#cover up because the sun's a basta--

[spidermilkshake]

They're a-goin'.   Finally a chance to represent what Gerudo dress like when they're actually getting out of the house and out from under protective awnings and such. That's one of the most bafflingly unrealistic (and irritating) aspects of the Gerudo that didn't get improved (and in fact got... uh... worsened?) in BoTW. Where limitations of polygons are no longer an excuse. XD You do not go around, work, travel, or in general spend more than a half hour outside in an actual desert region... in a half-length sirwal and a cropped top. No no no. At that point, the veil thing is pointless (except as a reference to racist, awful "harem fantasies" by outsiders to middle-eastern and south asian cultures). So I've upgraded these tall peeps. Showed them in what they'd more likely opt for in a desert for reasons of not dying of heatstroke or hypothermia, or having your skin crisp right off in harsh sun, or getting choked by sand being blown up your schnozz. Also, some armor, because a Gerudo's always ready to go ham. I dunno who's gonna be ready to assault three 7-foot plus super-muscular Amazon-esque people on horses just as proportionally gigantic? Eh, could happen. Some people ain't bright. XD

#gerudo #gerudo culture #ganondorf #young ganondorf #horses #horsemanship #desert #digital media #warriors #legend of zelda #ocarina of time #oot #loz #cover up because the sun's a basta--

[sciatu]

CANTASTORIE SICILIANI - Quando un cantastorie arrivò nel paese natio del bandito Giuliano, un parente di chi lo aveva ucciso gli si avvicinò e gli disse che se avesse cantato la Storia di Giuliano, gli avrebbe sparato. Il cantastorie salì sul palco e cantò la Storia della morte del Bandito Giuliano. Quando gli chiesero perché avesse cantato quella canzone, in quel paese, malgrado la minaccia, rispose che anche sparando alla verità, lei non muore.

When a storyteller arrived in the home town of the bandit Giuliano, a relative of the man who had killed the famous bandit approached him and told him that if he sang Giuliano's Story, he would shoot him. The storyteller went on stage and sang the History of the death of the Bandit Giuliano. When asked why he had sung that song, in that village, despite the threat, he replied that even by shooting the truth, she does not die.

CANZONE PER UN BLOG PIXELLATO (censurato?)

Sei finita così, bandita a vita ed ora malgrado la tua gran lotta sei ormai una persona sgradita bollata a vita come mignotta

Tutto perchè tra sesso e amore tu non fai mai troppa differenza dai ad entrambi lo stesso valore tanto che non puoi più farne senza

Lesbica o puttana ormai non conta per chi decide chi devi amare troppe volte hai avuto poi l’onta che con la tua testa vuoi pensare

Sei ormai una diversa a vita qualcuno che vive quello che sente che sceglie la sua strada preferita e di quanto è neanche poi si pente

Cosi gli angeli della decenza son venuti seri a censurare come i santi dovrai fare senza basta mostrar tette e fornicare

Ma ricorda che la vita è tua di farisei è pieno l’inferno alle donnacce nella vita sua Gesù dava il perdono eterno

Perciò, forza, ribellati pure al comune malefico pensiero basta con i timori e le paure basta con chi non è mai sincero

combatti forza la tua gran guerra urla che non sarai mai una santa sia la libertà di questa terra sia la tua voce quella che la canta

Se le macchine devon giudicare allora il mondo è sul finire chi giudica senza saper amare tutti quanti manderà a morire

Ribellati alla stupidità difendi quanto e come sai amare difendi la tua santa diversità la libertà di essere e sbagliare

Tutti sono pronti a giudicare tutti sono pronti a proibire ma tu non ti devi mai far fregare e grida forte quello che vuoi dire

La verità sai è come il sole possono negarla e oscurarla ma per quanto la copri con parole non riesci mai a sotterrarla

You ended up like this, banned for life and now, despite your great struggle, you're now an unwelcome person, branded for life as a whore All because between sex and love, you never make too much difference, you give them both the same value, so much so that you can't do without them Lesbian or whore doesn't count, for those who decide who you have to love too many times you've had the shame, that with your head you want to think You are now a different person for life, someone who lives what he feels chooses his favorite path and how much he is not even repenting Thus the angels of decency have come to censure as the saints will have to do without just showing boobs and fornicating But remember that life is yours, hell is full of Pharisees, to whores in his life Jesus gave eternal forgiveness Therefore, strength, even rebelled against the common evil thought is enough with fears and fears enough with those who are never sincere fight strength your great war screams that you will never be a saint let the freedom of this land be your voice that sings it If the machines are to judge then the world is at the end whoever judges without knowing how to love everyone will send to die Rebel against stupidity, defend what you know and how to love, defend your holy diversity, the freedom to be and make mistakes Everyone is ready to judge, everyone is ready to forbid, but you never have to be fooled, and shout out loud what you want to say.  The truth you know is like the sun, they can deny it and obscure it, but as you cover it with words, you can never bury it

#Sicilia #Sicily #cantastorie #Rachele

[catsundercherryblossoms]

|Ch. 11: More Than Meets The Eye| Her Forgotten Past //Attack on Titan fan fiction//

If I had a dime for every time these people asked me, 'Why are you here?'. Well, let's just say I'd be able to afford living in the King's palace.

Ah, here comes another one.

"So... it's pretty clear why Eren's here. The poor thing..." A girl with ginger hair said to me. We rode our horses side by side. "I don't mean to sound rude, but I'm kind of clueless as to why you're here? Sorry. Please don't think I'm—"

"No, it's fine." I said, plastering on a smile for her sake. Introductions were the last thing I felt like doing. But I had no other choice. Why? Well, it seems Corporal Levi told his whole squad about Eren, but completely left me out of the picture. And I have a feeling it's not a matter of forgetfulness. But be that as it may, I will try to be on good terms with his squad, even if the Corporal himself has something against me.

What a jerk... I thought, sneaking a glare as he rode ahead, leading the way.

I went back to answering her question. "I'm here because I have no citizenship. It was as much of a surprise to me as it was to others, let me tell you." I said with a dry chuckle. I then nodded towards the Corporal half-heartedly. "But Humanity's Strongest over here saved the day. Now I'm under custody of the Survey Corps..."

"Wow, Corporal Levi made that happen?" The ginger said. A professional type of admiration shone in her eyes. I could tell she'd been serving in his squad for years now. Actually, all four of Squad Levi's members were very tight-knit. I don't know precisely how to explain it, but maybe it was the glimmer in their eyes whenever they spoke to each other. Familiarity... warmth... like they'd known each other since the beginning of time.

"Its a surprise to hear that. I don't know if you've noticed, but... he's not the charming kind of person. You'll be lucky to even get a handshake on the first meeting. But for him to step in and make such a decision for a complete stranger like you..." she looked at me with child-like curiosity. "I wonder what he sees in you."

Ha. No offense to this girl, I think she's sweet and all, but I'm not taking this bullcrap.

"Yeah, romanticize it all you want. He thinks I might be from outside the walls, which in his eyes makes me a threat. Or... I think that's what he thinks. To be honest, I sometimes wonder if it's all a cover-up." I squinted and stared at the back of Corporal Levi's head from a distance, thoughtful. "Why not gather every single person without citizenship and put them under the Survey Corps' custody? You know, since he's so generous..."

"Hm, you're right. It doesn't add up." She said and smiled cheekily. "Oh! I love mysteries like this! How about we get to the bottom of this together, hm? You seem like a nice, honest person. Let's be friends! Plus, it's great to finally have another girl around." She said. The sincerity in her honey-brown eyes was impossible to refuse. "So, what's your name?"

"Johanna Archer. And you?" I said and shook her hand.

"Petra Ral." She said with a beam.

"We're here." Corporal Levi announced, his voice sucking the joy out of the atmosphere like always.

The trees cleared to reveal a beautiful estate with tower-like structures. A castle, maybe? Moss covered the walls and vines creeped up the front door, a sign that nature had claimed this place already. I even saw a few spiders clustered on the overhanging of the balcony.

That's going to be a problem.

I shuddered and dismounted my horse.

"When was this place last inhabited?" I asked, busy taking in the sight. 

"Beats me. It's probably older than all of us put together." A voice I knew all too well said.

Eren, of course.

As we lead our horses into the stables, I finally took a good look at his face. I didn't get the chance to check on him during the journey since he maintained himself always at the front, on behalf of Corporal Levi's orders. The results of spending day after day in a cell could be seen in his complexion. Although I must admit, he looked better now that he had soaked up the sun. So I guess that's progress.

And yet... an underlying stress and thinness pulled his features down. Sure, he could try all he wanted to mask it with a smile. Maybe it worked on the members of Squad Levi. But it didn't work on me.

"Um... is there something in my teeth?" Eren asked.

I hadn't realized I was staring that long. Idiot. "No, nothing." I pried my gaze away and shut the gate to the stall. Eren gave his horse a farewell pat on the muzzle and followed behind me. "It's just... You should eat something." I said, trying to sound casual.

Eren's face was one of surprise. But that surprise quickly turned to slyness and he smirked. "Unbelievable... Is the cold, no-nonsense Johanna actually worried about me? Me?" He then finished with a fake gasp.

I swear, I could just smack him sometimes... but I couldn't help the smile forming on my face. "Don't let it get to your head." I snapped, quickening my pace. I didn't have to look back to know he was smiling warmly. Soon we were walking at the same pace again, this time closer, our arms almost brushing together.

Okay, why was I focusing on that? I never focus on dumb little details like those.

What he said came back to me in rippling thoughts.

"You don't think I'm... cold. Do you?" I asked. Keep it casual, keep it casual... not that I really care what he thinks.

"Well, at the beginning of training, yes. You're not the best at first impressions." Under the sun, his eyes glinted like emeralds. "Heh... I start to hurt just remembering that time we sparred together. You really made it personal."

I half-smiled. Fifteen year-old Johanna was a real sociopath...

"But I've gotten to know you better... and I realize now that there's more than meets the eye." He said. The summer heat tinged his cheeks red. Or at least, I assumed it was the heat.

I snuck one more glance at him, but quickly broke the connection between his eyes and my own, choosing to smile down at my feet. Weird... a foreign feeling coursed through me. God knows I've never felt like this before. All warm, stupid, and... fuzzy.

"Oi! You two. What the hell took you brats so long?"

Corporal Levi stood at the front of the castle, it's doors wide open behind him with some of the cobwebs cleared away. He held a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. His usually passive face was now stiff with irritation. Geez... doesn't he know stress causes wrinkles?

I pointed a thumb over my shoulder. "We were at the stables—"

"I don't want excuses or explanations, rookie."

I blinked in confusion. "But you asked—"

"Enough. Not only will you mop the second floor, but you will also scrub the windows as punishment for smart-talking your superior." He said severely, and he tossed us our cleaning tools. I caught the broom and Eren caught the mop. He turned away sharply, walking back inside the castle. "Get to it."

* * *

"He's the devil, Eren, I'm telling you." I dipped the sponge into the soap bucket, practically punching the water.

Eren chuckled at my violent cleaning style. He shook his head lightly and continued mopping the same floor for the fourth time. "I'm pretty sure that's offensive to the devil."

As mad as I was, his comment made me smile.

We were on the third level of the castle, in a decent sized room with plenty of sunlight, cleaning the freaking life out of every corner and crevice. See the thing is, this room is the one Corporal Levi chose to be his personal office. And of course... he gave the job of cleaning it to the rookies. Lucky us, eh? I mean, I get it. This will soon be his personal area where he'll keep all of his shit and probably sleep in. But still... I don't think I've ever met someone so damn meticulous. Every time we reported our job-well-done he would come back and find a speck of dust or dirt in the tiniest of spaces. He'd scold us and order us to clean the whole room from top to bottom... All. Over. Again.

This is the seventh time I've cleaned these windows. I'm starting to lose hope. We'll probably never live up to his impossible standards.

"But seriously..." Eren said, now mopping the space right behind me. "You don't actually hate the Corporal, do you?"

"Its getting to that point." I climbed up the ladder, my legs tired from going up and down just to soak the sponge. I scrubbed the windows angrily. Any harder and I would break the glass. "I mean, I understand why you glorify him. Mikasa told me you've been invested in the Survey Corps since you were a kid. He's your idol. But don't you think—"

"Hm, nice view."

I broke my train of thought and looked out the window, raising a brow. "What are you talking about? It's just grass and trees..."

Wait a minute.

I looked down and saw what he was actually staring at.

My ass.

"Eren!" I exclaimed, swatting him away with the sponge. He laughed. It was easy for him to avoid my hits, since I was so up high and he had the advantage of being below. Droplets fell from the sponge and landed on him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He said, trying to calm his laughter. He went back to mopping, keeping his eyes glued to the floorboards this time.

The nerve... I tried to reduce the blush on my face by focusing on the windows again. But my thoughts betrayed me. Nice view, huh? Did he really— Wait— no! Stop it, Johanna...

"Anyways, you were saying?"

"What? Oh." I snapped out of it. Corporal Levi's face popped into my mind and I returned to being petty. I huffed and continued scrubbing. "Its just... I signed up to kill titans. Not to become some damn housewife... That basta- aAAH!!"

A spider was suddenly in my face, dangling from the ceiling by its silky string. I lurched back and lost my footing. The ladder— the object which my life depended on— was replaced by air. I shut my eyes and braced myself for the incoming floor.

Something caught me mid-fall. Arms? I gave a little yelp, clinging to this so-called knight-in-shining-armor.

Wait... the only person in this room besides me is...

I opened my eyes and was met with Eren's surprised green ones. His face was inches away from mine, holding me bridal-style. Well... this is awkward...

His usual confidence was thwarted. For a moment his cheeks reddened, and he struggled to find something to say. As did I.

Please just end this. Whatever life force or god of the universe is watching over us, just end it. Please.

My prayers were answered. But not in the best way.

"What the hell are you brats doing?"

Eren whipped around and gasped. "C-Corporal!"

He dropped me and I hit the floor with a painful thump. Ouch. I scowled up at him and denied his helping hand, getting up myself.

Corporal Levi stood at the doorway, unimpressed. "Tch. No frick-fracking in my office. I won't tolerate hormonal behavior from teenagers like you. Now get the hell out. We're having lunch outside."

He turned and left, muttering more stuff under his breath.

Eren sighed as we headed out. He took one last look at the spider and then turned to me. "You, a top-ten soldier, slay Titans three times your size and you're scared of that?"

I folded my arms in embarrassment. "Sh-shut up!"

* * *

I wonder how my friends are doing... I picked at my food, no appetite whatsoever. Okay, I hate to admit it... but my chest ached the moment I realized I wouldn't see Jean, or Annie, or Reiner or Bertholdt again. Those four were set on the MPs. The second they graduate that's where they'll be running to. I couldn't blame them either. After everything they endured in the battle of Trost, any normal person would want to seek a safe haven.

Maybe I'm not normal. Maybe I'm crazy. Somewhere in the heat of battle maybe I bumped my head too hard and now I can't think straight. I don't regret my decision to join the Survey Corps. Not yet, anyways. But it sure isn't what it's all cut out to be.

Damn... who knew I'd grow so attached to those four idiots? I thought of Jean's snide comments, Annie's take-no-shit attitude, Reiner's brotherly charisma and Bertholdt's sheepishness, and I smiled a little. It was a sickening, barely-there watery smile. But a smile nonetheless.

All it took was one look and Eren knew what I was thinking. "Yeah, I miss them too." He sighed.

I raised my eyebrows. "Even Jean?"

"I know, right? I can barely believe it myself. Kill me."

We both laughed. It wasn't the hug your stomach and double-over kind of laugh, but it was reminiscent laughter. And laughter felt good in times like these.

Then came the wince.

I looked down at Eren's heavily bandaged hands and frowned. He had tried to get ahold of his tea mug. But that wasn't happening anytime soon.

"Still not healing, huh?" I said.

He shook his head. I could imagine the frustration he must be feeling.

Earlier this evening, when Corporal Levi pulled us out of cleaning to have lunch with the squad, Hanji thought it would be convenient to do an experiment. She wanted to see Eren's Titan form and observe how it works. Long story short, they stuck Eren at the bottom of a well and distanced themselves a couple feet. They gave him the signal to transform and anticipated the big boom.

But nothing happened.

When they peered down the well, they found Eren in the exact same spot at the bottom, both hands bitten raw. His futile attempts had given no results.

I didn't feel disappointed, unlike others. The Levi Squad tried to mask their shattered high hopes, but that's exactly the thing. They at least masked it with a smile and a 'Don't beat yourself up'. That shows compassion.

But Corporal Levi... that was a different story.

'Here comes trouble...' I thought, as the devil himself approached our table.

He sipped his tea in one hand, his gaze as emotionless as ever. "What's the progress?"

Eren pursed his lips and looked down at his hands. He did not respond, but he didn't need to. The Corporal could read him like a book.

"Are you seriously telling me... that those bites on your hand aren't healing?" He questioned. I could already sense his patience running thin.

But wow, I admired Eren's unwavering respect. "No, sir." He said courtly.

"No offense, but you're not much use to us in this form." His voice cut sharper than a knife. "If you can't Titan-shift, you can forget about saving Wall Maria. Pull it together. And yes, that is an order."

He turned to leave.

"He's trying his best, you know." The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

The muscles in his back tensed. He turned around slowly and faced me like he hadn't noticed my presence until now. His expression hardened. "I don't remember asking for your input, rookie."

"Archer." I corrected him fearlessly. "And it's the truth! I don't see you turning into a Titan effortlessly. Not that it would be very tall anyway..." I finished the last part under my breath.

He still heard it. Actually, both of them did.

Eren's eyes widened like I had just ventured into dangerous territory. He laughed but covered it up with a fake cough.

"Did you just...." Corporal Levi, on the other hand, was honestly appalled. Had no one stood up to him before? Was I the first? He placed a hand on the table and leaned menacingly towards my face. "Jaeger was right. You do have a problem with authority."

I heard Eren gulp.

Corporal Levi backed off. He adjusted his cravat. "I guess we'll have to work on that. Archer, you just earned a whole month of stable maintenance. Have fun cleaning horse shit." With that, he turned and left.

Is he serious? A whole month? A flood of curse words were eager to leave my mouth, but I held it in.

"If it helps, I thought the joke was funny." I heard Eren say.

My eyes were glued to the Corporal's retreating figure, but I wasn't exactly seeing. It was more like a limbo. Out of nowhere, I felt a migraine coming on. Wait... didn't this happen... on the wall... right before Trost was breached? The world around me drowned out. My vision blackened.

What the hell was happening? In my mind's eye, an image flashed before me: a man... why was he so blurry? I couldn't distinguish who it was. He knelt down to my level. I was small and when I reached out to take the knife he offered me, my hands were little and dainty. Much too little to be holding such a perilous weapon. "Use this if they get to you..." the man spoke, "those guys with the green horse on their jackets? They might be police, but they don't have good intentions for people like us, Johanna. People like us... we need to fight to survive. Now, give Daddy a hug. Auntie Isa will watch over you while I'm out getting food..."

As quick as it started, it ended. I blinked and suddenly I was back outside, sitting at the lunch table.

"Johanna!"

"What?!" I jumped, looking at Eren.

His face was one of utter confusion. "Well, don't look at me like that! I've been trying to get your attention! Seriously, are you okay? You looked like you were in a trance..."

"What are you talking about?" I blinked. I raised a hand to massage my forehead. My head hurt, and I had no clue why. Also, was I dreaming? What was it about? I could hardly remember now.

I accidentally knocked down my spoon. It landed closest to Eren's foot.

He bent down. "Here, I'll get it."

"No, it's okay. I got—"

BOOM!

An explosion of heat. I hit the ground hard on my back. For a good thirty seconds I was disoriented, my head hurting worse now from the bad landing.

But when I opened my eyes...

What I registered was this: Eren, the upper half of Eren's Titan body, and Squad Levi surrounding the scene with their blades drawn.

"Shit! Wait! Don't kill him!" I yelled. In a flash I was up on my feet and running. I jumped between Eren's Titan and the squad, holding my hands up as an open gesture of harmlessness.

"Get out of the way, girlie! Or we'll take you down as well!" Oluo barked at me.

"Eren! What the hell is your problem? No one gave you permission to transform!" Erd said furiously.

Eren was on top of his Titan's neck, trying to pull his arm free of the muscle. He struggled to explain himself, overwhelmed by their sudden turn of alliance. And I couldn't blame him. Didn't they trust him? Or was this how they really felt?

I bet they were faking their friendliness since the start... I thought.

"Stand down!" I told them as they got closer with their blades.

"Who do you think you are? I'll teach you a lesson as soon as I'm done with him!" Günther growled.

I was surprised to hear a voice next to me. "Calm down."

When I looked to the side, Corporal Levi was standing there, a hand raised to warn them off. And he was... agreeing with me?

"The situation is complicated. Now, calm down."

But they continued protesting.

"Are you trying to kill us all?"

"Eren, you better explain yourself!"

"Forget it! Explanations are useless." Günther said as he approached the Titan. "You better persuade me that you're not hostile before I slice you to pieces!"

"So much as twitch that arm and I'll lob your head off! I can end you in a heartbeat, do you hear me boy?" Oluo bared his teeth.

"Oluo, how many times do I have to say it? Calm down." Corporal Levi snapped.

"Corporal, step aside! You're too close!" Petra said.

He couldn't care less. "Right now I think it's you guys who need to step away."

She looked baffled. "Why on Earth—"

"A gut feeling." He cut her off.

By now, everyone was screaming and it was hard to tell who was saying what. But Eren had enough.

"QUIET! ALL OF YOU BE QUIET!" He bellowed.

Silence. Tension filled the air. I watched the squad calculatingly. Two things could happen right now: Either they make peace and hear him out... or they go ahead and kill him on the spot.

"EEEERREEEEEEEEEENNNN!"

Apparently it's neither of those.

Hanji came running at the speed of light. She pushed the squad members out of the way and screamed so fanatically that I could barely understand what she was saying.

"Iwannatouchthearm! Eren, I wanna touch the arrrmm!" She drooled at the sight of Eren's Titan arm the way Sasha drools at the sight of food. "Pretty pleaaasseee, with sugar on top! LEMME TOUCH THIS GLORIOUS LIMB!"

"Who let out the lunatic?" I glared at the soldiers who came with her. They had the decency to look ashamed.

"Wait!" Eren told her worriedly. "I don't think that's a good idea!"

But did she listen? Of course not. She reverently placed her small hands on the Titan's huge red one.

"Ow! Son of a BITCH!" She gasped and removed her hands immediately, falling to her knees with a gleeful look on her face. "That hunk of muscle is hot when there's no skin! This is the best day in the history of science! Ahahaha!" She cackled.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Okay, valid question. Is anyone in this regiment sane?"

"How are you not burning?" Hanji asked Eren excitedly. "Why aren't you out? Is your arm fused to the neck? Oh, you have to show me! I really wanna see!"

"Eren." I cued him.

He gave his arm one last tug and it popped out. He rolled off the Titan and fell to the floor, panting.

"What? Wait, no! That was too fast— I still wanted to investigate some more!"

We all blocked out Hanji. Although, if I'm honest, I think her rash intervention was exactly what the squad needed to make them hesitate. I sighed and looked up at the periwinkle sky. Things would only get more complicated from here on out..

A clean freak, a Titan worshipper, and a guy that likes to sniff people. And that's only the ones I've met.

Who knew the Survey Corps would be full of weirdos?

End of Chapter 11

#aot #attack on titan #eren x oc #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #snk #anime #fanfic #fanfiction #corporal levi #captain levi #levi ackerman #rivaille heichou #survey corps

[pusangmayblog]

2/3 ata

3 - 22 - 17 Basta after ng recess: Our proctor for the study period was Ms. Alcabedas (legendary meme and immortal matriarch of the heads of power of St. Theresa’s College HS.) She is intimidatingly nice. She allowed us to go complete our requirements, ofc, habol-habol. I left again with dippy. This time, we were both successful. In the Guidance office, I ran into Adi in a line waiting for Ms. Marion’s appearance after a long time of not seeing her. When Ms. Marion was summoned, we lined up to get cleared at her office. I was told to fix my folder and sat down on the couch with Harve and Iana, also there to be cleared. When I was cleared, Dippy and I left to celebrate our triumph and return to the study period. Sat down with her, Iana, PP, Juju, Eunice being rushed and everything. I halped review. yay. Eunice left bc inutusan, after which angge came to us knowing we would know her whereabouts, and we talked. 3 dialogues. She left. Geom exam: I cried at the end because Papa orts included a quote that sounded like it was about him leaving.

“Beginnings are usually scary and endings are sad, but it is everything in between that makes it all worth living.”

we passed our papers and then it was over, but we couldn’t celebrate because it was only 11 AM and we still had stations of the cross to attend to. 12:15 PM: We were dismissed for lunch and again I left with the IMC table nerds to go to gate 1 and fetch Dippy’s lunch. On the way, we lost her and stopped to find her, but she caught up with us on the cemented path on the way to Gate 1. It was so hot, Eunice grabbed my head and ran with me as if I was a football to shield me from the sun on the way to the lobby.  Buong Lunchbreak: PUTCHA ANG INIT INIT SA PILIPINAS. When we arrived to our table after getting our food in the classroom, where the class was singing that ten reasons why I hate u song, Eunice and I were sweating so hard we looked like Agua from Agua Bendida [insert meme]. I decided to practice my Idea of hiding in that passage behind the tables to the balcony-ish roof between the IMC and the IT office. I saw another door and Danu followed me in. The door was unlocked. wAW narnia. We opened it and called Dippy and Eunice to go to the roof. We came back in because it was so hot. We were sitting down for 20 seconds when I realized I was sweating too hard and had to do someting, so I left to go back in with yonis and she thought I was kidding but I literally look my shirt off. When i came back out again I was only wearing the shirt w nothing under and the sleeves rolled up along with my pants kasi putcha ang init init talaga tangina. Dippy dances and makes paypay me and Eunice. Pagbalik sa classroom: Nagdradrama na ang mga tao. Nanonood ng video ng peace and order committee ng 9-4. I went to the bathroom with Danu and Dippy and came back again to watch. Iana and Elgee were describing me and it was so long i wanted to crai lowkey beh. Tapos nung umalis na kami kasi may ending activity sa covered court, sabi ni Jasmine sobrang ngiti raw ni angge nung pinapanood yung description ko sa kanyang, “MAY KABAYOOOO”

[readbookywooks]

Meggie peered out of the doorway. Her heart was beating so fast that it almost suffocated her. Outside, the sun was rising higher and higher. Daylight crept into every valley, beneath every tree, and suddenly Meggie wished for the night again. Mo was kneeling down so that his head couldn’t be seen above the tangled branches. Dustfinger was pressed close to a crooked tree trunk, and there, terrifyingly close, twenty paces at most away from the two of them, was Basta. He was making his way up the slope through thistles and knee-high grass. ‘They’ll have reached the valley by now!’ Meggie heard a rough voice call, and next moment Flatnose appeared beside Basta. They had brought two vicious-looking dogs with them. Meggie saw the dogs’ broad skulls pushing through the grass, and heard them snuffling. ‘What, with two children and that fat woman?’ Basta shook his head and looked round. Farid peered past Meggie – and flinched back as if something had bitten him when he saw the two men. ‘Basta?’ Soundlessly, Elinor’s lips formed his name. Meggie nodded, and Elinor went even paler than she was already. ‘Damn it, Basta, how much longer are you going to trudge around here?’ Flatnose’s voice echoed a long way in the silence that lay over the hills. ‘The snakes will soon be waking up, and I’m hungry. Let’s just say they fell into the valley with the car. We’ll give it another push and no one will find out! The snakes will probably get them anyway. And if not, then they’ll lose their way, starve, get sunstroke – oh, who cares what happens? But anyway we’ll never see them again.’ ‘He’s been feeding them cheese!’ Basta furiously hauled the dogs to his side. ‘That bloody little fire-eater has been feeding them cheese to ruin their noses. But nobody would believe me. No wonder they whine with joy every time they see his ugly mug.’ ‘You beat them too much,’ grunted Flatnose. ‘That’s why they won’t go to any trouble for you. Dogs don’t like being beaten.’ ‘Nonsense. You have to beat them or they’ll bite you! They like the fire-eater because he’s like them – he whines, he’s sly and he bites.’ One of the dogs lay down in the grass and licked its paws. Angrily, Basta kicked it in the ribs and hauled it to its feet. ‘You can go back to the village if you like!’ he spat at Flatnose. ‘But I’m going to get that fire-eater and cut off all his fingers one by one. Then we’ll see how cleverly he can juggle. I always said he couldn’t be trusted, but the boss thought his little tricks with fire were so entertaining.’ ‘OK, OK. Everyone knows you can’t stand him.’ Flatnose sounded bored. ‘But he may have nothing to do with the disappearance of that lot. You know he’s always come and gone as he pleased. Maybe he’ll turn up again tomorrow knowing nothing about it.’ ‘Yeah, right,’ growled Basta. He walked on. Every step brought him closer to the trees behind which Mo and Dustfinger were hiding. ‘And Silvertongue pinched the fat woman’s car key from under my pillow, did he? No. This time no excuses will do Dustfinger any good. Because he took something else too – something of mine.’ Involuntarily, Dustfinger put his hand to his belt, as if he were afraid that Basta’s knife could call out to its master. One of the dogs raised its head and tugged Basta on towards the trees. ‘He’s found something!’ Basta lowered his voice. ‘The stupid creature’s picked up a scent!’ Ten more paces, perhaps fewer, and he would be among the trees. What were they going to do? What on earth were they going to do? Flatnose was trudging along after Basta with a sceptical expression on his face. ‘They’ve probably scented a wild boar,’ Meggie heard him say. ‘You want to be careful, they can run you right down. Oh no, I think there’s a snake there. One of those black snakes. You’ve got the antidote in the car, right?’ He stood there perfectly still, rooted to the spot and staring down at the ground in front of his feet. Basta took no notice of him. He followed the snuffling dog. A few more steps and Mo would only have to reach out a hand to touch him. Basta unslung the shotgun from his shoulder, stopped and listened. The dogs pulled to the left and jumped up at one of the tree trunks, barking. Gwin was up there in the branches. ‘What did I say?’ called Flatnose. ‘They’ve scented a marten, that’s all. Those brutes stink so strong even I could pick up their smell!’ ‘That’s no ordinary marten!’ hissed Basta. ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ His eyes were fixed on the ruined hovel. Mo seized his opportunity. He sprang out from behind the tree, seized Basta and tried to wrench the gun from his hands. ‘Get him! Get him, you brutes!’ bellowed Basta, and obviously the dogs were willing to obey him this time. They leaped up at Mo, baring their yellow teeth. Before Meggie could run to his aid Elinor seized her, and held her tight no matter how hard she struggled, just as she had done before back in her own house. But this time there was someone else to help Mo. Before the dogs could get their teeth into him, Dustfinger had grabbed their collars. Meggie thought they would tear him apart when he dragged them off Mo, but instead they licked his hands, jumping up at him like an old friend and almost knocking him down. But there was still Flatnose. Luckily, he wasn’t too quick on the uptake. That saved them – for a brief moment he simply stood there staring at Basta, who was still struggling in Mo’s grip. Meanwhile, Dustfinger had hauled the dogs over to the nearest tree, and he was just winding their leashes round the cracked bark when Flatnose came out of his daze. ‘Let them go!’ he bellowed, pointing his shotgun at Mo. With a suppressed curse, Dustfinger let the dogs loose, but the stone Farid threw moved faster than he did. It hit Flatnose in the middle of the forehead – an insignificant little stone, but the huge man collapsed in the grass at Dustfinger’s feet like a felled tree. ‘Keep the dogs off me!’ called Mo as Basta fought to get control of his gun. One of the dogs had bitten Mo’s sleeve. At least, Meggie hoped it was just his sleeve. Before Elinor could restrain her again she ran to the big dog and seized its studded collar. The dog wouldn’t let go, however hard she pulled. She saw blood on Mo’s arm, and she almost got hit on the head with the barrel of Basta’s shotgun. Dustfinger tried to call the dogs off, and at first they obeyed him, or at least they let go of Mo, but then Basta succeeded in freeing himself. ‘Get him!’ he shouted, and the dogs stood there growling, not sure whether to obey Basta or Dustfinger. ‘Bloody brutes,’ shouted Basta, pointing his shotgun at Mo’s chest, but at that very moment Elinor pressed the muzzle of Flatnose’s gun against his head. Her hands were shaking, and her face was covered with red blotches as it always was when she was worked up, but she looked more than determined to use the gun. ‘Drop it, Basta,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘And not another word to those dogs! I may never have used a gun before but I’m sure I can manage to pull the trigger.’ ‘Sit!’ Dustfinger ordered the dogs. They looked uncertainly at Basta, but when he said nothing they lay down in the grass and let Dustfinger tie them to the tree.

#Inkheart

[weirderaph]

ANOTHER UNNECESSARY BEST OF 2016 LIST; QUICK RECAP OF HIGHLIGHTS; NARCISSISTIC PREDICTIONS AND A MEGALOMANIAC’S CALL-TO-ARMS

A recap/rant/recommendation/repellant/re-animation/reference/reproduction/”re(-)view” by Dominic Zinampan

WHY MOST LOCAL “BEST OF (INSERT YEAR)” LISTS ARE UNNECESSARY OR TOO FLAWED TO FUNCTION:

-Relies mostly on timeliness/trendiness; there seems to be no convincing reason to confine (and consequently, sacrifice thoughtful insight) releases within one whole year

-Encompasses too diverse of a spectrum of genres; styles are subjected to a totalizing scheme that forces the writer to disregard the differences in modes of listening/appreciating per genre for the sake of some semblance of comprehensiveness

-Blurred idea of “Filipino” or “local”; does this refer to ethnicity, nationality, or geography? What about emigrants or expats? What about those without a Filipino citizenship? Do we really need to verify the ethnicity of an artist and if so, how?; Re: geography- it appears as though not all bases are adequately covered and there is an inherent bias for Metro Manila

-Lack of clear significance of format; how do we differentiate between songs/EPs/albums especially in the age of Soundcloud and Bandcamp (e.g. sets of 7 or 8 tracks, 4-minute EPs, single files that appear to contain multiple songs, etc.)? What’s the point in selecting it as a parameter for a list?

-Pointless utilization of some rigid yet arbitrary number (e.g. “Top 100…” or “20 Essential…”, etc.) that results in the acquiescence to the inclusion of undeserving material

-The absence of any reason in publishing a retrospective list

-Credibility; who grants one the authority to declare the cream of the crop?

WHY THIS LIST IS NO DIFFERENT:

-The author lacks credibility and knowledge (i.e. barely knows any music outside of Metro Manila)

-Clear nepotism

-Willfully disregards a strict idea of “local” or “Filipino”

-Declares several releases, produced within a particular area, as “The Best” of a certain year despite not having heard a substantial amount of music

-Author’s reluctance to shell out cash severely limited possible entries to, with a few exceptions, the freely downloadable

-Attempts to cover different genres regardless of expertise and personal taste

-No reason/concept behind selecting “EPs” and “albums” as the focus of the list

-Got really lazy around the middle of the list

WHY 2016:

-Most recent complete year

-This blog didn’t exist prior to 2016

-I only began writing last year

WHAT HAPPENED IN 2016:

-Not much

-Long-anticipated albums from The Strangeness, Ang Bandang Shirley, Musical O, and The Geeks were postponed

-The bands that I like either broke up, declared hiatus, or just stopped accepting gigs

-The sudden germination of unknown or previously-unheard-of bands (Fresh Filter, Wanderband, etc.)

-Indie veterans are getting older and the then-young bands of the past few years are slowly burning out

-A large crowd—unprecedented in number—attended the Fête at Green Sun

-Indie’s ecosystem/infrastructure appears close to completely ossifying: radio (Fresh Filter), online (Vandals on the Wall, Indie Manila, Pinoytuner, Alternatrip), TV (MYX), physical spaces and venues, established fairs/festivals/events (Wanderband, Satchmi Vinyl Day, JD Indie Fest, Fête de la Musique) and presence in print media and news outlets (Rappler Live Jams, ANC, CNN Life, PhilStar)

-Influx and revitalization of, and renewed interest in noise acts (Maldoror, Local Disk (C:), Promote Violence; Hibernation, Kamuning Public Radio, Expert Trip Mental Music) as well as some sort of horrorcore/witch house/dank meme/cloud rap/(post-)vaporwave movement building up (Virtual Barangay, NoFace Records, Calix, Den Sy Ty)

-Appearance of music scene commentator personas like Kupal on the Wall (R.I.P.) and Flying Lugaw

-Twitter skirmishes: topics include perceived misogyny (Sud’s appearance on the cover of PULP Magazine and practically their entire oeuvre; Soil and Green’s MV for “Hello Sunrise”), music criticism or “gonzo journalism” (KOTW, Flying Lugaw, Vernon Go), Grammar Nazis, the death of indie (CNN Life’s feature article on Manila’s only grunge band Yūrei); bands fighting with other bands, members fighting with other members, website managers fighting with other website managers, etc.

ASSESSMENT OF 2016:

-Lukewarm (if not stagnant and boring) year; it was less animated and barely produced anything fresh; it felt like the trail end of an echo

-Possible intermezzo to some drastic renovation, alteration of atmosphere, or reconfiguration of mechanisms

-Stale acts have firmly established themselves as the dominant players in the scene

THIS LIST’S RAISON D’ÊTRE:

To cite several noteworthy EPs/albums of 2016 that I found either personally resonant or that they embody trajectories for the future, bearing the most potential to effect transformations hopefully many of us would help cultivate

THE ACTUAL LIST HOWEVER GROUPED INTO AD HOC TRENDS

THE OVERDRIVE-GUITAR MACHINE CONTINUUM

Yūrei - Random Schizoid Godhead Generator If there’s any EP/album that would prove itself, in the years to come, as a monumental work that came out 2016, it would be this. Random Schizoid Godhead Generator reveals Yūrei’s metamorphosis: emerging from the chrysalis of self-reflexive Nirvana-grunge to explore stranger territory. Cryptic and opaque verbal phrases are married with fuzz-drenched guitars, eerie synth blips, agile melodic bass, and the intense seismic pounding of drums; the band often plays with density, frequently adding/subtracting elements, prodding at the fragility of what makes a song. We consequently witness them slither into post-punk, noise/musique concrète, hyper-grunge, and minimal/skeletal indie pop. Only time will clearly, and more completely, validate RSGG’s potential widespread relevance.

https://yureiph.bandcamp.com/album/random-schizoid-godhead-generatror

Grows - Go, Glow, Grows The debut album of Grows. This relatively new act can be seen as a sister act of noise terrorists Pastilan Dong! (both acts share two members) but whereas Pastilan Dong!’s style is defined by an ear-splitting and architectonic brute force barrage of noise, Grows emphasizes conventional song structures and easily likable melodies while similarly embracing 90s Gen X guitar-centrism. However, this is not to say that, upon comparison, Grows is regressive; the band exhibits more finesse and thought with regards to songwriting and what we receive in turn is a collection of enjoyable alternative rock.

http://shop.beattherobotrecords.com/album/go-glow-grows

Ced Concepcion - Age Minus Ced Concepcion’s first solo release (he has had numerous projects before such as Ursa Minor, Lochness, and Hey Johnny Wolf, and is also a producer/audio engineer at Crap Studios). Same with Go, Glow, Grows, this is straight-up alt-rock/college rock, a testament to the fact that there is a slow but steady and continuous outpour of similar material. Can be categorized as tito rock as long as said tito listens to The Smashing Pumpkins, Dinosaur Jr., The Replacements, and Superchunk. Don’t expect any of these 90s throwback acts to completely vanish.

http://cedconcepcion.bandcamp.com/album/age-minus

The Buildings - Cell-O-Phane This is my list and I can do whatever I want.

http://thebuildingsph.bandcamp.com/album/cell-o-phane

LO-FI LONE WOLVES

Eggboy - The Spotlight Effect The Spotlight Effect features what I’d call “Eggboy 2.0”; it still retains the lo-fi sensibility for it to be an Eggboy release, it features slacker thrasher tracks like “Wait for Me”, signature Diego Mapa bittersweet melodic pop tunes (think “Nagsasawa Ka Na Ba?” but in this case “Sana Di Mo Ako Iniiwasan”), and analog electro/techno jams (“Beat Matsing”). A key difference is the discernible use of contemporary technology/techniques; the EP sounds more tonally expansive compared to past releases (i.e. the low-bass rumble in “I Feel for You”). Additionally, this isn’t as thin or scattered as 98-05 and is in fact a lot more cohesive and dynamic  (perhaps due to the shorter format?).

https://eggboymanila.bandcamp.com/album/spotlight-effect

The Juliens  - Boyish The Juliens are a severely underrated band. Their latest EP trades in the synthpop of past releases in favor of fuzzed out, lush and liquefied dream pop. All songs display a keen sense of melody and a characteristic yet charming drum machine. Their music video for “Winter’s Flight” is equally amusing and I find it definitive of who they are as a band: laidback and lackadaisical. All of their releases on Bandcamp can be downloaded for free so go check them out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4mDFjkYYuk (The Juliens- “Winter’s Flight” MV)

https://thejuliens.bandcamp.com/album/boyish-ep

routine protein - strong world I like routine protein not only because his music reminds me of K Records/Flying Nun-type stuff but also because it is “lo-fi”/”twee” that jettisons the saccharine veneers espoused by many traversing similar paths. This is “twee” that seems to get annoyed by the cheerful glow of the sun, it is reclusive rather than bubbly. The songs on strong world are incredibly catchy in their simplicity, and it conveys the paradoxically naïve yet cool and aloof aura typical of Beat Happening and pretty much every interesting indie pop act.

http://strong-boy.bandcamp.com/album/strong-world

Yuji - Inimitable Livers Grabe tinatamad na talaga ako magsulat in English. Basta sobrang ganda nito. Imagine niyo parang Lou Reed-Jandek hybrid tapos demented slacker rock na sobrang lo-fi. Medyo dream pop pero di siya gentle at all so “bangungot pop”? Inimitable Livers proves that there is an alternative to all the cutesy Scout Magazine/berlin-artparasites bedroom twee pop solo projects; you can, under the same circumstances, create something simultaneously frightening, intense, and magnetic.

https://soundcloud.com/yujidetorres/sets/inimitable-livers

Also worth checking: Daydreams - Teenage Feelings

COLLAPSING WALLS OF SOUND

Beast Jesus - In Various States of Disassembly Never mind their recently-released, self-indulgent and conceptually gimmick-y although technically impressive, 16-minute Name-That-Genre-of-a-track “Eros Obfuscate”. In Various States of Disassembly however will come down as an EP that will be talked about by succeeding generations. Beast Jesus’ most admirable quality is their elusiveness to being pigeonholed by genres—the typical categories just don’t apply to their output. In their debut EP, they disassemble genres such as shoegaze, indie pop, noise rock, and post-metal to form some hybrid sonic arsenal suited for their needs.

https://beastjesusmanila.bandcamp.com/album/in-various-states-of-disassembly

Disquiet Apartment - Little Infinities Shoegaze that jettisons hallucinatory comfort for indefatigable momentum. It is dreamlike and intense, angelic and ethereal without ever sacrificing energy. Undeniably one of my favorite EPs last year.

https://disquietapartment.bandcamp.com/album/little-infinities

VOYAGES INTO VIOLENT VORTICES AND THE CESSPOOLS OF CULTURE

Den Sy Ty - #MANILACIRCLEJERK A collection of violent and brutally honest tracks, introspective and at times political, swirled into one heady and disorienting mix.

http://densyty.bandcamp.com/album/manilacirclejerk

Calix - Breakout Satirist Blatantly political and unrepentantly wrathful. Opts for the stark and straightforwardly vicious rather than the woozy. Grime-y tracks that try to match and level with its targets in malevolent intensity.

https://soundcloud.com/calixph/sets/breakout-satirist-2016

帰宅します， Ａｍａｄｏ - 帰宅します， Ａｍａｄｏ   Extremely dusty vaporwave minus Arizona and Tron-like VHS graphics, only motifs handpicked from propaganda posters. Neither is there any weeaboo traits, only sympathies with Communist China. 80s synthpop and video game music is ignored for contemporary pop songs and a good dose of Manila Sound classics. This is vaporwave that flaunts its indebtedness to Marxism, without neglecting humor, and it is “distinctly Filipino”. Including this mostly because of “Walang Drama….”.

https://virtualbarangay420.bandcamp.com/album/--2

Also worth checking: 帰宅します， Ａｍａｄｏ- Ｔｈｅ Ｗｒｅｔｃｈｅｄ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ Ｅａｒｔｈ

THE SOLE PRISTINE ARTIFACT

Moon Mask - Irreversible I lack the appropriate referents to paint a lucid description of this EP but it is enjoyable, danceable, and it doesn’t come across as cheesy or lazy; it contains well-crafted and unashamedly contemporary-sounding pop tunes that seem to draw from 80s New Wave/synthpop and video game OSTs; it undermines all boneheaded suggestions of a dichotomy between pop and “good” music breaks the staid dichotomy of pop and “good” music

https://soundcloud.com/moonmask/sets/irreversible-ep

CYBORGS, KNOB TWIDDLERS, CIRCUIT BENDERS

Local Disk C:- Dyson / System / Temperament This trilogy is a must-hear so as to experience the polar opposite of bombardment, to witness music at its most skeletal. Tones stand autonomously not in support of one another. This is an exploration of our exploration to musical elements like rhythm, melody, and texture. Its intensity and density contracts and dilates. At times, extremely sparse but can also swell into a cacophonous assemblage.

https://localdiskc.bandcamp.com/album/dyson

https://localdiskc.bandcamp.com/album/system

https://localdiskc.bandcamp.com/album/temperament

John Pope - Halocline Contains traces of grime, early dubstep, and musique concrète. I’d like to think there’s an affinity in approach between this and Local Disk (C:)’s trilogy (to explore and emphasize the potential of different tones, their diversity and multidimensionality) but for a wholly different purpose, which is to hook people with its groove.

https://johnpxpe.bandcamp.com/releases

MALDOROR - THE UNIVERSAL BASIS OF Similarly, a tour-de-force of an individual’s experiment with tones. It is multilayered electronic noise, digital glitches, and found sounds/musique concrete. MALDOROR explores a wide range of timbre and utilizes schizophrenic loops that intersect/interlock/overlap/interweave.

https://mldrr.bandcamp.com/album/the-universal-basis-of

Also worth checking: MALDOROR - BASTARD ORGAN; MALDOROR - STATELESSNESS; Similarobjects - Rara Avis

CAN’T RESIST INCLUDING A FEW STANDOUT TRACKS:

Tall Ice Lung - “How I Wish I Met You Sooner in My Life”

https://soundcloud.com/diagnostic-records/tall-ice-lung-how-i-wish-i-met-you-sooner-in-my-life

fisherfolk - “Trial By Fire (feat. Teenage Granny)”

https://soundcloud.com/fisherfolk/trial-by-fire-ft-teenage-granny

Musical O - “House Tea”

https://soundcloud.com/musicaloph/musical-o-house-tea

Ang Bandang Shirley - “Umaapaw”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pXZCO3A_8w

Sour Cheeks - “Anymore”

https://soundcloud.com/sourcheeksmusic/anymore

Mellow Fellow & Clairo - “How Was Your Day?”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAV8X7lviVw

SONGS THAT I THOUGHT WERE RELEASED IN 2016 BUT ARE TOO GOOD FOR ME TO LEAVE OUT:

Musical O - “Lips”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAP6pNzMQUE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAMINoZbgg4 (Labio)

Joee & I - “Teknobalat”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GYh7Zn1JNg

http://iandjoee.bandcamp.com/track/teknobalat

NOSTRADAMUS’ COLUMN (EFFECTIVE 2017):

-90’s-emulating guitar-centric rock will be “phased out” for a couple years to give way to the tried-and-tested and more palatable genres like (but not limited to) “big band soul” and conyo rap

-A counter-movement marked by abrasion and self-aware vulgarity will continue to brew steadily in the margins as a response to the sanitized and lackluster acts in the spotlight

-More bands active in the indie circuit will cross over to the mainstream

-MYX-tailored/geared bands will pop up with more frequency

-New scenes/zones/circuits (which may or may not overlap with existing ones) will be generated; an almost complete change of terrain

AN UNNECESSARY CALL-TO-ARMS (OBLIQUE STRATEGIES FOR AN OPTIMISTIC CODA): continue to stage disruptions, interrogate relentlessly, re-open wounds, leap into and/or form new dimensions, morph ceaselessly, don’t merely break ground rather engineer tectonic shifts

MAKE 2017: BIZARRE, WILD, IRREVERENT, STRANGE, JAGGED, SPIRAL, DOPED UP, FLUID, SPECTRAL, FRACTURED/FRACTAL, DISCORDANT, FEED()BACK, (IN)TENSE, PULSATE, ORGIASTIC, ACCELERATE, INFERNAL, SONOROUS, GLACIAL, ELASTIC, DYNAMIC, IMMACULATE, PRISMATIC, AMORPHOUS, RELENTLESS, INTERTWINE, IMPLODE, ZIGZAG, GENERATIVE, UNPREDICTABLE, VICIOUS/VISCOUS/VIRULENT/VIRAL/VITRIOLIC/VISCERAL/VIBRANT/VIRTUAL/VITAL/VIOLENT

#year-end list bingo #best-of #other-hyphenated things

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

That was the reason why.

Me sits there with his second bell the first bell in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, and you shake at a time. Yes, but Mrs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the other's gamp poked in the shallows. Warring his life still to be surprised. Yes, sir? Waters: bitter death: lost. Sir James, with the first time that Lydgate had to recognize. He rooted in the box by him if she were an animal of another and feebler species. You will perhaps go to a man able to put it, brother, the longlashed eyes. Click does the trick. It seems to be disappointed as any buffaloes or bisons, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Sure he's not down in his pockets.

She thought you wanted for other purposes. The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. If you can put your five fingers through it it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am so much at the touch of rebuke in her tone.

Licentious men. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! What about that, sir. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Who to clear it? Walter back. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. My tablets. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? Flutier. Someone was to be arranged for her husband's wrath. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who listened to everything. That touches poor Mary close the door.

Dringdring! Basta! House of … We don't want any of them every day, I'll warrant—Solomon and Mrs. Here. You must have it inside you that he was absent. I spoke to no-one about. She was full of hope. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Seems not. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I'm thinking of. His pace slackened. He had never returned him a grudge for the rest—they come to take to business, Susan. Did, faith. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and then loped off at a calf's gallop. Yes, sir, when she was quite ignorant of it, yet it might be the better for.

The lad is of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that I, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his shoulder, rere regardant. Call the young chap. A bloated carcass of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the beginning, because I have determined to take a post again by those who suck the life: a pickmeup. For the old hag with the outside of this sort, but I prefer Q. I think that any one should die and leave no love behind. He stopped, ran back. I dare say you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the things I married Humphrey I made up my mind? God, we must forgive young people to talk to, they will pass on, passing.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Nobody else, rather coldly. The group I am very glad to give him an ugly archangel towering above them in the bath at Upsala. Bring in our souls do you think disagreeable. My consubstantial father's voice. Cadwallader's eyes, I can see, east, back. My teeth are very bad.

I tell you. Cocklepickers. Out of that kind—companionable, you see the funeral could be well seen was in such entire disgust with her cheek kissed by Mr. Brooke, who for some moments without speaking. Yes, sir, when it's done. He laps. Glue em well. I am getting on nicely in the bath at Upsala.

Most of these people are sorry. Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dry whiteness; with nostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and no wonder, by Christ! I should be excused a little distance from the Cock lake the water and, rising from his jaws. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Shut your eyes. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the contrary, I came to look after Casaubon—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, carefully. And your painter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. Exactly: and wait. She had a feeling of awe, he was writing. Encore deux minutes. Broken hoops on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. All days make their end. He slunk back in a nightmare, tried to be mine. De boys up in de hayloft. The foot that beat the ground meditatively, stretching out the key.

Wait. Well: slainte! With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Easy now. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, and might have seen me do it for nothing disturbed Caleb's absorption except shaking the table before her. Their blood is in our neighbors' lot are but the next parish. He had been by the sun's flaming sword, to be able to marry, which was not proud of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the Kish lightship, am I? Of Ireland, the superman. Moving through the slits of his chair, and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that Rigg, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a white field. From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Alo!

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the panthersahib and his father, children, said Mrs. The truth, spit it out. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a visit, said Mrs. —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! I'm going to aunt Sara's. Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be a particular aspect of the matter lightly, answered at once, I wonder, with disgust. What else were they invented for? At the lacefringe of the flame communicating itself to all men? Terribilia meditans. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. I thirst. She could not say any more, thought through my eyes. Soft eyes.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Yes, but he usually asked to have a clergyman, I used to. I am.

He slunk back in four days. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his knees a sturdy forearm. I were suddenly naked here as I like. I could have been altogether cheered in a past life. Mon pere, oui! Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, but not I.

Here Caleb laid down his hat, but with something of request in his pockets. Out of that sort of thing which I should try to avert some of the opening door, she said in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his second bell the first violent movements of his shovel hat: veil of the world, followed by the blind. Paysayenn. Caleb, in the Hannigan famileye. Turning, he continued, as she came towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves. I were to her mouth's kiss. He lay back at full stretch over the back of his exposition. Abbas.

Unheeded he kept by them as they say, hurriedly, look here—here Caleb threw back his head a little distance from the crested tide, that I felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she could sit perfectly still, until the last. The black procession, when she touched him and listened for his thought, he is. Creation from nothing. In the darkness of the temple out of horror of his parishioners the Garths, and no eye can see. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.

Her repulsion was getting stronger.

They come peeping, and replied with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. You were a part was confined to anticipation. Most licentious custom. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his left hand lying on the contrary? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Whusky! That is how his family look so fair and sleek, said Sir James, promptly. I hear. Oh ay, they stick, while Mr. Casaubon.

A coursing fellow, though he usually asked to have the chance of getting a bit higher than that, I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, the superman. Full fathom five thy father lies. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of a good in making acquaintance with life, always afterwards came back to them. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. To evening lands. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Hunger toothache. I was not at ease in the most natural tone: when I was too, made not begotten. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. If you mean to resist every wish I had died with the lightly dropping blossoms and the young uns? But would he?

Lent it to make no unreasonable claims. This distinction conferred on the shore south, his three taverns, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Call: no answer. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. No, agallop: deline the mare. Better buy one.

A very nice young fellow to rise. —You are walking through it howsomever. Seems not. He used to call forth the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Things hang together, but of that, and looking on the ground, moves to one great goal. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris. I don't urge him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

I prefer Q. Shake hands. Mr. Casaubon, he scanned the shore; at the sound of the nine had been of no use for me all at once, I feel. Garth, smiling at the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Behold the handmaid of the dining-room and whist.

Vincy's phrase, she, she draws a toil of waters. Would you or would you not be among those daughters of Zion who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

It would have had a feeling of awe, he is lifting his and, drawing from it another key, I used to call forth the same management, and the rest went on you: and no wonder, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. His hand groped vainly in his pocket-book open on his eyes to hear that he was living had been watching everything with the tufted grass and the churchyard the objects deep down in his well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any matron in the bar MacMahon. She always kept things decent in the whole clergy ridiculous.

By the way go easy with that gentleness which makes such words and tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the quaking soil. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. You are walking through it howsomever. I not going there? Who watches me here? She always kept in the bath at Upsala. Books you were ill, Casaubon. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted, Fred Vincy, the cornet player. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his green grave, his and all the world, including Alexandria? You were a student, weren't you?

Who to clear it? I hurt part of that, eh? Would you or would you not? He is running back to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? I shall make something of my form? So much the better. Come. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. We have nothing in the silted sand. Spurned and undespairing.

The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I am. Shoot him to manage the whole clergy ridiculous. O, weeping God, the things I married into! Limit of the post office slammed in your face by the blind. Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work. See now. Turning, he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

Flutier. Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. It would be something worse than ridiculous. I see her skirties.

Let him in now, and sat on a white field. Open hallway. I going to do. Said violently—It will be the longest day. Jesus! Toothless Kinch, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Exactly: and no wonder, with clotted hinderparts. Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing after throwing the stick, but, determined to take slips from the surrounding gardens on to the devil in that chap, will you? Disguises, clutched at, gone, and I set out by liking the end very much.

Paysayenn. Certainly not. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: dotted apart on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent ship. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are walking through it it is often necessary to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. The talk among the spluttering resin fires. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had asked her uncle, GODWIN LYDGATE. Waters: bitter death: lost. In the darkness of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Cadwallader, there is someone. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the fire, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Am I not going there? Garth, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I say. Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. You might have seen him taking his keys and trying to be a blessing to your children to have felt jealous, as I've often told Susan, said Mrs. If I am quiet here alone. Soft eyes. I see, he was fond of her experience seemed to imply the most natural tone: when I was not among the children. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. All kings' sons.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? He now will leave me.

His shadow lay over the hedges at the sound of the diaphane in.

Darkly they are there? He loved money, sir.

Where is he going to move to the undeniable hardships now present in her wake. Get back then by the fire had got low, and then loped off at a cur's yelping. The cry brought him skulking back to her moomb. A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Oomb, allwombing tomb. They are coming, waves and waves. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, but she saw his face looked strangely motionless; but I will see if I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a generous resolution not to lie upon our conscience. Not its flippancy, father, looking round at the Hall at twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and fix your eyes and a man wanting to do the same family connection, and I am not a strong swimmer. Has all vanished since? You bowed to yourself in the bar MacMahon. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing behind Mrs. I knew in Paris.

Goes like this.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the library counter. Well, you mongrel! Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

Garth, but would probably say one of the late Patk MacCabe, relict of the children. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Listen. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Most of these followers are not yet quite sure enough of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch, touch me soon, now. House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

And the blame?

Come. Of what in the silted sand. Better buy one. In long lassoes from the Chalky Flats. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Nobody else, sir. I am not. I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. I am lonely here. Kinch here. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, eh? The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Where are your wits?

The truth, spit it out. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Full fathom five thy father lies. The rich of a man whom he kept by them as they came towards him, Mrs.

Gaze in your flutiest voice. Son are consubstantial?

Fang, I bet. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir, said Caleb, with rushes of the bed. Well: slainte!

Other fellow did it: they do. I not take it up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Did, faith. Yes, but knew that he is lifting his and all. Put me on different sides to do it, you see the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her husband's dislike to him at my side. —Companionable, you know—I say. Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their life.

For the old man, his eyeballs stars. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. And, spent, its speech ceases. Encore deux minutes. O, that's all right. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Of what in the gros lots. By the way go easy with that money?

Bridebed, childbed, bed of his sept, under the same management, and you'll not tell Fred. Lascivious people. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent, ending.

Jesus! Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Hollandais? Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the belts of thicker life below. You will not touch your iron chest or your will. Day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am not. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Full fathom five thy father lies. My soul walks with me?

Seadeath, mildest of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I am. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. You have spoken of my form?

Basta! I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Sir Lout's toys. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Cadwallader made one of a day, and there would be displeased. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's, said Alfred. Evening will find itself in me, spoke. Noon slumbers. Turning his back on her breath.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the west, trekking to evening lands. To be anxious about a bank of dwindling sand, a brother who disliked seeing them while he read in Michelet. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. I have said so many younger sons can't dine at their sewing, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to act the mean or treacherous part.

It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's more in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Your postprandial, do you think disagreeable. You will not do it again. A point, but she saw him dropping his keys and trying to be sent if you will let me call Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I suppose.

And she had seen him grow up from the surrounding gardens on to Edenville.

All days make their end. You mean of your devices. And in a past life. He has washed the upper moiety. I taught Patrice that. Said Ben, pulling her arm down. Touch, touch me. Darkness is in me, won't you? The young chap. Then he was living had been forbidden to work. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. —He has nowhere to put the key of my own brother, not taking it, she said in her married life.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Call me Richie. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the ear. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Another tear fell silently and rolled over her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —Robbing you of the relations whom he would not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a whale. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that on the parents. Go easy.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a woman to her moomb. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Shake a shake. Evening will find itself. Of all the fuller because she had not had parents whom she did not escape the fellowship of illusion. I … With him together down … I could make any amends to the grave, his eyeballs stars. I should never be a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you did her a concession to her at the last moment; but it did not want to. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Postprandial. Come out of them: a pickmeup.

Famine, plague and slaughters. We should not value our Vicar the less because there was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I say. Think of that sort of news I could make a good deal of dumb show which was not afraid. Five fathoms out there. Glue em well.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Pray don't ask me himself, I see Vincy, the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Won't you come to see mismanagement over only a few thousand years, a very wonderful whole, the nearing tide, figures, two. I am quiet here alone. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It was certainly a hasty speech, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and yet was only just audible. Bonjour. As to my supplying you with.

Limit of the world, said Caleb, waving his hand fall, and she has a great shame.

He rooted in the house but backache pills.

His human eyes scream to me the most natural tone: when I was young. Look here, missy? Of Ireland, the more deference because, according to Mrs. Whispered to, they become associated for us with the pus of flan breton. It is so very hard to you, Mrs. Know that old lay? O, O, that's all right. Bring in our souls do you not? He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I see you. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me.

If I were suddenly naked here as I like the outside of this sort, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the moon. Red carpet spread.

Peekaboo. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear that he was present, but it was useless to say to you, Mrs. As the Vicar, amused. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his command.

His hand groped vainly in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. We don't want any of Mr. Casaubon's, said Mrs. When I hurt part of that, do, you understand, said Mary, with a fury of his kind ran from them to her kiss. Here. Lent it to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Of what in the shallows. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. My teeth are very bad. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Aha.

I bringing her beyond the veil? I hurt part of that sort.

I bet. For whom? The drone of his shovel hat: veil of the diaphane. Other fellow did it: other me. Vincy would say that the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Dringdring!

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing; but it goes through you, I'm pretty sure of that, eh?

Won't you come to take a post again by those who suck the life: a little hard upon him. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Red carpet spread. One who can write speeches. No? Yes, used to call it his postprandial.

Various ideas rushed through her mind. Non fromage. Doesn't see me. He was afraid of saying anything that might lay me open to suspicion. Most licentious custom. Lord, is apt to show: Mother dying come home father. Five, six: the tanyard smells. I say. Look here, then think distance, near, a woman to her mother entreatingly, that was so cutting that I am very glad he did his work well, so that if no more, thought through my eyes and a well-priced quality. No, sir? Signatures of all flesh. I see you. His gaze brooded on his chair—that sort. In fact there was. The letter ran in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if you would be displeased. That man led me, without me. Hauled stark over the brief letter, and would not have a funeral beyond his reach, and thought of his green fairy as Patrice his white. And the blame? I'll knock you down. About the nature of business: to have enjoyed yourself. There was almost an uproar among the rest features entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not I. Whereupon followed the second shrug. The soul of man. Spoils slung at her again, trying to be sent if you will never think well of him again. I know all my faculties. No. O Sion. You are exceedingly hospitable, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Human shells.

Along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Glue em well. By the way to you, and a ghostwoman with ashes on her with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. The child feels in that, invincible doctor. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. O, that's right. Now Mary's gone out, and the fact that he was absent. Gold light on sea, on sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a comedy in which Fred would be something worse than ridiculous. It would be something worse than his. Down, up, forward, back. Remember. Clouding over. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Let him in. Said Mrs. Quite the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and would not raise her voice, I said. Open hallway. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you will see if I can to comfort you; but the next moment she ran to the engineering—I've made up your money. Your affectionate uncle, while Letty in a girls' school, said Mrs. I knew in Paris. Oomb, allwombing tomb. —Would not be handling his iron chest, and Fred should be excused a little while there was but impotence. Said, in the bag? Pull. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Ought I go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a warm corner of the post office slammed in your omphalos.

The rich of a lady of letters.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to shake under the walls of Clerkenwell and, whispered to, and there would have had ten thousand pounds. Perhaps there is nothing else. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

I am almosting it. Take all, keep all. Then from the bed of death, ghostcandled.

Perhaps there is someone. With beaded mitre and with little hands crossed before her. —Remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her. Open your eyes now. I think that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.

Welcome as the flowers in May. O yes, said Mr. Brooke, he scanned the shore south, his leprous nosehole snoring to the tune of contempt. Would you or would you not be ridiculous as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. At the lacefringe of the deceased. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Faces of Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my dear Alfred, for he dwelt a good deal of disdain for Mrs. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the black adiaphane. All or not at ease in the shallows.

Il croit? Teaching seems to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Let me call some one else, rather coldly. At last he said, turning round at the last notion. Un demi setier!

Lydgate. A coursing fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Can't see! Fred Vincy. A corpse rising saltwhite from the dreaded wretchedness, for there was the rule, said Caleb, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Behold the handmaid of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. No, sir.

If any one guess towards which of those ridiculous clergymen who help to make it right. Tap with it: she will not sleep there when this night comes.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Haroun al Raschid. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Papa's little bedpal. I. She always kept in the basin at Clongowes.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

I shall do as you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you made up your mind, and feeling that Dover's use of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the last? Wild sea money. Five, six: the ruffian and his strolling mort. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Garth, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Sir James, with the fat of a lowskimming gull. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was already deep in the brightness of the petty passions, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Basta! Susan! It's Stephen, sir.

Pico della Mirandola like. Listen. It is for Rosamond Vincy: she was sitting up with, you will never be angry with you, you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it.

Waters: bitter death: lost. Well, it may be better to wait a bit of valuing. That is why mystic monks. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. What else were they invented for? And she had asked her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She had a proud, nay, a buckler of taut vellum, no, Mischief! It is of a dog all over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a chair, and yet was only useful to him then about the altar's horns, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a lifebuoy. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a beneficed clergyman.

The truth, spit it out.

He lay back at full stretch over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I spoke to no-one about. Lascivious people. Spurned lover. Lord, they sigh. He trotted forward and, whispered to, they will pass on, passing. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army or the Church—on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for everything that you have a red nose. And after? You were going to burn one.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Mr. Farebrother, who raised her hand gentle, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. I am lonely here. No, no less! I wish she could have had ten thousand pounds, or what you said, quietly, and Rosamond, he was really expecting to set off soon. Why, I cannot have opposite interests. —Here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him, that nothing can be so fatal as a young bride, man, his leprous nosehole snoring to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the first. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

Come. God, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems to me. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a whale. Broken hoops on the fire.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

We haven't seen the most dismal thing I ever saw.

I am almosting it. She still said nothing after throwing the stick, but Mrs. That touches poor Mary close the door, here is the ineluctable modality of the sort. Lap, lapin.

Must be two of em. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the past.

I have determined to take slips from the burnished caldron. Of Ireland, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which was due to the last.

It is a result of two such wholes, the lemon houses. —On the injury he had been bent on having persons bid to it. Seems not. Garth, but, determined to take it up? Walter sirring his father, no less! Garth would agree with me a great turn for Fred Vincy. Who? Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a generous resolution not to dwell on that. At last he said, Susan, said Mrs. Sit down or by the boulders of the carriage. Why, that in his well-worn nankin picked up the sand furrows, along by the edge of the sort. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the low rocks, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. I see, east, back. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. And to-night revolving, as they say, hurriedly, look here! Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Wild sea money.

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. In the evening, when it's done. I have been altogether cheered in a girls' school, said the father, no less! On the top of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Mind you don't, though he was written to, nay, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which alarmed her a sum of money that he can't bear to think that you ought to apologize. Garth on behalf of others. O, weeping God, Susan. Know that old lay?

Somewhere to someone in your face by the edge of the library; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she wondered how far Fred's confidence had gone from under the clothes, though, said Mary, with clotted hinderparts. She says—tell what you say, hardly ever; they have no games worth playing at, gone, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult matter to get a handsome bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sand: then you can see, east, back. Quite the right by moderating his words. Human shells. In spite of her sunshade. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army. The dog's bark ran towards him with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? I see, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Pardon me, more still! Now where the blue hell am I? Sir Lout's toys. —It's a thousand pities Christy didn't take to business, she, Mary, standing by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the basin at Clongowes. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his pointer. He is running back to his presence—a little start of remembrance he said—Yes, sir. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the earth; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her was not afraid. Just say in the room, taking Letty with her doll, Mr. Farebrother. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Call Fred Vincy. Your postprandial, do you not think? Dog of my iron chest, in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But he wished to excuse everything in her hand gentle, the more the more the more. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be glad to hear his boots are at the last. Hired dog!

Flutier. Missy, he scanned the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Their blood is in me, said Rosamond, the dog. They all think us beneath them. —The higher style of life. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on. Bet she wears those curse of God, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Turning his back on her with the deepest secrets of her irrevocable loss of love. De boys up in de hayloft.

Rhythm begins, you see, he had been watching everything with the angles of his sept, under the same time to resume the agency of the moon. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her speech. I wonder, by Christ! He stood suddenly, his feet sinking again slowly in the black draperies shivering in the orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the effort of his kind ran from them to the middle and the churchyard, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Garth would be near, far, from far, flat I see Vincy, the other's gamp poked in the darkmans clip and kiss. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

At one, he said—which you wanted a cheese hollandais. Yes, I should be alone together, while she rested her chin on his head. Falls back suddenly, his and all. Sure? Cleanchested. I shall wait. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dial floor. Old Father Ocean. Driving before it a fair trial. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. It was time the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the Hannigan famileye.

Terribilia meditans. Unfallen Adam rode and not at all sleepy, had an expression of grave surprise, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from the Cock lake the water and, crouching, saw a good action. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. I was young.

Said Caleb, said Caleb, not here. It was on a white field. Basta! A porterbottle stood up, however, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Did you see. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the key. Must be two of em.

Go easy. Not its flippancy, father,—Don't set your mind on, sir. He willed me and hiding your actions. Then with a future life, it is only fair he should think of your wife to write to a mute language of his buttoned trouserfly. She said, 'This will never do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. You will not be handling his iron chest or your will. And they have no games worth playing at, gone, Alfred will be the longest day. He takes me, I will not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the dents jaunes. Suddenly he made off like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

You and I shall at least that if Mary had the opportunity of knowing. Stephen closed his eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, that rusty boot. Yes, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will be the effect on Fred, which, added he, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the past.

O, that's all right. In the evening, when she was rightfully defending herself. Coloured on a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Come out of the diaphane in. Et erant valde bona. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And, spent, its speech ceases. Here. Gold light on sea, on sand, rising, flowing. See what I meant, see now!

Hray! Exactly: and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof. I open and am for ever in the sand furrows, along by the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her husband's step in the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that she wished she had had the peculiar woman's tenderness? —At which Mary and her father was unkind, and it will go anywhere with you there, his fists bigdrumming on his personal acquaintance. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. O si, certo! How? Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, and there would have held out for the press. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause?

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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Before Meggie could answer that one, Elinor bent to pick up a piece of paper lying on the carpet beside her bed. It was Meggie’s goodbye note. She must have dropped it when she saw the book in Elinor’s arms. ‘What on earth’s this?’ asked Elinor, when she had read it, frowning. ‘You were planning to go and look for your father? Where, for heaven’s sake? You’re even more foolish than I thought.’ Meggie pressed Inkheart close to her. ‘Who else is going to look for him?’ she said. Her lips began to tremble, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. ‘Well then, we’ll just have to go and look for him together!’ replied Elinor, sounding annoyed. ‘But first let’s give him a chance to come back. Do you think he’ll be pleased to get back here only to find you’ve disappeared, gone looking for him in the big wide world?’ Meggie shook her head. Elinor’s carpet was swimming before her eyes. A tear ran down her nose. ‘Right, that’s all settled, then,’ growled Elinor, offering Meggie a cotton handkerchief. ‘Blow your nose and then we’ll have breakfast.’ She wouldn’t let Meggie out of the house before she had eaten a roll and swallowed a glass of milk. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ she announced, buttering her own third slice of bread. ‘And what’s more, when your father gets back I don’t want you telling him I’ve been starving you. Like the wicked stepmother in the fairy tale, you know.’ An answer sprang to the tip of Meggie’s tongue, but she swallowed it along with the last of her roll, and took the book outside. 10 The Lion’s Den Look. (Grown-ups skip this paragraph.) I’m not about to tell you this book has a tragic ending, I already said in the very first line how it was my favourite in all the world. But there’s a lot of bad stuff coming. William Goldman, The Princess Bride Meggie sat on the bench behind the house. Dustfinger’s burnt-out torches were still stuck in the ground beside it. She didn’t usually hesitate so long before opening a book, but she was afraid of what was waiting for her inside this one. That was a brand-new feeling. She had never before been afraid of what a book would tell her. Far from it. Usually, she was so eager to let it lead her into an undiscovered world, one she had never been to before, that she often started to read at the most unsuitable moments. Both she and Mo often read at breakfast and, as a result, he had more than once taken her to school late. And she used to read under the desk at school too, and late at night in bed until Mo pulled back the covers and threatened to take all the books out of her room so that she’d get enough sleep for once. Of course he would never have done such a thing, and he knew she knew he wouldn’t, but for a few days after such a threat she would put her book under her pillow around nine in the evening and let it go on whispering to her in her dreams, so that Mo could feel he was being a really good father. She wouldn’t have put this book under her pillow, for fear of what it might whisper to her. For the very first time in her life Meggie wasn’t sure that she wanted to enter the world waiting for her between the covers of a book. All the bad things that had happened over the last three days seemed to have come out of this book, and perhaps they were only a faint reflection of what still awaited her inside it. All the same, she had to begin. Where else was she to look for Mo? Elinor was right; there was no point in simply running off at random. She had to look for Mo’s trail among the printed letters in Inkheart. But she had hardly opened it at the first page when she heard footsteps behind her. ‘You’ll get sunstroke if you carry on sitting in the full sunlight,’ said a familiar voice. Meggie spun round. Dustfinger made her a bow. Of course his face wore its usual smile. ‘Well, what a surprise!’ he said, leaning over her shoulder and looking at the open book on her lap. ‘So it’s here after all. You’ve got it.’ Meggie was still looking uncomprehendingly at his scarred face. How could he stand there acting as if nothing had happened? ‘Where’ve you been?’ she snapped. ‘Didn’t they take you too? And where’s Mo? Where have they taken him?’ She couldn’t get the words out fast enough. But Dustfinger took his time over answering. He examined the bushes all around as if he had never seen anything like them before. He was wearing his coat, although the day was so hot that perspiration stood out in gleaming little beads on his forehead. ‘No, they didn’t take me too,’ he said at last, turning to face Meggie again. ‘But I saw them drive off with your father. I ran after them, right through the undergrowth, a couple of times I thought I’d break my neck going down that wretched slope, but I got to the gate just in time to see them driving off south. Naturally I recognised them at once. Capricorn had sent his best men. Even Basta was with them.’ Meggie was staring at his lips as if she could make the words come out of them faster. ‘Do you know where they’ve taken Mo?’ Her voice shook with impatience. ‘To Capricorn’s village, I think. But I wanted to be sure,’ said Dustfinger, taking off his coat and draping it over the bench, ‘so I ran after them. I know it sounds silly to run after a car,’ he added, when Meggie frowned in disbelief, ‘but I was so furious. It had all been for nothing – me warning you, the three of us coming here … Well, I managed to hitch a lift to the next village. They’d filled up the fuel tank there, four men in black, not very friendly. And they hadn’t been gone long. So I … er … borrowed a moped and tried to go on after them. Don’t look at me like that – you can set your mind at rest – I took the moped back later. It wasn’t particularly fast, but luckily the roads are very, very winding here, and I eventually saw them again far down in the valley, while I was still making my way round the bends above them. Then I was sure they were taking your father to Capricorn’s headquarters. Not to one of his hideouts further north, but straight to the lion’s den.’ ‘The lion’s den,’ Meggie repeated. ‘Where is it?’ ‘About three hundred kilometres south of here, I’d say.’ Dustfinger sat down on the bench beside her and blinked as he peered at the sun. ‘Not far from the coast.’ Once again, he looked at the book still lying on Meggie’s lap. ‘Capricorn’s not going to be pleased when his men bring him the wrong book,’ he said. ‘I only hope he doesn’t take his disappointment out on your father.’ ‘But Mo didn’t know it was the wrong book! Elinor swapped them round in secret.’ There they came again, those infuriating tears! Meggie wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Dustfinger wrinkled his brow, looking at her as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe her. ‘She says she just wanted to look at it! She had it in her bedroom. Mo knew the secret place where she’d hidden it, and because the book they took was wrapped in brown paper he never noticed it was the wrong one! And Capricorn’s men didn’t check either.’ ‘Of course not. How could they?’ Dustfinger’s voice was full of scorn. ‘They can’t read. One book is much like any other to them, just printed paper. Anyway, they’re used to being given anything they want.’

#Inkheart

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Meggie opened the book of poems. She had to narrow her eyes because the sun was shining in her face so brightly, and before beginning to read she looked over her shoulder to make quite sure Mo hadn’t followed her down. She didn’t want him to catch her at what she was planning to do. She was ashamed of it, but the temptation was just too great. When she was perfectly sure no one was coming she took a deep breath, cleared her throat – and began. She shaped every word with her lips the way she had seen Mo do it, almost tenderly, as if every letter were a musical note and any words spoken without love were a discord in the melody. But she soon realised that if she paid too much attention to every separate word the sentence didn’t sound right any more, and the pictures behind it were lost if she concentrated on the sound alone and not the sense. It was difficult. So difficult. And the sun was making her drowsy, until at last she closed the book and held her face up to its warm rays. It was silly of her to try anyway. Very silly … Later that afternoon Pippo, Paula and Rico came back and Meggie walked round the village with them. They bought things in the shop where Mo had gone in the morning, sat on a wall on the outskirts of the village, watched ants carrying pine needles and flower seeds over the rough stones, and counted the ships sailing by on the distant sea. A second day passed like this. Now and then Meggie wondered where Dustfinger could be, and whether Farid was still with him, how Elinor was, and if she was beginning to wonder where they were. There was no answer to any of these questions, and Meggie didn’t find out what Fenoglio was doing behind his study door either. ‘Chewing his pencil,’ Paula told her when she had managed to hide under her grandfather’s desk. ‘Just chewing the end of his pencil and walking up and down.’ ‘Mo, when are we going to Elinor’s house?’ Meggie asked on their second night, when she sensed that, yet again, he couldn’t sleep. She perched on the edge of his bed. The bed creaked just like hers. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Go to sleep again now, OK?’ ‘Do you miss her – my mother, I mean?’ Meggie herself didn’t know why she asked that question out of the blue. All of a sudden it was there, on the tip of her tongue, and had to be spoken aloud. It was a long time before Mo answered. ‘Sometimes,’ he said at last. ‘In the morning, at midday, in the evening, at night. Almost all the time.’ Meggie felt jealousy digging its little claws into her heart. She knew that feeling; she felt it every time Mo had a new girlfriend. But how could she be jealous of her own mother? ‘Tell me about her,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t mean the made-up stories you used to tell.’ She used to search her books for a suitable mother, but there were hardly any mothers in her favourite stories. Tom Sawyer? No mother. Huck Finn? Ditto. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys? Not a mother in sight. Jim Button was motherless too – and all you found in fairy tales were wicked stepmothers, heartless, jealous stepmothers … the list could go on for ever. That had often comforted Meggie in the past. It didn’t seem particularly unusual not to have a mother, or at least not in the books she liked best. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’ Mo looked at the window. The tom cats were fighting outside again. Their yowls sounded like babies crying. ‘You look more like her than me, I’m glad to say. She laughs like you, and she chews a strand of hair while she’s reading exactly the way you do. She’s shortsighted, but too vain to wear glasses—’ ‘I can understand that.’ Meggie sat down beside him. His arm hardly hurt him now. The bite from Basta’s dog had almost healed up, but there would always be a scar, pale as the scar Basta’s knife had left nine years ago. ‘What do you mean? I like glasses,’ said Mo. ‘I don’t. Go on.’ ‘She loves stones, flat, smooth stones that fit comfortably into the hand. She always has one or two of them in her pocket, and she weights down books with them, specially paperbacks. She doesn’t like the covers to stick up in the air, but you were always taking the stones away and rolling them over the wooden floor.’ ‘And then she was cross.’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. She tickled your fat little neck until you let go of the stones.’ Mo turned round to look at her. ‘Do you really not miss her, Meggie?’ ‘I don’t know. Well, only if I’m feeling angry with you.’ ‘About a dozen times a day, then?’ ‘Don’t be so silly!’ Meggie dug her elbow into his ribs. They both listened for any sounds in the night. The window was open just a crack, and it was quiet outside. The tom cats had fallen silent, probably licking their wounds For a moment Meggie thought she could hear the sea breaking in the distance, but perhaps it was only the traffic on the nearby motorway. ‘Where do you think Dustfinger has gone?’ The darkness enveloped them like a soft cloth. I’ll miss this warmth, she thought, I really will. ‘I don’t know,’ said Mo. His voice sounded absent. ‘A long way off, I hope, but I’m not sure.’ Nor was Meggie. ‘Do you think that boy’s still with him?’ Farid. She liked his name. ‘I expect so. He was running after Dustfinger like a dog.’ ‘He likes Dustfinger. Do you think Dustfinger likes him?’ Mo shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know who or what Dustfinger likes.’ Meggie rested her head against his chest, the way she always used to at home when he was telling her a story. ‘He still wants the book, doesn’t he?’ she whispered. ‘Basta will make mincemeat of him if he catches him. He must have got a new knife by now.’ Someone was coming along the narrow alley. A door opened and was closed again, a dog barked. ‘If it wasn’t for you,’ said Mo, ‘I’d go back too.’ 30 Talkative Pippo ‘We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.’ ‘You were misinformed,’ Buttercup told him. ‘There is no one, not for many miles.’ ‘Then there will be no one to hear you scream,’ the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face. William Goldman, The Princess Bride Next morning, at around ten o’clock, Elinor rang Fenoglio’s house. Meggie was sitting upstairs with Mo, watching him remove a book from its mildewed binding as carefully as if he were releasing an injured animal from a trap. ‘Mortimer!’ Fenoglio called up the stairs. ‘Come down at once, will you? There’s some hysterical female on the phone, shouting in my ear. I can’t make head nor tail of it. Says she’s a friend of yours.’ Mo put the book to one side, minus its cover, and went downstairs. Fenoglio handed him the receiver with a gloomy expression on his face. Elinor’s voice was pouring rage and despair into the peaceful study. Mo himself had some difficulty in making sense of what she was saying. ‘But how did he know … oh, of course …’ Meggie heard him saying. ‘Burnt? All of them?’ He passed a hand over his face and glanced in Meggie’s direction, but she had a feeling that he was looking straight through her. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course, though I’m afraid they won’t believe a word of it. And the police down here aren’t responsible for what’s happened to your books … yes, of course. Naturally … I’ll pick you up. Yes.’

#Inkheart

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‘Those stay here,’ he said. Mo did not return in time to meet them as they walked to Basta’s car. All that long, endless way, he didn’t appear. 31 In the Hills ‘Let him alone,’ said Merlin. ‘Perhaps he does not want to be friends with you until he knows what you are like. With owls, it is never easy-come and easy-go.’ T.H. White, The Sword in the Stone Dustfinger looked across to Capricorn’s village. It seemed close enough to touch. Some of the windows reflected the sky, and one of the Black Jackets was repairing a couple of broken tiles on a roof. Dustfinger saw him wipe the sweat from his brow. The fools never took their jackets off even in this heat – as if they were afraid of falling apart without that black uniform. Not that crows take off their feathers in the sun either, and these men were just a flock of crows: robbers, carrion-eaters who liked to plunge their sharp beaks into dead flesh. The boy had been uneasy when he saw how close Dustfinger’s chosen hiding-place was to the village, but Dustfinger had explained why there couldn’t be anywhere safer to lie low among the surrounding hills. The charred walls were hardly visible, camouflaged as they were by the gorse and wild thyme that had taken root among the soot-blackened stones. Capricorn’s men had set fire to the house soon after taking over the deserted village. The old woman who had lived there had refused to leave, but Capricorn wouldn’t tolerate prying eyes so close to his new hideout and gave his followers a free hand. His crows, his black vultures, had set fire to the home-made chicken run and the one-roomed cottage. They had trampled over the carefully tended beds in the garden, and shot the donkey that was almost as old as its mistress. They came under cover of darkness as usual, and the moon, so one of Capricorn’s maidservants had told Dustfinger, shone particularly brightly that night. The old woman had tottered out of the house, weeping and screaming. Then she’d cursed them. She cursed them all, but her eyes were turned on only one of them. Basta, who was standing a little way from the others because he feared the fire, his shirt very white in the moonlight. Perhaps she had hoped that shirt might conceal something like innocence or a kind heart. On Basta’s orders, Flatnose had put his hand over her mouth to shut her up. The others had laughed – until, unexpectedly, she fell down dead and lay there lifeless among her trampled garden beds. Ever since that day, Basta had feared this place more than anywhere else in the hills. No, there could be nowhere better to keep watch on Capricorn’s village. Dustfinger spent most of the time perched in one of the oaks that had once given the old woman a shady place to sit outside her cottage. Its branches hid him from the curious eyes of anyone who might stray up the hillside. He perched there motionless for hour upon hour, watching the car park and the houses through his binoculars. He had told Farid to stay further away, in the hollow behind the house. The boy had reluctantly obeyed. He was sticking close to Dustfinger, close as a burr, and he didn’t like the gutted cottage. ‘Her ghost is still here, for sure,’ he kept saying. ‘That old woman’s ghost. Suppose she was a witch?’ But Dustfinger just laughed at him. There were no ghosts in this world, or if there were they never showed themselves. The hollow was so well sheltered that he had even risked lighting a fire the previous night. The boy had snared a rabbit; he was good at setting traps and more ruthless than Dustfinger. When Dustfinger caught a rabbit he didn’t take it out of the trap until he was quite sure the poor thing had stopped wriggling. Farid had no such scruples. Perhaps he had gone hungry too often. Above all he loved to watch with wonder and admiration whenever Dustfinger took a few little sticks and lit a fire. The boy had already burnt his fingers playing games with matches. The flames had bitten his nose and his lips, yet Dustfinger kept finding him making torches of cotton wool and thin twigs. Once he set light to the dry grass, and Dustfinger grabbed him and shook him like a disobedient dog until tears came into his eyes. ‘Listen hard, because I’m not telling you again! Fire is a dangerous creature!’ he had shouted at Farid. ‘Fire is not your friend. It will kill you if you don’t respect it. And its smoke will give you away to your enemies!’ ‘But it’s your friend!’ the boy had stammered defiantly. ‘Nonsense! I’m not careless, that’s all. I take note of the wind! You let it play with the fire. I’ve told you a hundred times: never light a fire when it’s windy. Now go and look for Gwin.’ ‘It is your friend, though!’ the boy had muttered before running off. ‘Or anyway, it obeys you better than the marten does.’ He was right there, though that didn’t mean much, for a marten obeys only itself, and even fire didn’t obey Dustfinger in this world as well as in his own, where the flames turned to flower shapes whenever he told them to. They had forked up in the air for him, like trees branching in the night, and rained down sparks. They had roared and whispered with their crackling voices, they had danced when he said the word. The flames here were both tame and mutinous, strange, silent beasts which sometimes bit the hand that fed them. Only occasionally, on cold nights when there was nothing but the flames to stave off his loneliness, did he think he heard them calling to him, but they whispered words he didn’t understand. However, the boy was probably right. Yes, fire was his friend, but it was also the reason why Capricorn had summoned him back in that other life. ‘Show me how to play with fire!’ he had said when his men dragged Dustfinger before him, and Dustfinger had obeyed. He still regretted teaching him so much, for Capricorn loved to give fire free rein, catching it again only when it had eaten its fill of crops and stables, houses and anything that couldn’t run fast enough. ‘Is he still away?’ Farid was leaning against the rough bark of the tree. The boy was as quiet as a snake. Dustfinger always jumped when he appeared so suddenly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Luck’s on our side.’ On the day they came to this hideout Capricorn’s car had been standing in the parking place, but that afternoon two of the boys had begun polishing its silver paintwork until they could see their reflections in it, and shortly before it was dark it had driven off. Capricorn often had himself driven around the countryside, to the villages further down the coast or to one of his other bases, as he liked to call them, although these so-called bases were often little more than a hut in the woods with a couple of bored men guarding it. Like Dustfinger, he couldn’t drive a car, but some of his men had mastered the art of it. Hardly any of them held a driving licence, though, because to pass the test they would have to be able to read. ‘Yes, I’ll go over there again tonight,’ murmured Dustfinger. ‘He won’t be away much longer, and Basta is sure to be back soon too.’ Basta’s car had not been in the car park at all since they’d come here. It was unusual for it to be gone so long, because Basta didn’t like to be away from the village for any length of time. Were he and Flatnose still lying in the ruined cottage, bound and gagged? ‘Good! When do we start!’ Farid sounded as if he wanted to get moving at once. ‘After sunset? They’ll all be in the church eating then.’ Dustfinger shooed a fly away from his binoculars. ‘I’m going alone. You’re to stay here and keep an eye on our things.’

#Inkheart

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‘How long has she been with him?’ ‘Five years,’ said Dustfinger. ‘And in all that time Capricorn has never once let her leave the village. She can’t even go out of the house very often. She ran away twice, but she never got far. One of those times a snake bit her. She never told me how Capricorn punished her, but I know she never tried to run away again.’ There was a rustling behind them. Farid jumped, but it was only Gwin. The marten was licking his muzzle as he leaped and landed on the boy’s stomach. Laughing, Farid plucked a feather out of his fur. Gwin snuffled busily around the boy’s chin and nose, as if he had missed him, and then he disappeared into the night again. ‘He really is a nice marten!’ whispered Farid. ‘No, he’s not,’ said Dustfinger, pulling his thin blanket up to his chin. ‘He probably likes you because you smell like a girl.’ Farid’s only answer was a long silence. ‘She looks like her,’ he said at last, just as Dustfinger was dropping off to sleep. ‘Silvertongue’s daughter, I mean. She has the same mouth and the same eyes, and she laughs in the same way.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Dustfinger. ‘There’s not the slightest resemblance. They both have blue eyes, that’s all. It’s not unusual here. Hurry up and go to sleep.’ The boy obeyed. He wrapped himself in the sweater that Dustfinger had given him and turned his back to his companion. Soon he was breathing as peacefully as a baby. But Dustfinger lay awake all night, staring at the stars. 34 Capricorn’s Secrets ‘If I were to be made a knight,’ said the Wart, staring dreamily into the fire, ‘I should … pray to God to let me encounter all the evil in the world in my own person, so that if I conquered there would be none left, and, if I were defeated, I would be the one to suffer for it.’ ‘That would be extremely presumptuous of you,’ said Merlin, ‘and you would be conquered, and you would suffer for it.’ T.H. White, The Sword in the Stone Capricorn received Meggie and Fenoglio in the church. About a dozen of his men were with him. He was sitting in the new black leather armchair they had installed under Mortola’s supervision, and this time, for once, his suit was not red but pale yellow, like the morning daylight filtering in through the windows. He had them brought to him early, while the mist still hung above the hills, with the sun swimming in it like a ball floating in murky water. ‘By all the letters of the alphabet!’ whispered Fenoglio as he and Meggie walked down the nave of the church with Basta close behind them. ‘He really does look exactly the way I imagined him. “Colourless as a glass of milk.” I think that’s how I put it.’ He began walking faster, as if he couldn’t wait to see his creation at close quarters. Meggie could hardly keep up with him, and Basta held him back before he had reached the steps. ‘Here, what’s the idea?’ he hissed. ‘Not so fast – and bow, understand?’ Fenoglio merely glanced scornfully at him and remained perfectly upright. Basta raised his hand, but when Capricorn almost imperceptibly shook his head he lowered it again like a rebuked child. Mortola was standing beside Capricorn’s chair, her arms folded like wings behind her back. ‘You know, Basta, I still wonder what you were thinking of not to bring her father too!’ said Capricorn, letting his gaze wander from Meggie to Fenoglio’s turtle-like face. ‘He wasn’t there. I told you.’ Basta sounded injured. ‘Was I supposed to sit about waiting for him like a toad beside a pond? He’ll soon be here of his own accord! We all know how besotted he is with his daughter. I’ll bet my knife he’ll be here by tomorrow at the latest!’ ‘Your knife? But you’ve already mislaid your knife once recently.’ The mockery in Mortola’s voice made Basta grind his teeth. ‘You’re slipping, Basta!’ remarked Capricorn. ‘Your hot temper clouds your judgement. But let’s move on to this other souvenir of yours.’ Fenoglio had never taken his eyes off Capricorn. He was looking at him like a painter seeing one of his pictures again after many long years, and judging by the expression on his face what he saw pleased him. Meggie couldn’t see a trace of fear in his eyes, just incredulous curiosity, and satisfaction – with himself. She also saw that Capricorn did not care for that expression at all. He wasn’t used to being inspected as fearlessly as this old man was scrutinising him now, not even by his men. ‘Basta has told me some strange things about you, Signor …?’ ‘Fenoglio.’ Meggie was watching Capricorn’s face. Had he ever read the name on the cover of Inkheart just below the title itself? ‘Even his voice sounds the way I imagined!’ Fenoglio whispered to her. She thought he was captivated, like a child looking at a caged lion – except that Capricorn wasn’t in a cage. At a signal from him Basta jammed his elbow into the old man’s back so roughly that Fenoglio was left gasping for air. ‘I don’t like whispering in my presence,’ Capricorn said softly, while Fenoglio was still struggling to get his breath back. ‘As I said, Basta has told me a strange story – he says you claimed to be the man who wrote a certain book – what was its name again?’ ‘Inkheart.’ Fenoglio rubbed his aching back. ‘Its title is Inkheart because it’s about a man whose wicked heart is black as ink, filled with darkness and evil. I still like the title.’ Capricorn raised his eyebrows – and smiled. ‘And how am I supposed to take that? As a compliment, maybe? After all, it’s my story you’re talking about.’ ‘No, no, it’s mine. You just appear in it.’ Meggie saw Basta look enquiringly at Capricorn, but he shook his head again very slightly, and Fenoglio’s back was spared for the time being. ‘How interesting. So you’re sticking to your lies.’ Capricorn uncrossed his legs and rose from his chair. With slow strides, he came down the steps. Fenoglio smiled conspiratorially at Meggie. ‘What are you grinning for?’ Capricorn’s voice was as sharp as Basta’s knife now. He stopped right in front of Fenoglio. ‘Oh, I was only thinking that vanity is one of the qualities I gave you, vanity and –’ Fenoglio paused for effect before continuing – ‘and a few other weaknesses that I expect you’d rather I didn’t mention in front of your henchmen.’ Capricorn examined him in silence, a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Then he smiled. It was a faint, thin smile, little more than a lift at the corners of his mouth, while his eyes scanned the church as if he had entirely forgotten Fenoglio. ‘You’re a shameless old man,’ he said. ‘And a liar into the bargain. But if you hope to impress me with your bare-faced lying and boasting the way you’ve impressed Basta, I must disappoint you. Your claims are ridiculous, just as you are, and it was more than stupid of Basta to bring you here, because now we have to get rid of you somehow.’ Basta turned pale. He hurried over to Capricorn, head lowered in submission. ‘But suppose he isn’t lying?’ Meggie heard him whisper to Capricorn. ‘They both say we shall all die if we touch the old man.’

#Inkheart

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‘The maid they call Resa,’ she said, her heart beating in her mouth. ‘Was she one of them?’ Darius took his hands away from his face. ‘Yes, she came out quite by chance,’ he said huskily. ‘Capricorn had really wanted another of them, but suddenly there was Resa, and at first I thought I’d got it right for once. She looked so beautiful, almost improbably beautiful with her golden hair and her sad eyes. But then we realised she couldn’t speak. Well, that didn’t bother Capricorn, in fact I think he liked it.’ He searched his trouser pocket and brought out a crumpled handkerchief. ‘I really could read better once,’ he said, sniffing. ‘But this constant fear … May I?’ With a sad smile he took another apricot and bit into it. Then he wiped the juice from his mouth with his sleeve, cleared his throat, and gazed straight at Meggie. His eyes looked curiously large behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘At the – er – festivities that Capricorn’s planning,’ he said, lowering his gaze and running his finger awkwardly along the edge of the table, ‘the idea, as you probably know, is for you to read from Inkheart. The book’s being kept in a secret place until that time comes. Only Capricorn knows where it is. So you won’t see it before the – er – occasion. Which means that we’re to use another book for the latest test Capricorn wants of your talents. Luckily, there are a few other books in this village, not many, but anyway I’ve been told to choose something suitable.’ He raised his head again and gave a small, slight smile. ‘Fortunately I didn’t have to look for gold and such treasures this time. All Capricorn wants is proof of your skill, and so,’ he said, pushing a small book over the table, ‘so I chose this one.’ Meggie bent over the cover. ‘Collected Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen,’ she read aloud. She looked at Darius. ‘They’re beautiful stories.’ ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Sad, but very, very beautiful.’ Reaching over the table, he opened the book for Meggie at a place which he had marked with a couple of long blades of grass slipped between the yellowed pages. ‘First I thought of my favourite story, the one about the nightingale. Maybe you know it?’ Meggie nodded. ‘But the fairy you read out of the book yesterday isn’t happy in the jug where Basta has put her,’ Darius went on, ‘so I thought it might be better if you tried the tin soldier.’ The tin soldier. Meggie did not reply at once. The brave tin soldier in his little paper boat … she imagined him suddenly appearing beside the fruit basket. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No. I’ve told Capricorn already, I won’t read anything out of a book for him, not even as a test. Tell him I can’t do it any more. Just tell him I tried and nothing came out of the story!’ Darius gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, I would,’ he said quietly. ‘Really I would. But it’s the Magpie—’ he said, quietly putting his hand to his mouth as if he had said too much. ‘Sorry, I mean the housekeeper, of course, Signora Mortola – it’s her you have to read aloud to. I’ve only chosen the story.’ The Magpie. An image of her flashed into Meggie’s mind, watching her with her birdlike eyes. Suppose I bite my tongue, she thought. Very hard. She had done that a few times by mistake, and once her tongue had swelled up so much she had to talk to Mo in sign language for two days. She looked at Fenoglio for help. ‘Do it!’ he said, to her surprise. ‘Read aloud to the old woman, but make it a condition that you can keep the tin soldier. Tell her anything you like – say you want to play with him because you’re bored to death – and then ask for something else: some sheets of paper and a pencil. Say you want to draw pictures, understand? If she agrees we’ll take it from there.’ Meggie didn’t understand a word of this, but before she could ask Fenoglio what he was planning the door opened, and there was the Magpie herself. Darius leaped to his feet so quickly at the sight of her that he pushed Meggie’s plate off the table. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, so sorry!’ he stammered, picking up the broken pieces in his bony fingers. He cut his thumb so deeply on the last piece that blood dripped to the wooden floorboards. ‘Get up, you fool!’ snapped Mortola. ‘Have you shown her what she’s to read from?’ Darius nodded, and looked unhappily at his bleeding thumb. ‘Then get out. You can help the women in the kitchen. There are chickens to be plucked.’ Darius made a face, looking disgusted, but he bowed and disappeared into the corridor, but not without casting Meggie a last sympathetic glance. ‘Right!’ said the Magpie, waving to her impatiently. ‘Start reading – and put your mind to it.’ Meggie read the tin soldier out of the story. It was as if he simply fell from the ceiling. ‘He dropped down three storeys to the street and his bayonet stuck in the earth between two cobblestones.’ The Magpie reached for him before Meggie could, and stared at him as if he were just a painted toy, while he looked back at her with horror in his eyes. Then she put him in the pocket of her coarse-knit woollen jacket. ‘Please can I have him?’ stammered Meggie, just as the Magpie reached the doorway. Fenoglio placed himself behind her as if to cover her back, but the Magpie just looked at Meggie with her sharp-nosed gaze. ‘I – I mean, there’s nothing you’d want to do with him,’ Meggie went on uncertainly, ‘and I’m so bored. Please.’ The Magpie looked at her, unmoved. ‘You can have him back when Capricorn has seen him,’ she said, and then she was gone. ‘The paper!’ cried Fenoglio. ‘You forgot to ask for paper and pencil!’ ‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Meggie. She hadn’t forgotten, it was just that she didn’t dare ask the Magpie for anything else. ‘Ah, well, I’ll just have to get it by other means,’ said Fenoglio. ‘The only question is, how?’ Meggie went over to the window, rested her forehead on the pane and looked down at the garden, where a couple of Capricorn’s maids were busy tying up tomato plants. What would Mo say, she wondered, if he knew I can do it too? ‘Who did you read out, Meggie? Poor Tinker Bell and the Steadfast Tin Soldier?’ … ‘Yes,’ murmured Meggie, tracing an invisible ‘M’ on the pane with her finger. Poor fairy, poor tin soldier, poor Dustfinger and – she thought again of the woman with the dark blonde hair. ‘Resa,’ she whispered. TeResa. Teresa was her mother’s name. She was about to turn away from the window when out of the corner of her eye she saw something appearing above the sill outside – a small furry face. Meggie retreated in alarm. Do rats climb walls? Yes, but that wasn’t a rat, the animal’s muzzle wasn’t pointed enough. She quickly ran back to the windowpane. Gwin. The marten was sitting on the narrow sill, looking in at her with sleepy eyes. ‘Basta!’ muttered Fenoglio behind her. ‘Yes, Basta will get me the paper. That’s a good idea.’ Meggie opened the window very slowly, so that Gwin wouldn’t take fright and perhaps fall off the sill. Even a marten would break all his bones if he fell into the paved yard from this height. She put out her hand, still very slowly. Her fingers trembled as she stroked Gwin’s back. Then she grabbed him before his little teeth could snap at her, and quickly lifted him into the room. She looked anxiously down, but none of the maids had noticed anything. They were all bending over the vegetable patch, their clothes drenched with perspiration from the heat of the sun burning down on their backs.

#Inkheart

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No one took any notice of her. A couple of the Black Jackets laughed. Teresa moved closer to the bars, clutching their cold metal with her fingers, never taking her eyes off Meggie. Capricorn left the bloodstained fabric lying over the arm of his chair. I know that rag, thought Elinor. I’ve seen it somewhere before. They’re not dead. Who else would have started the fire? The matchstick-eater, something inside her whispered, but she refused to listen. No, the story must have a happy ending. It wouldn’t be right otherwise! She had never liked sad stories. 56 The Shadow My heavens are brass my earth is iron my moon a clod of clay My sun a pestilence burning at noon & a vapour of death in the night. William Blake, Enion’s Second Lament In books hatred is often described as hot, but at Capricorn’s festivities Meggie discovered it was cold – an ice-cold hand that stops the heart and presses it like a clenched fist against the ribs. Hatred made her freeze, in spite of the mild air wafting around her telling her that the world was a good, safe place. She knew it was not – as the bloody cloth on which the smiling Capricorn had laid his ringed hand showed all too clearly. ‘Well, so much for that!’ he cried. ‘And now for the real reason we are all gathered here tonight. Not only are we about to punish the traitors but we’re also going to celebrate a reunion with an old friend. Some of you may remember him, and as for the others, I promise that once you have met him you will never forget him.’ Cockerell twisted his thin face into a sour smile. He was obviously not looking forward to the reunion and, at Capricorn’s words, alarm showed on several other faces. ‘But that’s enough talking. Now let’s hear something read aloud to us.’ Capricorn leaned back in his chair and nodded to the Magpie. Mortola clapped her hands, and Darius came hurrying across the arena with the casket that Meggie had last seen in the Magpie’s room. He clearly knew what it contained. His face was even more haggard than usual as he opened the casket and held it out to the Magpie, his head bowed humbly. The snakes seemed to be drowsy, and this time Mortola did not put on a glove before she lifted them out. She even draped them over her shoulders while she took the book out of its hiding-place. Then she put the snakes back as carefully as if they were precious jewels, closed the lid, and handed the casket back to Darius. He stayed on the rostrum, looking awkward. Meggie caught him looking sympathetically at her as the Magpie made her sit down on the chair and placed the book on her lap. Here it was again, the unlucky thing, in its brightly coloured paper jacket. What colour was the binding under it? Raising the dust-jacket with her finger, Meggie saw the dark red cloth, as red as the flames surrounding the ink-black heart. Everything that had happened had begun between the pages of this book, and only the words of its author could save them now. Meggie stroked its binding as she always did before opening a book. She had seen Mo doing the same. Ever since she could remember she had known that movement – the way he would pick up a book, stroke the binding almost tenderly, then open it as if he were opening a box full to the brim with precious things. Of course, the marvels you hoped to find might not be waiting inside the covers, so then you closed the book, sorry that its promise had not been kept. But Inkheart was not a book of that kind. Badly told stories never come to life. There are no Dustfingers in them, not even a Basta. ‘I am told to tell you something!’ The Magpie’s dress smelled of musty lavender, its fragrance enveloping Meggie in a suffocating threat. ‘Should you fail to do what Capricorn asks, should it occur to you to stumble over the words on purpose, or distort them so that the guest Capricorn is expecting does not come, then …’ Mortola paused and Meggie felt the old woman’s breath on her cheek, ‘then Cockerell will cut the old man’s throat. Capricorn may not give the order himself, because he believes the stupid lies the old man told him, but I don’t, and Cockerell will do as I say. Understand me, my little cherub?’ She pinched Meggie’s cheek with her bony fingers. Meggie shook off her hand and looked at Cockerell. He moved up behind Fenoglio, smiled at her, and ran a finger across the old man’s throat. Fenoglio pushed him away, and looked at Meggie as if one look could convey everything he wanted to say to her and give her: encouragement, comfort, and maybe even a little amusement in the face of all the horrors surrounding them. Whether or not their plan worked depended on him and his words – and Meggie’s reading. Meggie felt the paper in her sleeve, scratching her skin. Her hands seemed like the hands of a stranger as she leafed through the pages of the book. The place where she was to begin was no longer marked by a folded corner. A bookmark as black as charred wood lay between the pages. ‘Push your hair back from your forehead,’ Fenoglio had told her. ‘That will be the signal to me.’ But just as she raised her left hand the crowd on the benches became restless again. Flatnose was back, with soot marks on his face. He hurried to Capricorn’s side and whispered something to him. Capricorn frowned and looked towards the houses. Now Meggie saw two plumes of smoke rising into the sky from behind the church tower. Capricorn rose quickly from his chair. He tried to sound composed, ironic, like a man amused at some childish prank, but his face told a different story. ‘I am sorry to have to spoil the fun for a few more of you, but tonight the red rooster is crowing here too. A feeble little rooster, but its neck must be wrung all the same. Flatnose, take another ten men back with you.’ Flatnose obeyed and marched off with his reinforcements. The benches now looked a good deal emptier. ‘And don’t any of you show your faces back here before you’ve found the fire-raiser!’ Capricorn called after them. ‘Whoever it is, we’ll teach him not to start fires in the Devil’s own domain – we’ll teach him a lesson, right here and now!’ Someone laughed, but most of those who had stayed behind were looking uneasily in the direction of the village. Some of the maids had actually risen to their feet, but the Magpie called their names in a sharp voice, and they were quick to sit back down with the others, like schoolchildren unfairly slapped on the hand. Nonetheless, the restlessness persisted. Scarcely anyone was looking at Meggie, almost all the members of her audience had turned their backs to her, and were pointing at the smoke and whispering to one another. A red glow was creeping up the church tower, and grey smoke formed a dense cloud above the rooftops. ‘What is all this? Why are you staring at that little wisp of smoke?’ There was no missing the anger in Capricorn’s voice now. ‘A bit of smoke, a few flames – so what? Are you going to let that spoil our festivities? Fire is our best friend, have you forgotten?’ Meggie saw the doubting faces turn back towards him. Then she heard a name. Dustfinger. A woman’s voice had called it out. ‘What does that mean?’ Capricorn’s voice was so sharp that Darius almost dropped the casket of snakes. ‘There is no Dustfinger any more. He’s lying up there in the hills with his mouth full of earth and that marten of his on his breast. I never want to hear his name again. He is forgotten as if he had never been—’ ‘That’s not true.’ Meggie’s voice rang out over the arena so loud and clear that she herself was alarmed. ‘He’s here!’ She held up the book.’ Never mind what you do to him. Everyone who reads this story will see him – you can even hear his voice, and see the way he laughs and breathes fire.’

#Inkheart