent Confection of Choice'.

T/N: [*] Kinton is wagashi cakes, which are made of white beans, sweet bean paste (shiroan) and sugar [**] Ukiyo-e is prints and paintings done on woodblocks that were popular in 17-19th centuries, and Hokusai was a famous ukiyo-e painter, most known for his series of 36 Views of Mount Fuji, that includes his most famous print, the Great Wave off Kanagawa.

#k project #project k #short story #k translation

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for monday, february 8 of 2021 with Proverbs 8 and Psalm 8, accompanied by Psalm 50 for the 50th day of Winter and Psalm 39 for day 39 of the year

[Psalm 8]

For the worship leader. A song of David accompanied by the harp.

O Eternal, our Lord,

Your majestic name is heard throughout the earth;

Your magnificent glory shines far above the skies.

From the mouths and souls of infants and toddlers, the most innocent,

You have decreed power to stop Your adversaries

and quash those who seek revenge.

When I gaze to the skies and meditate on Your creation—

on the moon, stars, and all You have made,

I can’t help but wonder why You care about mortals—

sons and daughters of men—

specks of dust floating about the cosmos.

But You placed the son of man just beneath God

and honored him like royalty, crowning him with glory and honor.

You ordained him to govern the works of Your hands,

to nurture the offspring of Your divine imagination;

You placed everything on earth beneath his feet:

All kinds of domesticated animals,

even the wild animals in the fields and forests,

The birds of the sky and the fish of the sea,

all the multitudes of living things that travel the currents of the oceans.

O Eternal, our Lord,

Your majestic name is heard throughout the earth.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 8 (The Voice)

to be accompanied by these lines of the same Psalm:

Look at the splendor of your skies,

your creative genius glowing in the heavens.

When I gaze at your moon and your stars,

mounted like jewels in their settings,

I know you are the fascinating artist who fashioned it all!

But when I look up and see

such wonder and workmanship above,

I have to ask you this question:

Compared to all this cosmic glory,

why would you bother with puny, mortal man

or be infatuated with Adam’s sons?

Yet what honor you have given to men,

created only a little lower than Elohim,

crowned like kings and queens with glory and magnificence.

You have delegated to them

mastery over all you have made,

making everything subservient to their authority,

placing earth itself under the feet of your image-bearers.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 8:3-6 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 50]

God Has Spoken

A poetic song of Asaph, the gatherer

The God of gods, the mighty Lord himself, has spoken!

He shouts out over all the people of the earth

in every brilliant sunrise and every beautiful sunset,

saying, “Listen to me!”

God’s glory-light shines out of the Zion-realm

with the radiance of perfect beauty.

With the rumble of thunder he approaches;

he will not be silent, for he comes with an earsplitting sound!

All around him are furious flames of fire,

and preceding him is the dazzling blaze of his glory.

Here he comes to judge his people!

He summons his court with heaven and earth as his jury, saying,

“Gather all my lovers,

my godly ones whose hearts are one with me—

those who have entered into my holy covenant

by sacrifices upon the altar.”

And the heavens declare his justice:

“God himself will be their judge,

and he will judge them with righteousness!”

Pause in his presence

“Listen to me, O my people! Listen well, for I am your God!

I am bringing you to trial and here are my charges.

I do not rebuke you for your sacrifices,

which you continually bring to my altar.

Do I need your young bull or goats from your fields

as if I were hungry?

Every animal of field and forest belongs to me, the Creator.

I know every movement of the birds in the sky,

and every animal of the field is in my thoughts.

The entire world and everything it contains is mine.

If I were hungry, do you think I would tell you?

For all that I have created, the fullness of the earth, is mine.

Am I fed by your sacrifices? Of course not!

Why don’t you bring me the sacrifices I desire?

Bring me your true and sincere thanks,

and show your gratitude by keeping your promises to me,

the Most High.

Honor me by trusting in me in your day of trouble.

Cry aloud to me, and I will be there to rescue you.

And now I speak to the wicked. Listen to what I have to say to you!

What right do you have to presume to speak for me

and claim my covenant promises as yours?

For you have hated my instruction and disregarded my words,

throwing them away as worthless!

You forget to condemn the thief or adulterer.

You are their friend, running alongside them into darkness.

The sins of your mouth multiply evil.

You have a lifestyle of lies,

devoted to deceit as you speak against others,

even slandering those of your own household!

All this you have done and I kept silent,

so you thought that I was just like you, sanctioning evil.

But now I will bring you to my courtroom

and spell out clearly my charges before you.

This is your last chance, my final warning. Your time is up!

Turn away from all this evil, or the next time you hear from me

will be when I am coming to pass sentence upon you.

I will snatch you away and no one will be there

to help you escape my judgment.

The life that pleases me is a life lived in the gratitude of grace,

always choosing to walk with me in what is right.

This is the sacrifice I desire from you.

If you do this, more of my salvation will unfold for you.”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 50 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 39]

I’m determined to watch steps and tongue

so they won’t land me in trouble.

I decided to hold my tongue

as long as Wicked is in the room.

“Mum’s the word,” I said, and kept quiet.

But the longer I kept silence

The worse it got—

my insides got hotter and hotter.

My thoughts boiled over;

I spilled my guts.

“Tell me, what’s going on, God?

How long do I have to live?

Give me the bad news!

You’ve kept me on pretty short rations;

my life is a string too short to be saved.

Oh! we’re all puffs of air.

Oh! we’re all shadows in a campfire.

Oh! we’re just spit in the wind.

We make our pile, and then we leave it.

“What am I doing in the meantime, Lord?

Hoping, that’s what I’m doing—hoping

You’ll save me from a rebel life,

save me from the contempt of idiots.

I’ll say no more, I’ll shut my mouth,

since you, Lord, are behind all this.

But I can’t take it much longer.

When you put us through the fire

to purge us from our sin,

our dearest idols go up in smoke.

Are we also nothing but smoke?

“Ah, God, listen to my prayer, my

cry—open your ears.

Don’t be callous;

just look at these tears of mine.

I’m a stranger here. I don’t know my way—

a migrant like my whole family.

Give me a break, cut me some slack

before it’s too late and I’m out of here.”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 39 (The Message)

[Proverbs 8]

Isn’t Lady Wisdom calling?

Listen; don’t you hear the voice of understanding crying out?

She’s taken her stand at the highest place in the city,

at the crossroads where everyone can see her.

There, and at the gates, at the entrance to the city,

right in front of the city doors she cries out:

Lady Wisdom: O people! I am calling to you;

I have a message for all humanity.

You gullible people, acquire insight.

You naive ones, cultivate a heart that truly understands.

Listen, for I am about to tell you of unparalleled excellence and beauty;

what I am about to say will set things right.

I will only speak the truth;

I despise evil, so it will not pass through my lips.

Everything I say promotes justice;

not one word is crooked, and nothing is distorted.

Each and every word is straight talk to perceptive people,

upright and honest to knowledge-seekers.

Accept my correction as being more valuable than your prized possession,

authentic knowledge more valuable than pure gold.

You see, no gem is more precious than Lady Wisdom—

your most extravagant desire doesn’t come close to her.

Lady Wisdom: I make my home with prudence;

I obtain knowledge and sound judgment.

If you respect the Eternal, you will grow to despise evil.

I despise wretched, vile talk

and ways of pride and arrogance.

Good counsel is mine, and also true wisdom.

I am understanding, and strength belongs to me.

It’s because of me that kings wield power

and authorities decree what is right.

It’s because of me that leaders and their agents govern

and all judge according to what is right.

I love those who love me;

those who search hard for me will find me.

Riches and honor are the benefit of following me;

so are lasting wealth and justice.

My reward is better than gold, even the purest gold;

and my profit is greater than the highest quality silver.

I follow the way of right living.

Follow me along the path to find justice;

I’m ready to meet those who love me, bestow true riches upon them,

and fill up their lives until their treasuries overflow.

The Eternal created me; it happened when His work was beginning,

one of His first acts long ago.

Before time He established me,

before the earth saw its first sunrise.

I was born before the deep existed,

before any springs poured out their water,

Before the mountains were placed on their foundations,

before the hills rolled across the land—

yes, before all this, I was brought forth.

When the earth was yet unformed and the fields were not yet nestled beneath the wind—

even before the first dust of the earth—

When He created the heavens, I was there.

When He drew a circle in the deep, dividing the oceans and the sky, I was there.

I was there when He established the sky.

I was there when the springs in the deep were fortified;

I witnessed Him lay down the shore as a boundary

and put limits on the water

And determine the foundations of the earth.

All this time I was close beside Him, a master craftsman.

Every day I was His delightful companion,

celebrating every minute in His presence,

Elated by the world He was making and all its fine creatures;

I was especially pleased with humanity.

So now listen to me, my children:

those who live by my ways will find true happiness.

Pay attention to my guidance, dare to be wise,

and don’t disregard my teachings.

The one who listens to me,

who carefully seeks me in everyday things

and delays action until my way is apparent, that one will find true happiness.

For when he recognizes and follows me, he finds a peaceful and satisfying life

and receives favor from the Eternal.

But heed my warning: the one who goes against me will only hurt himself,

for all who despise me are playing with fire and courting death.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 8 (The Voice)

[mynameisdreartblog]

Vacation Resorts 3

Libra: Beresheet Hotel. “And like a smoggy monster breaking its dormancy from civilization by emergence from the olden well, there sprang forth an unnegotiable howl. It called upon all the night-walking villagers of the nearby town to seek where such a call beckoned them. One by one — as if it were a plague that swept all known — were these men (now turned nightwalkers) dragging their tools along the ground loosely from their holsters, implying a lack of human care. All were approaching towards that which mysteriously spoke all the tongues of the native land, and with such hypnotic trance and a strange, audible dreg. As the nightcrawlers walked further from their schedules, the beaten dirt paths began to glow iridescent with scratch marks, heavy footprints, and mysterious mounds. <The sound of shifting pages becomes audible> Thereafter, the fluorescent scratch marks had become replaced with new scars: Signs of desperation to escape a chaser or several. The heavy footprints dig even farther into the earth as iron-toed greaves crush the ground… <The sound of shifting through pages becomes more urgent> The mysterious mounds now tear their shrouds as bones, trickling with leftover flesh, arise from the dirt with uncovered magics conjuring a halfway resurrection.” [,] So, what did you think of it? «Wow, that’s… pretty wordy: Why were you writing like that?»  Firstly, that’s better than immediate compliment. Secondly, this was from a writing exercise back when I was in high school to be very descriptive in your language. My teacher never had the guts to tell me I was being too descriptive, so they slapped a good grade on it. «High school? God, that must’ve been ages ago back in… 1950-something.» October 1953, and I was the first of my high-school class because I enrolled just six years after they founded the school, making me a dinosaur retrospectively. «Heh! What was your inspiration for this?» My rational sense would tell me that it was when I decided to think really hard about Mediterranean terrors from days old, but the truth tells me that I never had an interest in that until I graduated. «It sounds way too much like northern Europe to be Mediterranean.» Well, I didn’t wanna play into Greek tropes.

Cancer: Portal Del Lago Hotel. Ah, “racoon with yams.” I wonder what else you have in this fridge. «It’s all yours; I haven’t checked up on it in a while.» You know what that tells me? It tells me whatever’s in here isn’t passable for any human consumption. «Yet, you’re still digging through it. Keep this up, and you’ll end up the next racoon to be in those canned yams.» Pfft, you and your office jokes. <Springe digs several inches further into the employee fridge, looking at the treacherous back to see what vile horrors lie there.> Ah, it’s nothing too bad: Just some leftover feijoada and a bag filled with miniature coxinhas. I’d reheat some of it if I knew they didn’t have my name on them. «Who brought the “racoon with yams” then?» I don’t keep tabs on every person here. Hell, I don’t even keep tabs on all the patients who see me. «Only the ones that open their hearts to you, right?» Ugh, don’t make it a mushy thing: Sometimes you don’t like the bile you find inside… or in this fridge, Jesus. <Springe pulls out a strangely warm bag of chips, and the contents within it contain a strange, black bile that falls out. It appears to be alive in some way, which doesn’t terrify Springe as they’ve dealt with rogue intestines before.> Oh, it’s wriggling! «Did someone put biological material in the wrong fridge again? I thought I issued an announcement about that!» <Springe tosses the creature in the nearby trashcan and continues digging through the seemingly endless employee fridge. Meanwhile, the biomass crawls its way out of the trashcan and slithers up through Springe’s pants, leaving a slimy but unnoticeable trail behind it.> «Uh, did you see that?» <Springe acts confused.> Huh? No. [,] «My lunch break is almost up, so I’m afraid I won’t be here ’til the point where you’re existential in your fridge spelunking.» <Springe, completely oblivious to the world outside of the fridge, is experiencing temperatures so cold that their eyelashes have frost on them. Also, they can’t hear pleas from outside: This is normal, you see.> Will there be eternal comfort at the end of this? I don’t know: Is there eternal adventure? Is there another quest at the end of it? People don’t tend to think beyond the end. People hold onto things all the time despite this, and I’ll be getting somewhere with this soon. <The clouds of breath coming from their mouth form unforgettable skylines.>

Virgo: Caspian Riviera Grand Palace Hotel. <There’s nobody else in this scene except for Bluma and her solitary thoughts. To conjure a scene, it’s a cold night somewhere in intercontinental Central Asia: Snow aligns the corners of a window seemingly located here to perfectly accent a contemplative thinker needing to subconsciously observe it. That contemplative thinker today is our subject Bluma: What could she possibly be pondering within her mind? Is she trying to figure out the supposed ’hard problem’ of consciousness; aligning the stars to see what multitudes her purposes contain; maybe she’s just taking the moment as it is? One can only wonder.> [,] The folder of topless anime women has been sitting in my files for years. How did it even accumulate? Oh yeah, there’s a whole story behind it, and there’s nobody here to tell it to, which is fantastic. So, I really liked this old dating simulator where you’d date cute girls (and boys) that were based off classic monsters in Western mythology. It wasn’t a cutesy anime style though; it looked like it was drawn by someone who makes action-shows about barbarians, but I didn’t care since the game was mostly text anyways, so the positive chemical rush that gets into your head was worth it the whole way through. I did eventually find one with the same concept but with an anime art-style only fifteen years later… I’m getting sidetracked; what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the folder. Well, at the end of certain routes in the game, you’d receive a timelessly risqué picture as your reward, and I decided to uh… make a collection out of them as a way to preserve the reward I had received. Wait, am I talking about the same game? There are multiple games that had topless women at the end of them as a reward, and I’m confused which was which again… One had a protagonist named Alyosha, and the others were some American names: Nothing potentially related to anything else. [,] <She places her fingers on her temple and creates an iconic pose to represent the methodical nature of humanity. She knows she’s artwork in living form, and it aches her at every moment to be seen as just another person among her flock. This is the tragedy of the image we place upon ourselves when we observe reflections: Distortions are all that we live by, and the true gasp of the self comes through in this pose.> [,] I’ll search for that folder again, and if they’re not where I think I last placed them, they’ve likely manifested into specters that guilt me every time I look at porn.

Sagittarius: Peermont, the Grand Palm. When you’re finished with all your internships, make a pile of all your previous work and burn it. «…Wait, that’s it: That’s all the advice you have for me?» Um, yes? «No, no, no, there must be a catch to all of this. I came searching for you ever since you did a presentation for our class in the town square!» You would’ve been better off eavesdropping if you were gonna end up disappointing by seeking me. «I don’t get it, and I feel like I’m being played with by not getting it.» I feel like I’m being played by only knowing who you are from less than an hour prior. I wanna start by asking you an oppressive amount of questions, and then maybe that advice will become more helpful. [,]  <A sequence of intense interrogation goes underway in a discrete ally: Not worth disclosing the specifics of, really. A bunch of questions pass until the juicy one finally arrives.> «So, this is it, huh?» There’s many it(s) you’ve been assessing to, so I’m unsure. «Just tell me what this tech is!» Well, the truth is I have a magical object with me that resembles something you’re familiar with: A note of proven merit that allows me access to any profession. I’m not a hustler — I’ve transcended that lifestyle a long time ago — I’m rather a cosmic agent sent here to experience every occupation created by humanity. «I think I believe you.» Ah, I know you want it, but you may not like my methods: I suck all I can out of a single experience, and then I float around in a state of purposelessness until the next fixation comes along. It’s a painful life few are willing to embody. «I’m ready for whatever it takes, including that. Finding you and asking for the elaboration I need has been on my mind since that day when I was young and you were younger. Angels came down upon me and guided me to this moment: I’m sure of it.» I was sure of a lot of other things too, but a lot of that assuredness just felt like it was filling a bigger longing. «I didn’t come here for doubts! I came here for the opposite of that… whatever that is, and you’re that.» Yeah, yeah, I’m not planning on adding “guru” to the list of occupations. «You’re dragging me out to reach a conclusion: That’s what I feel inside of me, right?» Ah-hah, you’re starting to realize now! «I turned myself into my own means!»

#Zodipunc #Zodiaccupuncture #Libra #Cancer #Virgo #Sagittarius

[davidaolson]

This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts. ~Aztec Theology

Dead Hearts Walking

We are a steady stream pushing ourselves up the steep stairs one by one. They walk without difficulty. I am winded by the exertion, gasp for oxygen in the thin air. With step 248, we reach the summit of the Temple of the Sun, the largest pyramid in the Americas. Each of my companions, a devotee has a cleanly sliced, horizontal hole in their chests just left of center, slicing through the nipple region. The ghosts walking the street do not have the hole. Only those ascending the pyramid do. There must have been a ghost priest near the base performing the ritual.

In their right hands, each holds a beating heart, their own beating heart dripping phantom blood. The drops are low luminance red. They contain too much pigment to be transparent, not enough to be opaque. Translucent blood, translucent as the mixed-blood people inhabiting a society happy to push them to the margins. Out of sight. Out of mind. Translucent. Preferred invisible.

They search for the Sun Stone to offer their hearts, a sacrifice to propitiate the starving Aztec Gods, drinkers of human blood. Once the gods’ thirst is satiated, they will reward the people and resurrect the lost empire and the Aztec will reign again.

But the sacred Stone is missing. It was stolen by Spanish invaders for its gold inlay then thrown in a worthless heap until it was rediscovered and placed behind bars in a museum. Why behind bars? The scientists have heard the stories. They know power lives within and blood will set it free. They fear the power, fear losing their own exalted place in society. So, the people are kept at bay lest they sprinkle their own claret juice and resurrect the ancient gods.

The original thieves failed to comprehend the sacred stone’s significance. Without it, connection to the Gods is severed. The passage from life to resurrection and final death blocked. The sacrifice cannot be made, neither resurrection for the empire nor final passage for the people is attainable. As this realization sets in, that they are trapped in the between world, my companions let loose a howl accompanied by a torrent of tears.

They cram still gasping hearts back into emaciated chests. Heads droop low, unshoed feet drag on sharp rocks. They descend the steps leaving a trail of ghost blood. Some stumble. Others, distraught, hoping for final death and freedom from the curse, jump from the top of the 216 foot Sun Pyramid bouncing off the sides, rolling over the angled walls, come to rest at the pyramid base mangled, crushed. Death eludes them, still. They remain bound to the misery infecting the empire when their leaders turned their backs on Lord Sun instead prostrating before the furry-faced man on the great white horse they believed to be a God incarnate. But Cortés was merely a killer, an invading demon.

With bodies broken, spirits crushed, they rejoin their brothers and sisters walking Avenida del Muerto, the Way of the Dead, the main road connecting the pyramids in Teotihuacán. The wanderers slowly fall into a procession, a line of spirits walking, single file along the Avenue of the dead from the Sun to the Moon to the distant Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent and back to the Sun Temple where they again pull their hearts from their chests and trudge up the 248 steps hoping, in vain, to end their purgatory. The Church came to bring heaven to the Americas but condemned the natives to perpetual perdition.

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Moon Temple

Avenue of the Dead

The line of spirits is endless with multitudes streaming toward the ancient city. They cover the land, a thick blanket of locusts, on their way to join the procession. Even the dead harbor misplaced hope in Gods.

My wife, and I suspect the other tourists, cannot see the ghosts, are not aware of the shadow people wandering in the crowds who slide through the living as light pierces a pane of crystal glass.

Are the locals aware? Probably. The ancient blood runs through their veins so I believe they have genetic knowledge. I hear the vendors speaking to each other but not in Spanish. My guess, it is Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. If their knowledge of the language lives, I’m sure they know of these shadow people, can see the shadow people. I would like to ask them but believe, even if we could speak a common language, they would not reveal ancient secrets to an outsiderf, especially a gringo.

When I visited almost two years ago, I did not see the shadow people. But that was before I met Grandfather, a spirit, a ghost. An ancient who is as old as the Americas themselves, possibly older. I encountered him twice within a year, both times in New Mexico at distinct locations connected by a common theme. Petroglyphs made by some of the earliest aboriginals in what is now known as the Americas.

The first time I also met and had a conversation with a Rattlesnake spirit. Between those encounters, I met and received a message from the Tukó spirit in the Philippines. Three extra-worldly experiences in one year are enough to put anyone off their nut. All things considered, I am not surprised to be walking with shadow beings at Teotihuacán, archaeological ruins of what was a major city in the Aztecan empire. Nor do I harbor any fear.

Grandfather passed a vision into my head through touch when we met in Albuquerque foretelling of an upcoming encounter. I am in Old México for a break from the cold Chicago winter and, if Grandfather was real, as I believe him to be, to meet my next teacher, Puma. In the vision, though, Los Muertos talked to me. I have tried conversing with these shadows but they act like I don’t exist. Are they aware of me?

Ah well, I know where Puma lives in these ruins. I saw the mural on my previous visit and that is where we are headed next. My only problem, how do I get rid of my wife and away from the crowds. In all my previous spirit encounters, I was alone. It seems to be a prerequisite. No witnesses. No one to validate my experiences. No one to assure me I don’t wander in and out of schizophrenia.

Miztli (Puma)

Miztli (Puma) Miural

We stop to admire the Puma mural which is a short bit along the avenue on the way to the Temple of the Moon. It is tawny with absurdly long claws. Red waves in the background make it look like it’s walking on water.

I need to be rid of the wife. Time for my sob story.

“The mother-freaker Sun Temple was tall. The rise between those steps is long. I thought the Aztec were littler people like five and a half feet tall. How did they manage those steps? And the steepness is scary. I was worried I would take a tumble on the way down. I bet a few of ’em were accidentally sacrificed to the gods just from falling while trying to get to the top. You are smaller than them. You must be tired from the climb up and down.”

“Nope. I’m ok. I’m feeling good. The altitude isn’t bothering me at all.”

“Really? You are definitely better fit than me.” Shameless schmoozing. “I guess the personal trainer is paying off. I should probably find one too because I’m feeling a bit winded and my cough is tickling at the back of my throat up…”

“…and you want to rest for a bit so I should just go ahead?”

“Ummm…”

“Can’t you come up with a different lie? You told me almost the exact same story a few weeks ago in New Mexico. Practically a duplicate word for word except for the added trainer part. Trying to play to my ego, are you?”

Sheepishly “Ok. I’m feeling a strong need to be solo for a short time. It is the only way I can connect with the spiri…er…the landscape. I don’t want you to feel I am abandoning you.”

“Listen. I’m an introvert. I understand the soul’s drive for alone time to rejuvenate. And, please, no more of this spirit seeing vision shit. If you are going to create a magical realism story cool. I like reading your stuff. Just quit pretending it’s real.”

“Sorry…” not sorry. Did my hypocrisy show through in my intonation? Probably for her next words were, “I’m going to the moon temple. Meet me there when you are ready.” And she walked away without waiting for my response angry footsteps pounding the trodden grass.

It is going to take some mighty fast talking to smooth this over but that’s a problem for later. In the meantime, I need to learn from Puma. I would kneel but the ground is pebbly and my knees are wretched. Prostrating is out with so many people milling about. So I whisper using the few Nahuatl words I learned specifically for this occasion. I hope Puma can hear my prayer over the din.

Miztli (Puma), achtontli (ancestor) icniuhtli (friend). I call you friend knowing very well we may be distant brothers of a common ancestor in a blessed cihtli (grandmother). I saw you in a vision gifted to be my…by our…our Grandfather. I am here because Grandfather foretold you would reveal a cochitlehua, a seeing dream showing my next destiny.

No acknowledgment.

Do not fear me, I am not tlacatecolotl, an afternoon owl bringing evil to either you or the ghosts wandering this ancient city. I seek your toltecal, your wisdom that I may understand the huitzitzilin, the hummingbird journey leading me from flower to flower.

Miztli still appears not to hear me. It remains stoically perched on the wall not flexing any of it’s taught, tawny amber muscles. Nor do I sense it recognizes my presence. If it had, a bridge should form connecting our spirits, enabling communication.

I turn around to think and discover I am surrounded by a semicircle of ghost people with me at the locus. They stand, quiet, focused in my direction. I cannot tell if they are actually looking at me because their eyes are vacant, gray orbs. I slide a few steps to my left, they shift left. I return the three steps to the right, they follow again.

On the pyramid climb, they were oblivious to my presence. If not oblivious then consciously chose to ignore me. Now, they are definitely focused on me. Was hearing their own language the impetus for the change?

“Miztli,” I say testing my hypothesis. They lean closer, the ancient language a magnet pulling them toward me. The words must have pierced the wall between the living and the wandering dead diverting them from their mourner’s path toward me.

“¿Tlen?” I say which translates as what. I need to know what they want from me. Perhaps, they have insight and can help bridge me into Puma’s world.

In unison, they respond, “Meztli.”

Using my thumb, I point over my shoulder toward the Puma mural hoping it is not a rude gesture in their Aztec culture. I ask, “¿Miztli?”. I’m too fearful to point with pursed lips which would require turning my back on the phantoms, the growing legion of phantoms. I sense an uneasiness in the crowd. Again they say in booming unison, “Meztli.” This time looking left and pointing with pursed lips to the North.

It is then I realize my mistake. I thought they had said miztli which means puma but they actually said meztli meaning moon. They are directing me to the Moon Pyramid.

“¿Does Miztli spirit reside at the temple of Meztli?” I don’t expect an answer. A response presupposes people who died hundreds of year ago can understand my English. I pause for a brief eternity allowing ample space for them to speak. No response.

I turn right, begin walking toward the Moon Temple hoping it is where I will find miztli but expecting bubkus, nada, nothing. The phantoms follow close behind. I glance back for one last look at the mural. Puma has vanished from the painting. There is a hole where the wavy red lines were behind the painting. Shit. I missed my chance.

I turn back to the ghosts who have resumed their eternal march. I jump in front of them and wave my arms. The walk around me, through me on their never-ending procession that will eventually route them to the top of the Sun Temple and another attempt to resurrect the old gods, their dispossessed lives. Instead, they exist in an eternal hell. Their purpose had been to distract me so Puma could make an escape. I am disturbed. Why did Miztli choose to avoid me?

Head hanging, I drag my feet to the Moon skirting the ubiquitous vendors selling trinket and blankets and jaguar whistles and graven images. Can they see the ghosts? Do they care?

The steps up the Moon Temple are equally steep as the Sun. These, though, end at a platform less than halfway up the pyramid. Access to the top is prohibited, blocked by a weak fence I could easily circumvent. But the ascent is tricky, the steps crumbled, crumbling. An ascent carries the twin possibilities of success and sacrifice in equal measures. My goat days are long behind me. I opt to play it safe.

I return to the lip of the platform, sit, stare south along the very straight Avenue of the Dead toward the unseeable Temple of the Feathered Serpent. The Aztec were astounding engineers. The most distant temple It is hidden behind polluted air. Beyond that is a mountain range. Further still all of Central and South America with many more ruins to explore before I jump from the physical world to the spirit world. Hopefully, not too soon though.

The tourist count, high when we arrived, is continually increasing. As expected when visiting famous sites during vacation time between Christmas and New Years. Too many people for my liking. The avenue is packed with the colorful living and gray, translucent dead. Is there really a difference between life and death? So often, life feels like hell.

In the midst of the chaos, I spy the tawny rippling muscles and twitching tail of Miztli. Is Puma out for a stroll or a hunt? It looks toward me, at me. Not having the animals sharp vision, I cannot tell if it is looking with disinterestedness or disdain. My soul tells me it’s probably indifference. I’m living. It is spirit. What can I possibly offer a demigod?

My wife sits next to me, “I see you made it.” The angry edge is mostly gone from her voice.

“Yup.”

“You look hot. Your face is pink. Here, drink some water so you stay hydrated. We better get you a hat on the way out.”

I drink, wishing it was colder, wishing it was an elixir that would allow me to exist permanently and simultaneously in both worlds instead of spirit visions occurring haphazardly. Is it haphazard? Grandfather must have some plan, some rationale for bringing me to his side. I wish I knew what it was.

I feel a need to speak, to bridge the gap I created. “This is a great view, I would love to have seen it in its heyday when the pyramids were pristine and all these structures in mint condition. I’m sure it was amazing.”

“Did you find what you were looking for at the Puma grotto?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Even if it includes spirits and phantoms?”

“I want truth not figments of your imagination. Save that for your stories.”

“Ok. No. I did not find what I wanted at the grotto. I learned nothing. Maybe, I was supposed to learn nothing.”

“That’s good. Are you about ready to go?”

“Sure. I am feeling a bit lightheaded. The sun is getting to me. It is exasperated by the low humidity. I can hear the moisture being sucked from my body through my pores. I need to get a Coke on the way out. The sugar will do me some good.”

“Are you ready to go now or do you need more rest?”

“I’m ready. Say goodbye Gracie.”

“Gracie?”

“Tag line from an old TV show. Let’s find our driver and get back to Mexico City.”

Cholula

A few days later, we shift ourselves from México City to Puebla via an easy two-hour, first class bus ride. The one drawback, the movie on the overhead screens is in Spanish. My Spanish, other than impolite words, is elementary and that is being generous. I’m unable to understand most of the movie. This lack of Spanish speaking is a deficiency I need to rectify since there are still many Central and South American countries I plan on visiting.

México felt modern. Not as modern as Chicago but still contemporary. Puebla is more old school with great colors on the buildings. The Zocalo is a cozy park surrounded by shops, restaurants, with the focal point a gorgeous cathedral. It feels like an old European town. I could see myself retiring here spending the mornings sipping tea and writing. The evenings would be more difficult because the restaurants lack variety.

For this second half of our trip, we have prearranged a local to guide us, a friend of a Chicago friend. They are a mother and daughter pair. The mother speaks more English than we do Spanish still our ability to communicate with her is limited. The daughter, a teenager, is a self-taught English speaker. She has a strong grasp of the language and is virtually accent-free. This is the first time she’s conversed in English. My wife and I are stunned.

Our first stop, the great pyramid of Cholula, is a touch shorter than the Sun Temple making it the 2nd tallest in the Americas. Most of Cholula is unexcavated. By volume, Cholula is larger than any of the taller Egyptian pyramids. Which begs the question. Which is bigger? Is it the greater height or the greater volume?

When I used to fish, some of my fishing buddies determined bigger by length. I was a weight guy believing a heavier fish would feed more people therefor it was the bigger. We never did reach an agreement. Maybe, if I caught the longer fish I would have shifted to their perspective. I never did catch the largest fish so it was a moot point. The one time I was close, the fish, a four-footer, spit the lure out right at the boat and winked at me as it dove into the darkness.

The side of the pyramid on which we arrive appears to be nothing more than a hill. We can’t see it yet but there is a tiny little church on top desecrating the sacred pyramid. That is bad but the story gets worse. We walk around to the opposite side. Vendors are hawking dried grasshoppers, a local delicacy sold by the bucket full. I am unable to suppress my squeamishness long enough for a sample. Next time, I tell myself knowing very well there is unlikely to be a next time. There are few foods I won’t knowingly try. Insects and balut top that list. My try new food tactic is to have the people I’m with order their favorites for my meal and not tell me what I ate until after I’ve finished. It’s a great way to stretch my palette.

The Aztec were master Engineers creating their cities without the aid of computers or machinery. I expect the pyramid to have sides parallel with the cardinal directions like the sun and moon temples. This is not the case. It isn’t until reaching the top I come up with a logical, to me, rationale. The pyramid is built askance for spiritual purposes. Parallel to one side there is a volcano and another mountain peak. In concert, they are key figures in a local creation story.

The Yellow Church

The ascent is a paved walkway, an ascending road absent steps. I don’t know if it is the original fixed up or a modern addition. The angle of ascent is not insignificant, the pain in my thighs a minor irritation, the 7,000-foot altitude plays a part. We stop twice to catch our breath. I am reminded of the uphill ascent to Parvati temple in Pune India. Both feel similar in distance and inclination.

Stairway to Yellow Church

Yellow Church

At the top sits a small church. I am appalled but not surprised. It was the Spanish invaders’ practice to deprive the indigenous their freedoms and their lives. They also did their best to annihilate their chosen afterlife. This is the underlying reason for the ghosts wandering the Avenue of the Dead at Teotihuacan.

The Aztec were born into a belief system, a system annihilated by the invaders preventing the Aztec from completing their prescribed birth, death, afterlife cycle. They lived and died but were unable to transition from death to final afterlife thus are stuck in a limbo world and will remain trapped until their rituals can be performed. The Spanish tried to supplant the Aztec system with Christianity but the new system is a cycle outside the original. Unless an individual Aztec freely chose to convert, they remained bound under the auspices of the original system.

The Catholic Church, represented by the conquistadors, condemned millions to suffer eternally or until the Stone is returned to the sun temple and the legions adrift can finally crush their own hearts on that altar and be released into the eternal afterlife.

The yellow church perched on the top of the pyramid is named the Shrine of Our Lady of Remedies. It was built by indigenous slaves to transition them from paganism to Christianity. Repurposing religious sites was a common blasphemy conducted by the church patriarchy in their quest to save the savages. Yet another parallel between Catholicism and the ISIS bastards destroying ancient sites. The Catholic Church was the ISIS of the invaded new world.

Upon completion, including gilding the interior with stolen Aztec gold, the natives were forbidden from entering the church. They were allowed to attend mass from the outside looking in through the small church doors but not cross the threshold and sit beneath the roof. Even conversion, an act said to cleanse them in god’s eyes, was not a key allowing them entrance. The spiritual soul saved, physical soul pissed on. WHy? They were not white and not Spanish. Blatant discrimination reflects the Church’s true character. What they truly needed saving from was the invading Church and the depraved Christians.

The Underworld

On our way to the walk-up side of the Great Pyramid, we pass a ticket booth granting access to the soul of the pyramid. The line was long so we opted to bypass for the fee free jaunt to the top. One of our hosts, seeing the steepness of the climb, offered to return and buy tickets so we could enter on the flip trip. Having always wondered what lies beneath these behemoths, we agreed. An added bonus, there are excavated sections of the exterior complex only accessible with the tickets.

Stairway in Cholula Pyramid

The world beneath is spider-webbed with narrow passages. The openings take the form of a gravestone, straight sides with an angled top coming to a point at the peak. The best I can describe is the shadow cast by a short, squat pencil with the tip worn down.

The electric lighting is yellowish casting a jaundiced glow on the brick and mortar walls. Are they adobe? I’m not sure. The construction reminds me of adobe huts and the ruins left by the Anasazi. Rocks slathered with mud hardening sufficiently to endure the ages. I imagine the ancients scurrying the passageways carrying torches, atra, fire flickering on a long stick casting eerie shadows. I look for but do not see any signs of fire soot. Was it cleaned by the excavators? Rinsed away by floods?

My head barely clears the top. A head bobble would have me scraping the sides so I do my best to keep my noggin steady. No quick turns. The narrowness makes it not possible to walk two abreast. Squeezing past someone is impossible without body contact. The Aztec were littler people and would have little difficulty navigating the tunnels.

I feel walled in, claustrophobic. I imagine horrors, tunnels collapsing trapping us in blackness slowly suffocating in the dwindling oxygen. A rush of water slowly filling until we drown. I enjoy exploring the tunnels while simultaneously fighting the urge to flee into the sunlight and blessed open space. Every fiber of my being is at war with the dilemma made worse because I have no idea how long it will take to traverse the maze and emerge on the other side.

I have a strong preference for deserts over forests. Forests are beautiful and awe inspiring but sight lines are limited. In deserts, I can see forever in every direction. I feel free, not trapped by a thousand wooded fence poles. The solid walls in the pyramid depths are infinitely scarier than the densest, deepest forest.

We have no map. There are no mile markers displaying distance covered, distance remaining. I do my best to stuff my growing panic as I used to stuff my emotions. Hopefully, stuffing my panic with have a happier ending instead of exploding when my emotions erupted.

We pass side tunnels. Some on the same level, others descending all blocked by steel gates. Some are lit. Most are pitch. They are obviously still under excavation. One descending into the depths, step by step, has a shallow puddle pool a couple of feet down. Coins are visible in the still pool.

Are the coins an offering to the gods? A superstitious act to dispense good luck? Probably both. The folly of humanity never ceases to amaze me. It was at one such side tunnel that I pull over and let my companions pass. I am much bigger and was probably blocking their view. I also hope, having them in front of me, will add perspective reducing my burgeoning panic to a manageable whimper. And, it will provide moments to study architecture without worrying about holding the others up.

During an extended lollygag, I trace a faint outline, faint like it was scrubbed away by repeated flooding. I can’t really tell what was there because the many gaps force me to fill in the blanks with my imagination but there is a resemblance to the Puma at Teotihuacan. Can it be? Or is it wishful thinking? My own folly. I am still confused about why the encounter with Puma turned sour before a connection was bridged.

I’ve lost track of my companions. There is a turn ahead they must have already passed. I am alone. Alone in this constricted space with thinning air making it hard to breathe. My panic simmers with dainty, little, baby bubbles hiding the churning below. It’s not a raging boil, yet. I need to get out. I need to be free now. My feet move independently, rapidly.

I come to an ascending passageway on my right. There is no gate blocking the way. At the top, there is the glow of light. It’s around a bend so I can’t tell if the tunnel leads to the exterior but the natural looking light is a draw I can’t pass up.

The Up Tunnel

I’m in. No choice, really. The light is a salve to my fear, an elixir to quench my thirst for sun. I begin the upward climb gradually stooping over because the space between the steps and the ceiling is shrinking. Shortly, I am crawling on hands and knees and another phobia kicks in. I am terrified of getting wedged in a tight space in a cave. The next level phobia is getting wedged while scuba diving in caves with my oxygen running out.

I hear voices ahead. The light is bright. The end must be near. The final stretch, what appears to be the final stretch, of the tunnel requires belly crawling. I start and stop. Sweat coats my body, has soaked through my shirt. I can’t muster the courage to continue. I must abandon this route and return to the original. I start inching backward irritated I didn’t have enough courage to fight my irrational fears. My toes splash in a puddle. Oh shit! I’m kneeling in a thin layer of water, a layer slowly rising. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Progress or perish. Going back is not an option.

I reach my arms forward narrowing my body as much as possible wishing I had paid better attention to my weight. The bulging belly adds to the challenge. My fingers feel only slick wall, no finger holes to pull through. I can’t begin to guess how long the passage is. I use my toes to push myself forward, literally, inch by terrifying inch. Every fiber in my being screams in horror. I’m going to die.

The water continues rising forcing me to nose breathe. Mouth breaths would contain more water than air. The water makes the rock slick and toeholds difficult. I concentrate, force them down so the rubber on my shoes can push forward and create propulsion. The one benefit of the water is it acts as a lubricant making forward movement easier. I move a couple of feet when I feel a lip to grasp. The water reaches my nose just as I break through into a chamber.

To shaken to think, I find a rock and sit trying to settle my nerves. No luck. I must move. The chamber is a largish junction between two tunnels. I’m able to stand with a few inches of head clearance same as the original tunnel. My arms, outstretched, reach neither wall. I am disoriented. My internal compass cannot calibrate. Which tunnel do I take?

Holy shit, I realize I can see. There’s light from a burning torch propped in a wall notch. How did this get here? There are no footsteps on the soft ground. I pull it off the wall and step first into one tunnel then the other. I hear nothing but my breathing and a light trickle of water. Do I go with the flow or against the flow? I’ve always been an against the flow kind of guy. No need to deliberate. Water flows downhill. I want to ascend to the surface. I go against the flow.

I turn two bends and see a hole of light in the distance. I pick up my pace, drop the flaming torch, and am nearly running when I break out of the tunnel. I enter a light so forcefully bright, it knocks me flat on my back. I roll over to avoid the searing brightness. The ground is parched, cracked into a mosaic most chunks big as my hand. I pull myself up to my knees. Stunted corn with shriveled yellow-brown stalks extends for as far as I can see. Must be in the middle of a drought.

There is chanting behind me. I whirl around and discover I am kneeling before a stone structure of meticulously inlaid stonework, a man-made puzzle of stunning symmetry. The stones are much smaller than the rocks composing the pyramid but the workmanship is identical. It stands 2ish feet high. Three steps take one to the flat top. It appears to be a miniature of the great pyramid.

The chanting is from a lone priest standing on top. His eyes are dark as teak. They were all pupil and no iris or dilated to consume the pupil. Almost as if he is without a human soul.

He’s wearing a headdress of pheasant tail feathers. Some are natural, light brown bands separated by smaller, dark brown, almost black bands. Others are dyed red, green, and blue. They extend from is head outward similar to a peacock flashing feathers in a mating ritual. There’s an amulet around his neck. I can’t make it out clearly. He’s in an animal skin loincloth. It looks like the hide of a jaguar. The same hide is banded around his ankles to mid-calf. Leather sandals protect his feet.

Miztli with Blue Eyes

Behind him, a golden puma the gold of prairie grasses at sunrise is locked in a cage and pacing nonstop. The cage is built of wood, looks flimsy. Why doesn’t the puma push through the slats? It must have enough strength. It screams occasionally, a raspy scream sounding like the gates of hell have opened and a female demon is being skinned alive while simultaneously roasting on an open flame. Pumas eyes are pale blue, a warm blue with yellow trim and they are fixed on me, fixated on me. They never leave me even when screaming and exposing large canines.

In his right hand, the Priest holds a knife, a long knife of blackest obsidian glinting the sun hanging high in the cloudless, cerulean sky. He stands severe, eyes raised, arms outstretched to the heavens. Is the stone structure on which he stands an altar? If so, where’s the warrior for the sacrifice?

Footsteps approach from behind the patter of lots of footsteps. The priest lowers eyes and arms, looks into the distance over my shoulder. He is sweating yet the air is cool.

Is it the king’s army coming to sacrifice him for failing to summon rain from the gods? A priest unable to persuade the gods to give the gift of rain is not much use for an agrarian society. Perhaps he will be forced to cut his own heart from his chest? Will a priest finally get his comeuppance? It’s high time they paid for their sins.

I have an issue with priests and the organizations perpetuating the defective of the lot. By defectives, I mean those like the pedophile priests so long protected and hidden by the Catholic Church. As if wearing a white clerical collar automatically exempts them from paying for their horrendous crimes. They are men in places of authority and must be held to a higher standard than the laity because of their widespread influence. Instead, the Church chose, still chooses, to ignore the trauma of the children and move the bastard priests to places they could unleash more terror unchecked. Unconscionable. No…EVIL!

It’s not soldiers but common folk, men, women, and children in farmers clothing, little more than loincloths on all. Most are barefooted, a few wear sandals made of what appears to be corn husks. They gather on either side of me, behind me, drop to their knees in reverence when they stop. Some prostrate themselves. They chant, Tlaloc, in unison. Tlaloc, literally he who makes things sprout, is the Aztec rain god. They are petitioning Tlaloc for quiyahuitl, rain.

The priest has pulled on a mask with large round eyes and long fangs. He has become Tlaloc. My answer to who will be sacrificed is soon answered as a family, a husband, wife, and boy child about 5 years old walk to the altar. The family must watch the warrior be sacrificed up close? It seems unusually cruel not to mention traumatic to one so young.

Of course, I view this ancient ritual with modern eyes. My society is individualistic. We are an I society. The rights of the individual are paramount superseding the needs of the group. Others are collective. The needs of society trump the needs of the individual. Rules promote selflessness and sacrificing one to better the all. I have read, it was an honor to be the first warrior sacrificed to the gods by the priests. Who am I to judge how they choose to live.

The father grabs the boys hands, the mother his feet. They pick him up, pull on his limbs until he is parallel, lay him on his back holding tightly so movement from his struggles is minimized. I am horrified to see the priest kneel and raise the knife. The chanting grows louder. Tlaloc, TLALOC, TLALOC. The voices become a frenzy. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

I scream “Noooo” with all the volume I can muster. Either they cannot hear me or I am drowned out by the chanting. I look toward Puma. It is still fixed on me. Why can it see me but these people can’t? I try to stand and run to stop the madness but can’t move. My knees are rooted to the ground, tendrils extend from me into the cracks in the soil.

The priest drops the knife into the child’s chest. TLAAAAALOOOOC! He wiggles it around deftly, then reaches in and pulls out the heart.TLAAAAALOOOOC! He raises it toward the heavens and squeezes. Blood spurts from the severed arteries. TLAAAAALOOOOC! When the blood stops dripping, he takes a bite opening the chambers and turns it over ensuring the last drops of blood are bled. In my disgust, I cannot tell if the priest ate the part he bit off or spit it out. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The priest reaches behind, picks up an axe and lops off the child’s head in one blow. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The parents move the corpse to the side of the altar. They place the opening where the head hangs over the edge allowing the spilling blood to feed the earth. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

My stomach constricts. I feel the acid taste of vomit swelling in my throat. I heave but nothing comes out. I heave and heave. Nothing. I’m forced to swallow the vile liquid stuck in my throat.

Three additional sacrifices are offered in the same manner. One more boy and two petite girls. Are they small because the drought is long and food is scarce? All have been in the 5 to 10 year old range. The crowd has grown quiet. I wonder, is the carnage finished? I hope it is. I pray it is.

Everyone, the people, the priest looks my way. No. They are looking next to me at a family, couple and an infant, kneeling beside me. They stand up. Oh god, No! The infant is a ginger, a redhead with light, almost white skin. I am surprised. I didn’t know gingers existed in the Aztec universe. The mother places the child against her chest, the smiling cherub peers at me over the shoulder.

Holy Fuck! The infant is the spitting image of my childhood photos down to the cornflower, blue eyes. It looks exactly like me. Wait…No, no, NO! It doesn’t just look like me. It IS me. I am an Aztec infant about to be sacrificed. I don’t want to die. Hold on. Hold on! This can’t be me. I’m alive now. If I was killed, I couldn’t be alive. But Grandfather did say I had blood ties in the ancient New World. Could this be an ancestor? He also said I have many destinies. Could he be one of my manifestations? Is it a he or a she? too young to tell. Or did Grandfather say I have had many destinies? Or was the conversation about destinies past and future? I can’t recall.

The infant is outstretched on the altar. The parents are stoic. Are they drugged? Why aren’t they in agony? I would be fighting tooth and claw to prevent the pending insanity. Why aren’t they crying? How can they let this mad priest sacrifice their child to some mythological being and actually believe it will bring rain? This is fucked up. They are all brainwashed. I try to get up and stop the madness but the roots I have set won’t break free.

The instant the knife hits the child, I feel a stabbing pain in my chest like I am also being sliced open. I grab at the point of pain. My hand is instantly covered in warm pulsing blood. The priest pulls out the heart. I collapse to the ground, sense a void in my chest. He raises the organ to the heavens and the cloudless sky opens releasing a deluge. Rain from a cloudless sky?

The people leap to their feet, arms reaching to the skies shouting quiyahuitl, rain, and, Tlaloc, Tlaloc, Tlaloc. Puma pushes against the cage. The slats bulge. A loud thunderclap echoes, the slats splinter. Puma squeezes through. Miztli is free. The priest raises the ax and severs the infant’s head. Not even Christ had to suffer such an indignity.

The ground is too hard to absorb the water. The deluge becomes a flood, a land river. a mile wide and inches deep. My vision fades to a tunnel, a shrinking tunnel. I can’t move. My body rises with the swelling water, floats with the stream. What happened to my roots? A shadow hovers over me. Teeth grip my neck with just enough force to control my movement while not breaking the skin. I am being pulled. Am I going to be eaten? My vision goes black.

The River Cave

I come to consciousness in a cave. No idea how long I’ve been unconscious. My legs lay in a shallow rivulet. I sweep my mouth. No gold coin. I’m not dead. This is not the river Styx or maybe it is and Charon is waiting in the wings for death to complete its task then ferry me across.

“No, David. You are not dead.”

A voice? Who is talking to me? I look around. There is only Puma and me. It must be Puma that’s talking. I should be surprised but am not. I’ve experienced enough mysteries in the spirit world in the past year or so, an ancient ghost Grandfather, a talking Rattlesnake, a talking Gecko. And who knows how many spirits I failed to recognize. I seriously doubt anything can surprise me anymore. I don’t want to be rude here. “What shall I call you?”

“You may call me Puma or Cougar or Miztli whichever. You don’t really need to call me anything. We can easily communicate with our spirit minds. Words are unnecessary.” Puma is sitting stoically exuding the regal air of royalty.

“Spirit mind? I have a spirit mind? That means I am a spirit? Doesn’t that mean I am dead?”

“You have died many times. In this moment, you are alive. I can’t speak for future moments.”

“Alive in the earthly sense?”

“Yes, alive in the earthly sense. You are a living human being.”

“If it is all the same with you, I prefer we talk with words. I don’t want you wandering inside my mind. Hell, I get uncomfortable wandering inside my mind. I wouldn’t want to put that suffering on you.”

“As you wish. I will stay out of your mind. I, however, may revert to spirit mind. I have trouble correctly pronouncing words in your language. Thoughts are easier because they live outside the restricted confines of language.”

I stand up, move to higher ground, shake the water off my hiking boots. I’m feeling chilled in the cave’s coolness. The water exacerbates the chill. “That’s fine by me. Are you the same Miztli I saw at Teotihuacán?”

“That I am.”

I pat my chest. There is no blood. No wet blood. No crunchy dried blood. No evidence I bled at all. I feel the rhythmic beating of my heart. “Why did you not talk to me then? I tried. You purposely avoided me.”

Puma’s long wheat gold tail flicks in time with our conversation.

“It was neither the time nor the place. The Wanderers abhor sharing their spirit world with Europeans. If I had communicated with you, they would have raised a ruckus. There’s no need to inflame their agony. Five hundred years trying and failing to move to the afterlife has a way of deepening a grudge. They hold a might big grudge against your kind.”

“I wasn’t them. I had no part in the armageddon inflicted on the Aztec empire.”

“In the eyes of the Wanderers, all of you are guilty, all of you carry the spilt blood of the Aztec in your wretched souls. If they had the ability, they would wage a holy war against you not stopping until every white in your world suffered a similar living hell, forever shut outside the door to your heaven.”

“Grandfather said my bloodline runs through the original inhabitants of the Americas. I am one of them.”

“You are and you are not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You will understand in good time. If not during your visit with me then during another of your destinies.”

“So, I have more destinies?”

“That was an assumption on my part. I am not a future seer like Grandfather.”

“Where are we?”

“We are in the Great Temple of Cholula.”

“I feared so. But, don’t you mean Great Pyramid?”

“To us, it is and always has been a temple. It is only you outsiders that call our temple a pyramid.”

“Why here? I don’t like being stuck in small places.”

“Had I left you outside, in your condition, you would have drowned.”

“Ya, but this is all imaginary existence.” Why can’t he comprehend simple logic? Is he a lesser spirit than Grandfather?

“If you died out there, you would also be dead in what you call ‘real life’ as well. Death does not distinguish between layers of existence. It merely collects.”

“What do you mean, my condition?”

“You were exiting consciousness. You and ancient baby you…”

“Shit! That was me? I thought it looked like. I didn’t think it actually was me.” Why did I lie? There’s no need. I saw into it’s…my…soul. I knew we were one.

“Yes. The two of you, all of the previous yous, current you, and future yous are interconnected by a diaphanous web. What happens in previous lives impacts the next life. And what happens in future lives ripples back altering past lives which, in turn, affects every future life. Neither the future nor the past is set in stone. The further events are separated the less the energy the ripple has to impart change. The distant ends are highly viscous, change is minimal but not null. Your current life is the locus with extremely low viscosity. Think of current you as flowing water history adjusting course with every experience.”

“And when the baby died?”

“When baby you died the two loci were dangerously close. Both were highly fluid. Baby you’s death was flowing into current you’s existence. You felt the pain in your chest. You were moving into unconsciousness and would have died with baby you. If not, then current you would have asphyxiated in the water. I intervened. By pulling you away, I separated the loci allowing both to assume their own destinies. By pulling current you to higher ground and this chamber, I prayed you would not drown before regaining consciousness before the rising waters also filled this chamber.”

“Prayed?”

“As I said, I don’t see into the future like Grandfather. I am here at his behest. His hand has helped guide you since the beginning.”

“Beginning? Beginning of what?”

“The beginning of the beginning. Grandfather is an original.”

“You mean a god?”

“Not a god. An intermediary between the gods and creation.”

“You said before the rising waters also filled this chamber?”

“Yes, the deluge started when baby you died is the storm to end all storms. It is unleashing more water than this land has seen in the combined past twenty-three years.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Not possible. The rising waters have already blocked the exits.”

“Then we are going to drown?”

“Not necessarily. Grandfather said, when the time is right, a way will appear. I trust the ancient’s wisdom.”

“So we wait?”

“Yes. We wait. There are no other options.”

Fixated on the conversation, I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. The water is now calf deep. Miztli leaps to a higher ledge with an elegance a prima ballerina could never muster. The tail still slowly flicking from side to side, a metronome keeping time. Time for what?

Conversation exhausted, for now, we dwell in silence. I hear the burble of water flowing over submerged rocks, the plink, plunk of water falling from the ceiling into the pool that is quickly swelling. I am now knee deep. I look for an escape route. There is one low tunnel mostly filled with water, an inlet filling our chamber. Probably the one Miztli dragged me through. I realize there are no lamps on the wall, no overhead holes for outside light to filter in. I wonder out loud, “How the hell am I able to see? And why am I seeing everything in monochrome?”

“David, I am allowing you to see through my eyes. I figured your fear would spiral out of control if you could only see blackness.”

“Very true. Drowning while stuck in a cave is, like, my ultimate nightmare, so, thank you.”

“What is the light cloud I see around you?”

“When you see in color you see the physical person. Monochromatic vision allows one to also perceive a soul. A light cloud indicates a kind aura. A dark gray is the other end of the kind evil spectrum.”

The inflow from the tunnel increases in pressure. The water rises faster. It moves from knee deep to chest deep in a matter of minutes. Puma leaps to the last visible ledge, one so close to the ceiling he or she must move into a crouched pounce position to fit. The tail flicks noticeably faster. His tension is also increasing.

“Miztli, are you male or female?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I am male and female and third gender.”

I would purse the line further but the water has risen to my chin. I tippy toe and angle my head up for the last space of air. Miztli is getting wet too. Half his body is submerged. What to do? What to do? There’s nothing I can do. I’m losing balance in the rising water, I lean against the wall to steady myself. It feels flimsy. I push harder. It flexes ever so slightly. Another, more forceful push, a stone gives way and falls through. The water flows through knocking other stones loose. The hole widens.

“This is our escape,” Miztli says. “When this wall crumbles we will be caught in the torrent. Grab onto my tail with both hands and don’t let go. Let go and you will end.”

“What about you? You could drown, too.”

“I’m spirit. I’ll be ok. I’m not so sure about you. You better grab onto my tail now. The wall will collapse momentarily.”

I grab onto Miztli’s tail. It is softer than I expect and smaller in diameter. Holding onto it is difficult. It begins slipping. I loop it around in a circle tight enough to fit my hands. Miztli screams. Too late to redo my grip. The wall collapses and we are sucked through into a vortex. For one of the few times in my life, I am going with the flow.

Underground River

We are helpless in the rushing torrent. I cannot see, cannot control my body. I reassert my death grip on Miztli’s tail holding as if my life depends upon it because it does. Hopefully, the tail won’t break leaving me careening and bouncing my head off any submerged rocks or the rock walls. We twist and turn with the bends in the frigid river.

I am unsure if Miztli is directing us or has submitted to River intelligence taking us where we are supposed…are destined…to go. Which of my destiny lines are we traveling? Is it my line or Miztli’s line? Could this be an overlap of destinies? Are we on parallel destinies? If so, how long until we separate? I hope it is not until this crazy underground river journey comes to a peaceful end and I can lay under a warm sun to dry off.

Oomph! Damn rocks! I crash into and bounce off another something. Thankfully, most collisions are with surfaces softer than rock. Does that mean we have passed the boundaries of the pyramid? I want to open my eyes but worry the debris hitting my face will slice open my eyeballs. Unforgiving surfaces slam into me causing pain winces. I almost lose my tenuous grip on the tail. Is this what it feels like to go over a waterfall in a barrel? So far, none of the surfaces have felt sharp enough to pierce my flesh. But, I am so disoriented, so pumped with adrenaline I might not feel a gash, might not feel a severed limb.

We have been under for minutes? Longer? I can’t determine the duration. Time has lost meaning. How am I still conscious? I can’t have been under too long. My lungs are not burning from lack of oxygen. Then again, in this messed up between world, oxygen may be irrelevant. Am I spirit? Am I live? Am I Memorex?

The water grows warmer. Tropical. Red shadows play on my eyelids. Why aren’t we stopping? We’re not even slowing down. This would be a fun slip and slide if I were not so terrified. The water cools again, becomes uncomfortably chilly. Darkness embraces me. We slow down. There is smooth gravel beneath me, rocks worn by incessant water polishing their souls. Puma drags me onto a pebbly shore.

“David. You can open your eyes now and let go of my tail.”

I drop the tail. My hands are numb, legs wobbly. I ache all over from the rough and tumble ride. “Ok.” I open my eyes. I think I open my eyes. It’s black as pitch. “I can’t see anything.”

“Ah, yes. Human eyes. I will again allow you to see through mine.”

I pull myself to a sitting position, allow my vision to focus. “I…I can see now. I don’t think I will ever grow used to this monochromatic sight. It’s good for photography when I can adjust for colors but, real life, there aren’t any adjustment knobs. Where are we?”

“We are in a large cave system made by the river running at our feet.”

I smell a whisper of fresh air on the dank odor of the cave. The exit mustn’t be too far ahead. We are on a sandbar, no, a pebble bar. I stand, marveling at the great expanse of the cave’s interior. There are stalactites hanging from the ceiling, stalagmites growing from the floor. There are pillars where the two met. This must be an ancient cave. I cross an ankle-deep rivulet. The flowing water deposits tiny stones in my boots which work their way to the inner sole. I gingerly walk to a ledge along the wall, take a seat, and shake out my boots. There is something familiar about this cave. An undercurrent of fragrance I recognize. But from where?

Yum Kaax, the Maize God

It is then I see the Mayan fetish carved into the cave wall, the one my wife and I saw on our first trip to Belize. I wonder, is it Yum Kaax, the Maize god? We were in the jungle on a tubing trip inside a river caving system. It was the terminus of our route. The place we ate our lunch before the inner tube float back to the cave entryway. The guide told us the history of the fetish, how some Mayans sacrificed their firstborn under the belief their fecundity would soar resulting in the births of many additional children. Sacrifice the one for the many. If we waited here long enough, there was bound to be a tour group and I would be rescued. Did I need to be rescued? Are we really in the cave?

“Miztli, where are we?”

“We are in Yucatan.”

“Yucatan as in southern México?”

“In my world, there is no delineation by country. There is only mother Earth. To orient you, we are in the land you call Belize.”

A hear voices heading our way, voices and the splish splash of a paddle dipping in water. The rocks bounce sound carrying it quickly in these caves. I listen closely to the words. They are not Spanish or any other language I recognize.

“Miztli, what language are those people speaking?”

“They are speaking K’iche’, one of the Mayan languages.”

“Do you speak k’iche’?”

“As I told you, I am spirit. I have no need of language.”

I think I may have asked Miztli the wrong question. It is not where that is important. “Miztli, when are we?”

“We are in the time before the invasion of the Americas.”

“Is this before or after the sacrifices outside Cholula?”

“It is hard to say. Time in the spirit world is nonlinear. Before and after are irrelevant concepts. We exist at all points in time. I can’t accurately say if we are before or after Cholula. To me, they are the same time.”

I can see a halo from a torch bouncing off the cave walls and ceiling. The rhythmical splish splash of the oar grows louder, the voices clearer. Correction. The voice clearer. Only one person is speaking. The voice sings a repetition of sounds as if…as if…chanting?

A shallow dugout canoe paddled by a man slides onto the gently sloping sand and pebble shore. They are all standing in the canoe. How do they maintain balance with such ease? The chanter, who would turn out to be a priest, has a dark aura and stands in the front, the paddler, in the middle, and the woman in the rear both emit mid tone auras. I guess they, like most, beings are a mixture of good and bad.

The priest wears a plumed headdress of orange feathers standing in a half moon, vertical halo. Green feathers extended backward reminding me of a high knotted ponytail. He carries a staff. The top is carved into an animal, a demented jaguar or some other totem fetish I can’t figure out. A gold and turquoise pendant attached to what looks to be a deer hide lanyard hangs around his neck resting in the middle of his chest. It is exquisitely blue and polished to a sheen.

The priest exists first followed by the man and the woman who first bends down to gather a bundle. Food, I hope but, based on my Cholula experience, fear otherwise. The evidence confirming my fears was soon plain. The bundle was surrounded by an aura so light it appeared white. There was an innocent in the mix.

The woman is wearing a just past the knee length white skirt with a deeply notches circling the hem. The notches stop just before a horizontal golden band. Red lines crosshatch the dress forming a diamond pattern. He is in a white kilt with a red band just below the waist.

All three have strong Mayan noses, Roman in profile, tattoos. They are short by Western standards. The priest has raven’s whiskers tattooed on his face. The men are around five and a half feet, the woman under five. When they speak, they reveal teeth filed to points. It looks like two rows of jagged mountains with the peaks touching. Even in the torchlight, the whiteness is astounding.

The priest builds a fire. They must have brought the wood in the boat for there is no timber in the cave. The woman places the bundle on the natural rock shelf. There are corn stalks, ears of corn, and a baby, a very young baby. She picks him up. When she turns toward the fire, I realize he, too looks like me. I assume also a ginger but can’t tell in this colorblind state. Not again! But it may not even be me. I need to know so I inch closer. They are oblivious to my presence. I move closer yet for a better look. The torch throws a nimbus around the baby’s head. Shit! It is the spitting image of me. I twirl toward Miztli.

“Yes, David. This firstborn is you.”

“Firstborn? Wasn’t I also a first born in Cholula?”

“You have always been a firstborn, David.”

Another sacrifice? To what fucked up purpose? Absurd attempts to bend the gods wills to human wills? Assinine attempts to appease omnipotent deities? Are they to brainwashed to comprehend with omnipotence comes anything the god’s want? There is no need to trade a current life for rain or the potential for future children. Madness, all this, madness. Is ancient baby me nothing more than an oblation to appease a hungry god? Were my sacrificed lives atonements for the sins of others? None of this is right nor makes any logical sense. Religion and sensibility? Antonyms. Mutually exclusive concepts people hold in their heads denying the impossibility of coexistence.

“How many times, Miztli? How many lives have been a child sacrifice?”

“These two you’ve seen. A few more I can see scattered through your many past human manifestations.”

“Why me? Why was I chosen for sacrifice?”

“For reasons, I don’t know for sure. One possiblitity, you always return to life as a ginger. In this land, in all lands, you are an anomaly, a blue eye ginger in an ocean of brown eye ravens. So it has been with gingers through the ages. The people either fear or revere the extremely different. Albinos suffer the same curse. The fearful sacrifice because they are worried, the oddity, if allowed to exist, will bring bad luck upon the people. Better to destroy than risk potential suffering. The reverent trade the choicest diamond for a promise of future blessings.”

The chanting increases in pitch and cadence. I don’t want to look but can’t keep my eyes from watching. The burning fire emits a lovely scent reminding me of countless glorious evenings sitting around a campfire seeing flame reflections in smiling eyes moist from laughter. This may ruin fires for me forever. The priest walks in a circle around the couple waving a censer burning what smells like sweet sage. I have not seen sage in Belize. It must be a trade good from Northern peoples.

“What is the priest saying?”

“The priest is calling on the gods to accept a blood and burnt offering of a first born and return many child blessings on the couple that their line may not disappear from Earth.”

“Craziness!”

“Who can know the minds of the creator gods? What you are witnessing is a corn people’s belief. When an ear of corn dies, the seeds are scattered resulting in many more plants and a bountiful next harvest.”

“I…the baby me…is not corn.”

“No, but life is life is life.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only the gods can create life. All lives are valuable in the gods’ eyes. All lives exist to feed on and be food. In the end, it is simply a circle.”

“There’s no purpose in this insanity.”

“You are blessed with luck.”

“How is it lucky to be sacrificed as an infant?”

“Not all souls find another vessel to inhabit. Many are stuck between. To use your concept, a soul purgatory. You have, so far, been spared the non-existence existence. You have always found a suitable vessel to carry you through the four life cycles described by Grandfather.”

“I remember. He said I was in the fourth cycle, the final cycle before liberation.”

“Few, relative to the population, progress as far as you have. Many get stuck in one cycle for eternity never learning enough to shift. By being sacrificed pure, your soul was given a choice for the next vessel.”

“A choice?”

“Yes, a choice. Those who die after the age when they understand right from wrong must atone for their sins, pay for their crimes against creation.”

“A kind of Karma?”

“Yes. The baby you being sacrificed chose the Aztec vessel sacrificed at Cholula. Both were sacrificed why still sinless allowing the choice of positive energy vessel making phase shifts more likely. The positives have greater knowledge and shift the phases more easily.”

“So, I was sacrificed in Belize followed by Cholula.”

“Time is nonlinear, sometimes circular, frequently erratic. It is just as likely you were sacrificed first in Cholula then Belize. In circular time, you were sacrificed in Cholula before and after Belize and in Belize before and after Cholula. In spirit time, both sacrifices occurred simultaneously.”

“Crazy!”

“Only crazy because you exist in physical life. When you finally finish the fourth phase, transcend to spirit, and exist at every point in time, it will make sense.”

“So I will transcend?”

Miztli smiles, whiskers twitch, says nothing.

“¿Miztli?”

“It is my understanding, you are on your way, that it is one of your possible destinies. Remember, only being a present, past seer, I can’ know for sure. But, Grandfather has given you special attention so I expect you will achieve spirit existence. Or Grandfather likes playing games meaning there is a distinct possibility you are stuck.”

“What is the stuck between, soul purgatory you mentioned?”

“All in good time, David.”

“Is not all time good, Miztli?”

“Yes.”

“Then now is a good a time as any so tell…aah!” A hot pain sears into my chest cavity.

The priest places the heart on top of the Mayan fetish then throws the still twitching corpse into the fire. My eyes burn as if touched by habanero oil. My skin sizzles. Puma grabs me and drags me into the river separating the life ripples between me and baby me from interfering with each other.

The water is thick, tastes of blood. Why couldn’t it be wine? I can’t breathe. Struggling, I grab Miztli by the nape to steady myself, find a way to the surface. A great surge as if a dam has burst slams into us breaking my hold on Miztli. I am thrown about like a rag doll, tumbling head over heels. Blackness engulfs me. I fear my premonitions, my reoccurring dreams that I’m fishing in still waters with my dad, have come true and I am dead again.

Isla de las Muñecas (Island of the Dolls)

After another long body numbing journey rendering me completely disoriented, I surge upward until I’m thrown clear of the waters and crash back down onto a muddy embankment. I lay still dappled by the sun filtering through verdant leaves in what appears to be a jungle. But where exactly am I? And what has happened to Miztli? I scan the area.

There are paths radiating from the pool. They are all too narrow to have been made by humans, probably the natural outcome of small animals sneaking in for water under cover of night. I pick the one lined with the most colorful flowers to explore. I’m thankful for the return of color vision for I love being bedazzled by colors. But wish I still had the ability to detect a person’s aura. I don’t know who I will encounter wherever I am. Knowing if they are bent toward good or evil would be helpful in choosing to trust or flee.

The foliage is canopied 3 feet over the trail. Too low for me without crawling. I force my way through suffering the slapping of tree branches and small cuts on my legs, face, and arms. The sound of scampering feet is in front of me. They stop then start when I get near moving off a short distance. The leaves prevent me from seeing what type of animal I’m spooking. Strange that it would not just flee far, far away. I fight the attacking branches for another fifteen sweaty minutes before breaking into a clearing nearly devoid of leaves. I drop to my knees and plant my head on the cool ground. Oh, that feels good. But it smells musty.

When the coolness of earth seeps into me, I right myself to a kneeling position which doesn’t last long because my knees ache when deeply bent. It’s painful to raise myself from a squat. I grab a thin tree using it to pull myself into a standing position. When fully erect, I’m staring directly into the face of a weathered, plastic doll. It’s naked, bald, pink, and blue-eyed. The left leg is broken off at the knee leaving jagged plastic exposed.

I jump back. There are more. A black hair rag doll above, another plastic doll, headless lower on the tree. I whirl around almost falling in the process. There are dolls in all the trees. Some are tied, others nailed, still, others wedged between branches. Naked dolls. Clothed dolls. A spiderman doll. A construction worker doll. Stuffed animals, too. I want to run but every which way is blocked by this army of grungey dolls.

Doll Island

Doll Island

Doll Island

“Where the HELL am I?” I scream.

“David, you are at one of the Islas de las muñecas.”

“Miztli? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“We are outside the spirit realm. I’m only visible in the spirit realm.”

“This is real? This is sickening? How is it you can talk? Can you and see me?”

“I can see you.”

“What is this muñecas place?”

“Remember when I told you, you were lucky to find vessels so quickly?”

“Yes.”

“This island is filled with the souls not so lucky as you. This is their purgatory.”

“Purgatory as in the intermediate state after physical death where souls await expiatory purification?” I find it enjoyable showing off my school smarts.

“No. That is another case of organized religion usurping a spiritual state and applying their own irrelevant concepts in an erroneous attempt to explain.”

“Then, please explain it to me.”

“The beings you see here…”

“Beings…you mean they are not dolls?”

“Yes and no. The beings you see here are awaiting suitable conditions for their next birth.”

“This feels like an island of misfit toys.”

“Most are societal misfits. This island is populated primarily with those who committed evil in their previous lives. The vessels they have tried to enter rejected them. Those with a positive aura quickly find a new vessel. The evil must wait.”

“So, the vessels are not simply births yet to be?”

“Correct. Both the vessel and the soul are spirits. They combine to be a new being in birth. Each can reject the other. Vessels look for souls with a pure aura that will, hopefully, enable them to maintain their physical integrity outside senseless violence. Souls are less finicky. They prefer one of the few vessels likely to be born to a life of leisure but will settle for significantly less. You see, it is the soul that determines the goodness or badness of the birthed being. So, a bad soul will choose a substandard vessel with the ultimate goal of achieving power and wealth by whatever means it takes.”

“Freaky!”

“Some of the souls on this isla have, over time, deeply meditated on their ways and migrated away from evil toward goodness so there are some with lighter auras. They are few for a jaguar almost never changes their spots. They are more likely to combine with a vessel. Of course, some revert back to evil so the vessels are leary and play it safe. Some of the souls have dwelt here for ages.”

“Is Cortés here?”

“Yes, along with many of the marauding invaders.”

“And the dolls?”

“The dolls are put up by the locals to trap evil. The souls see the dolls then, thinking they are available vessels, crawl inside and wait for rebirth. If they were not waiting in the vessels they would scour the countrysides looking for a living vessel to steal. There are rare instances when stealing is possible.”

“There does not seem to be enough dolls on the island to hold the world’s evil.”

“This is one of many doll islands in México. Still, you are correct, there are not enough. Evil continually leaks into the physical world. If it’s not leaking then new evil is generating. The nefarious activities of humanity are never-ending. Just when we think America is on a positive path, racists of all colors ooze from their slime committing heinous acts.”

“Yes. I do live in a corrupt world.”

“Do not think you are immune. Every time you look the other way, every time you don’t speak up when you see a person being shamed, you are complicit in creating space for evil to flourish. You are part of the problem, David.”

Ok. This was getting uncomfortable. I knew I wasn’t perfect but am not in the mood to have it thrown in my face. Come to think of it, there’s never a time when I like my foibles given voice. I need to smoothly change the topic. “How do the locals know to put up the dolls?”

“In days long past, there were powerful empaths with insights into the spirit world. They placed straw dolls to fool the souls. There are very few powerful empaths living today but the custom has become deeply rooted and the locals continue the tradition believing the dolls have the power to trap ghosts. The souls are not actually trapped, just fooled into believing birth is imminent. They don’t leave for fear they won’t find another vessel willing to accept them.”

“Why do all souls congregate here?”

“They do not. It’s common practice to put dolls out in yards, on verandas, in windows to catch the ghosts. When they believe one has been caught, the dolls are brought here because souls are unable to cross the water.”

“That’s a silly superstition.”

“No. It is true. The souls are incompatible with water. Once here or any of the islas, they are stuck until they encounter a vessel or hitch a ride on a living empath.”

“I guess, I can’t see the auras because I’m not an empath?”

“Almost correct. You are weak in your empathic abilities, still, stronger than most.”

“Hmmm…you’ve had me in spirit realms twice today. Why can’t you help me see these?”

“I can.”

“But you won’t.”

“This place is laden with evil. Seeing strong evil even in aura form has a way of damaging the human psyche. I’m not sure you have strength enough to protect yourself.”

“I want to try. If I feel any discomfort whatsoever I’ll shut my eyes and you can disconnect from me.”

“I warn you, the damage inflicted can come quick.”

“You will be inside my head. You can use your attuned spirit to protect me.”

“Ok. As you wish. Close our eyes.”

“Close them? But I want to see.”

“Once I have bridged our minds, you may open them. It is easier if you’re not distracted.”

“Gotcha, boss.” I close my eyes and wait one minute, two minutes. I feel nothing. Was Miztli messing with me?

“No, I am not. Open them slowly and remember, if anything feels out of place, slam them shut.”

I open them a sliver but am unable to make out anything beyond the blur of my eyelashes. Fuck it. I open them wide. Color is gone. That’s still a freaky feeling. The dolls have auras. All of them are deep black, black so black all light is absorbed. It feels like my energy is being siphoned out of my body. I become light-headed. I grab onto a tree to keep from falling and close my eyes until balance is restored.”

“Are you ok, David?”

“Um…sure…I’m ok.”

“I reopen my eyes and look around.” They black auras seem to be energized, little sparks light them up. The dolls start moving. “Miztli, the dolls…”

“What about the dolls?”

“They…they are moving.”

“They’re moving. How are they moving?”

“They all turn their heads, the ones that have heads, the ones with eyes are staring at me. I’m getting scared.”

“David, quickly close your eyes.”

I try to shut them but they are stuck like they are propped open with little sticks as in the old cartoons. “I can’t. I CAN’T”

“I’m disengaging from you. Hold on a moment. There. We are separate again.”

I feel a pop like when a wine cork is freed from the bottle. “Um…I can see color and I can see the auras. How can I see both? I thought you said that was not possible.”

Miztli paces frantically keeping himself between me and the closest dolls. “I said it was only possible for very strong empaths. This is not good. Worse. This is bad. You must be stronger than I believed possible.”

“Miztli, the dolls are climbing down from the trees. A couple are hobbling. One without legs is crawling. They are coming toward me!” A zombie apocalypse of dolls is coming for me. Are the flesh eaters? Are they soul eaters? What happens to a soul eaten by evil zombie dolls? Would I too become evil? Would I be stuck on this island until finding a suitable vessel?

Escape

“Listen closely. There must be more to your spirit than I am able to sense. Whatever it is, it has disturbed the souls. They, in turn, have animated the dolls. The only explanation is they see you as a way off this island.”

“Shit!”

“When I tell you, you need to run as fast as possible back to the pool through which we entered. Don’t look back. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or feel. You got that?”

“Y…yes.”

“Dive into the pool and swim down the throat as far as possible. You will come to a lip. Swim horizontally beneath the island until you are past the edge. Then swim upward angled away from the island. You will pop up in the waterways of Xochimilco. There are many boats traveling the canals. One of them will surely take you in.”

“What about you? I can’t leave you behind.”

“I will keep the dolls from following you. I’m spirit not physical. They can’t hurt me. I’ll be ok.”

I run back along the path I took to the clearing. It is easier this time with the branches I broke on the way in. Still, running is a challenge. Roooaarrrr. Miztli is screaming. Is it pain or a diversion. I want to go back and help but She said not to. There are black auras in my peripheral vision. They are coming. How fast can they move? Roooaarrrr. I can’t wait to find out and run faster and longer than I have since my soccer playing days. When I think I can’t take another step the forest clears.

I’m at the pond. My hiking boots won’t do for swimming. I squat and fumble finger the laces until I can kick the boots off. I hate to lose these. The plants are rustling. I consider removing my pants but half nakedness will be hard to explain to anyone rescuing me. The pond is not wide, about my body length. I dove in shallow water as a kid and hit bottom. I was lucky not to break my neck. I dive in. No resistance. I’m in the throat. I should be safe now but can’t be sure. The adrenaline is in high gear driving me into the dark depths.

I cannot see. Navigation requires reaching out to the wall and feeling for the lip. I’m not a strong swimmer. I don’t know how long I can hold out. The wall ends. I turn left and kick like a mad man probing the top with my fingers searching for the end. The bottom of the island is not smooth like the throat through which I descended. Something sharp slices into a finger. I pray its only exposed tree roots and not a colony of snaggle tooth critters with a hankering for warm flesh. I use quick slaps with my knuckles to test if I’m still under the island. The first time, I hit nothing I angle 45 degrees and shoot for the surface.

My lungs are burning. I need oxygen. How much further? Is it possible to die without sucking in lungs full of water? If I don’t breathe will I pass out then float to the surface? No. I will probably inhale and drown. My mind starts fading. I kick frantically, pump my arms doing my best to claw my way to the surface. I break through and suck in fresh air too fast. My mind sees black spots. After that, things get hazy.

I vaguely remember someone calling, “Señor! Señor! ¿Necesitas ayuda?”

I think ayuda means help. “Sí. Sí.” I respond. I am pulled into a colorful boat and throw up before passing out.

Cholula Pyramid

“David.” The voice sounds muffled as if my ears are under water. But, I’m dry. I’m laying on my back on a very hard, uneven surface. The horizon is dimming to red. I don’t smell any water.

Sunset From Cholula Pyramid

Cholula Pyramid Stairs

“What are you doing in there, David? That area is off limits. Didn’t you see the fence?”

I pull myself to a sitting position. Look around. I’m outside Cholula. Cholula? And I’m on the mini-pyramid where the kids…where young David and the kids…were sacrificed to bring rain. How did I get here?

“David. You need to get out of there. It’s off limits. Get out before security throws you out and we all have to leave. I want to see the rest of the temple grounds.

“Uh…Ok.” My boots are next to me. I pull them on, lace ’em up, tie ’em snug. It’s much easier when terror is not running through the fingers. I hop off the pyramid, walk over to my wife and our friends.

“How did you get out here ahead of us? I didn’t see you pass us in the tunnel.”

“I took a different way, the uphill tunnel we saw.” A half-truth. To tell her the whole truth would be received as a full lie. To tell her I had another spirit world experience would do nothing more than raise her ire. I was able to talk her out of an MRI last time. The thought of being in one of those machines is scary. I doubt I could talk her out of it again. She thinks I have cancer.

“But that was gated.”

“The gate wasn’t locked so I took a side excursion.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She’s not good at hiding her feelings. I can see the annoyance in her knitted brow. We are with friends so nothing will be discussed now. She smiles and we continue our excursion.

What’s Next?

The trip did not end here. We visited another Pyramid, spent time walking the Puebla Zocalo. It’s a beautiful, relaxed city. But there was not a sign of Miztli anywhere.

Puebla Street

Puebla Cathedral

Puebla Cathedral

Sign in Puebla Zocalo

Door

Doors

Street: Cinco de Mayo

Yellow Building

Me Against a Wall in Puebla

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Pyramid

Pyramide

View from Pyramid

View Up Pyramid

Pyramid & Clouds

Pyramid Stairway

Excavated Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Cinco de Mayo Square

Cinco de Mayo Square

I spent those last days lost. My last experiences in the spirit world concluded with a foretelling of a next step in my destiny of destinies. When I first met, Grandfather in New Mexico, he foretold of a trip to the Philippines. There I met Tukó who informed me I was on a vision quest. When I returned to New Mexico, Grandfather foretold the vision quest would continue with a trip to  New Mexico where I would meet Puma. Puma, though, told me nothing about my future. True, he said he was a past seer, not a future seer so would not have the future sight. So, I wonder, is this the end of my vision quest?

“Rooaar.”

    Puma & Pirámides in Old México This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts.

#Aztec #Maya #Puma #sacrifice