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The Mere Tide

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  #151  
Old 11-17-2017, 06:20 PM
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Big update this week so Ill see you Friday after next. Walls of text for the fuckin win

She regained the road about the dawn. There was no traffic and the iced over potholes were like vestigial eyes sealed over by cataracts. In this new day the bosk thrawns looked like collections of spindles bereft of their nocturnal menace. As if there were something inherently fraudulent in the tides of light masking the world. And what would happen were it unscabbed? Would fangs be bared? Or would the skiddish weavers of the world scuttle away like insects befrighted by day? Or would they wick cackling reseam the weft?

She crutched all day the same dystopic pastoralism alike for miles. Where colporteurs in their thousands fled the predations of heathen they sought to convert. A few winter crops were undergoing harvest by automated tractors. Flaughts of crows. A passenger jet en route to Nihon. A naked ragpicker of a pelican rummaging through a loess of trash in the apron of a culvert. A phlegmatic sun languorously entrained upon a route traceable by the faintest bilge of light through the overcast. She watered frequently at sike and trough and as often wet herself. She fashioned a pad of grass to wear but she couldnt make it stay and eventually gave it up.
This while she had been keeping her wounded foot aloft to clear it of the disfigurements of the road but now she convinced herself it was exhaustion that dipped her leg so, self-pity abiding the assumption that righteousness accompanies self-persecution, and her foot snagged on the fissured humps or the frost heave or the longitudinal ruts.

A little before noon she rested at a turnpike. Sitting on the curb dropping bottlecaps through the spokes of a windspun bikewheel. All marked by a flare of their corrugated rims. Tokens littered the floor of the booth whereby she recuperated. Laminated receipts and timestamps and a few electric scrolls or pass cards, their photoreceptors damaged beyond repair. From amongst them she picked up a quarter and about to drop it into the blur of spokes the wind twisted a snowspout out of the field across the road in a sudden revelation of the linearity of time. That if a road were followed long enough there would be an end and in the ensuing panic realized there need not even be a road and then she realized that things could be as a road and perhaps this mastic once hide of thing or things flensed in a long ago, cured by means arcane and nefandrous and stretched out for the conveyance of traffic and who gambreled up the beast of time and dressed it of its meat and what mad tailor more horrible yet parceled it out just so? The twister swelled a ponderous suspension of spiral tabasheer strings and raked through the heather towards her and she rose to receive it and it did lurch into her and break in its chill breath that resolved it to nothing.

And she turned back to discover a pattern, some stitchery flaw by means of which it would be possible to discern news yonder of the veil or nature of the flayer and not without a vague dread for what hunter knew not when it was hunted.

In two hours she found the the pelican still at its pickings in the culvert. Regarding its glabrous hide the color of lead she suspected the god of this world unversed in the proper manner of his creatings. She eased down the embankment. The pelican looked up with dull beggar hostility before returning to its picking. Dachni hobbled almost within reach and it looked again. Even in its wretched state it seemed contemptful, imbued with that same disdain that keeps those cups empty which the dregs hold up in supplication from sidewalk and curb. She stood one footed and lifted the nagant to a right angle and fell forward. The bayonet pierced the breast of that featherless fowl and it flapped its batwings and honked wildly and drew blood from her forehead with a stab of its blunted bill. It got her hand in its mouth and she seized its neck and closed its windpipe while it beat at her with its wings and dragged her through the garbage. She got her hand free of its mouth and groped for weapon and came up with a can lid. She sliced its edge against the offorange leg and the leg retracted upwards. She let go the pelican throat and grabbed the leg and pulled it down and sawed it off. The pelican pecked a bloody shotpatch out of her neck. She cut it again. Her own palm bled, a spur ratched in a fingerbone. She cut the bird to the ribs and the bird jabbed welts out of her shoulder. She got the bird's neck again and made a wicked slice and the neck deflated in her hand. They toppled together. Her with head under a wing as if it was comforting her while she gathered breath. Her front freshened with blood. After a minute she pushed the wing off and threw away the lid and searched for something with which to put the things eyes out. A teaspoon. She pinned the bird by its bill and scooped out the jelly of its eye. It honked, its neckpouch inflating like a frog. She levered the head the other way with the bill and foredid its other eye. The bird lay quietly then. As if the darkness were a comfort. She felt the ground what of it wasnt covered by trash but the earth she clawed would yield to no less than a steamshovel. She dug in the trash. When she had made a sizable pit she committed the pelican. A froth bubbled out of its neck like a leak in a hose. It reared up squawking with a last strength and she pushed it back down with what felt the last of her own and then she buried it.

When she climbed out it was almost dark, a faint beige dusk draining in the west. Cresting the breezeblock wingwall she saw a fire ahead on the road. A geist fire. Maybe a mile distant, maybe less. Radiant like the corpse of ouroboros racked to a wheel. She sighted low to see were any set to it but it was too far to be told and she climbed out the rest of the way and went on stopping to check and little by little divine a figure kowtowing to the flames. A pensioned homunculus or so she surmised reposed as the weary glumpish goodsire contrived to this forlorn waste by circumstances not much removed from her own. Nearer she thought him hatted. Nearer still Catholic yet just as she was about to conclude him he was dispelled into darkness. She stopped. The fire had flared over him and then he wasnt there anymore. She studied the fire but there was no one there. She circled the fire as if he might have gone there to hide. The coal had been laid out well and the mud was tracked but nary was any traveler. She walked out into the dark and stood a long while listening and she heard a screechowl and the rustle of mammals in the grass and heard trains threading a more distant part of the night and heard the wind and thought she heard other things but didnt. Of those sounds heard and misheard she heard no travelers and she went on but in another mile there was a second fire, mirror to the first. She looked back. The first fire was unchanged and someone did seem in its attendance, some retrograde wayfarer owing his existence to the hearsay of parallax. The fire ahead also appeared to warm a traveler and though more cautious in her approach and circumspect in her observations yet the figure assumed the character of a fugitive, concretum felon of indubious reality that at the moment of full perception evaporated. As if she had transgressed upon the lines of a palinode wherein those alluded to are at the moment of their witness recalled. She looked back to find the first fire sat now two fragmentary hints of wayfarers and a sickness coiled in her throat and the bloodfilled timepiece suspended within hammered at its brindled cage as if it would desert and leave her with her adulterated logos alone.

She turned off the road into farmland. A fallow field where shocks of barely from a bygone harvest moldered like an abandoned hamlet and where random lengths of discarded fencing interrupted the furrows some with the tusked skulls of boars nailed to the posts, some with scapulars of gapemouthed trout or pike jaded a sulfurous gamboge. She crossed an irrigation ditch where past ondings had formed windrows and she crossed a dirt road in which were preserved the goings of machinery wheeled or tracked. A field of carrots. A mile saw a wood between her and the fires and she went another three miles and stopped.

In this rustica that was as a plane she bedded upon a pitted stretch of flintshards and shivered in the inevitable drawing down towards the sublime inertia of perfected order. A darkness absolute reminiscent of ran. In her nascent twilight of dreams she found herself construed in a bell of warmth. A beneficent alter mien boated in incense. Some atavistic mistrust of comfort vestigial of the protocrustaceans, the distaff suspicion that those things that comfort us end us roused her to investigate what dolor had beset her in the woken world and was it jackals hauling her to their lair or were vultures picking clean her bones. But the lines of her fathers supplied that competing sense that death was no curse but when she opened her eyes it was not the prefigurate gentleman in his sable cloak but a sun retrograding in the vault, a ghost of a fire pendant to buffalo chips troweling the garden and lo the snake's inside but what teeth had she to bite the apple?

She woke. The fire of her dream was the fire before her but it wasnt day and these hyssop surroundings were other than the pleated pock bench of her choosing. She was pillowed in silk and scented down and two arms longer than she was tall cupped her at thrapple and heel and their ends needled her as if she were being trekked upon by cleated spiders. Sticks of sandalwood were planted round the fire and their smoke rose through torrents of snow and canopy like ink stencilings. She could hear their slow consumption. She couldnt hear the snow. Could hear a distressless anguine rasp seething behind her that smelled a sweet electric tang not like anything. The tidal pulse shunting through limbs and back. The beatless heart disassociated. Maybe better. Maybe. For sure this rancidness of heart. A gorge clotting grotesquary of terror and salt cyst sorrow. So many places for regret to lodge in. Rank odor of sickness in sweat. Drent above so below. A dank puddle hipped to. She tried lifting herself out but the slumbering giant draped over her was more than she could bear. She cried. Heaves delivered from the fetal hunch. Her face buried in the quilt of her own fouling but Anaya would behold her. In those pythonic irises glinted by firelight. In those. In those. Man was not made to receive pity from the serpent. Nor should the lips of men and serpent meet. Taste of rue and fear. Anaya cast off the blankets and lifted her out and placed her by the fire and took up the quilt on which theyd laid by the corners and bore it off like a diaper. She returned with a rucksack and out of it she took a thermos and lifted it to her lips. Benediction of steam rising out of the drink slit thawed tears iced upon her face. She drank. A rich velvet sweetness that warmed her from within. The pilot put the thermos aside and undressed her and stuffed the clothes in a snowfilled pot and put it in the fire.

As was her habit in winter seasons the pilot wore several free flowing coverings the outermost of which was a shawl that had replicated in the cross stitch moons and quasars and the kinds of suns and comets and nebulae and those endless vessels light does not escape and this she whipped off and imparted to the child. Wrapping her tightly then to sit her in her lap and draw the hair from her face a strand at a time in gentle cello pluckings while Dachni wept quietly a formless lament. Leaning against this totemic intellect for the maudled solace of her and failing to dam her tears. Anaya kissed her again. Then she laid themselves down and gathering the blankets draped them over their heads so that in that calid vivarium they lay face to face breathing each others breaths.

They decamped at the first gray alleviation of the dawn. The clouds had lifted and the snow was veiling off the waste in the bitterest wind. The horses were gone. The pilot had risen early to smoke their clothes and she rucked them now and their stained bedding and picked her up and started back for the cathedral. In those arms Dachni felt a child despaired aimless upon an alien terrain weirding her into vestibular uncertainty. Dimly perceiving that it was more than her ears she had lost. And well to do without these insights altogether but unbidden they had come how then could they be bid to leave and her terror was of an earmaggot whispering secrets corrosive to life. And who bore her the prime evincement. She who had not even a word for intellect recognizing its fathomless brutality that accomplished nothing but a pigsty of misery in which to wallow. And yet the pilot suspecting the topic of her susurrus gibbering replied that for all its unbridled rapacity it was what only prevailed. That there was an elegance in the linearity of logic that yet permitted its own transcendence. And that this was what was feared. The confrontation with the irrefutable. For the proof of any minutest trivia indisputable was the rearing of the face of god. Because it could do anything. That wheresoever it roved became its domain. This limitlessness of possibility paralyzing to most was the preferred state for there is nothing so potent as the monomaniac mind, that purpose that has dissected the unconscious and made slave of it. The wild determination that tolerates nothing, that can be placated by nothing, that unlike the stomach that must void itself before it can be fed again can imbibe oceans of blood without satiation. The desire that in the last ruins of the last city would upturn rocks to snuff out what life had survived the scouring and she said to see the buildings tumble in on themselves and the ravenous machine sloughing through the wreckage, its overgravid belly and bleeding udders and partdelievered litter of doomprophets vomiting prognostications of death between its bloody thighs and eats through the head of a shrew faster than it can bleed. And she said there was nothing that could stand against it. No institution, no title, no sentiment could forestall the impatience that rages at the most inconsequential impediment and so obliterates in totality in a time ten times as long as it would have taken to wait it out. And for this the deadly blade was forged that the obstacle could be destroyed quickly and as these weapons evolved even great obstacles became contemptuous in their vanquishing and with the same haste so that what might have taken a million men a hundred years was foredone in an hour. That who believed long lines a defense did not understand that even the longest line can be cut, that lines are not more perdurable for their length. Inhabiting a world where the ghosts of the unborn already roam. That the purest horror was that the intellect not simply could but would tear that world down to the last fragment of speculative bone and install in its place the bleeding epistles out its own mauled soul howling out the godhood of its own doom.

But its ok, said the pilot. Because I have thee and thee hath me and while castles burn and kings perish it must be so, for everything is perishable after the soul.

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  #152  
Old 11-23-2017, 02:49 PM
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I know I was supposed to skip this week but its toooooo late. And with another big update so no update next week.

An hour later they passed the remnants of the fires each in turn a blackened mar of gravel. At the culvert her burial was undone and she thought the pelican escaped but when they had passed she saw another smoother place in the road where the bitumen had coagulated after a melting.

Remember always the consumptive promiscuity of fire. It can only give if it doesnt have you.

When they reached the cathedral there was a tumultuary twenty milling outside the gates. Their mutters carried over the flat country and you could see some dip towards the duomo like plastic birds as if impatient for the commencement of mass. Dachni whimpering hid under the shawl. The pilot rubbed her back reassuringly.

Someone in the crowd noticed them and that someone shielded his eyes as though the sun to his back were being reflected against him. Others pointed and some shouted and some ran up, hiking their legs to clear the deepest snow, a noisome mosaic of personages advancing like the flutter of a quilt. Almost twenty, closing round the pilot.

Good god almighty.

Who are these that darken council? she said.

Whats in that star sack?

Whats your carry?


What causes the dead enquire into the business of the living? Fetch thy necromancer thou unjeweled corpses and demand his reason why he hath sicced thee upon me otherwise be gone.

God did you ever hear such shit?

Dont pay him no mind theyre all crazy.

Fingers pinched up the shawl and Dachni shrunk back and
the pilot aboutfaced and hissed.

Nor a houndsman. Tiss far of the time whence I should perish. I have dreamed it. Hung head to head in a web.

A bounty huntress was yoyoing a scroll with huge bobs of her arm.

Is it the thing?

Looks so, said her partner.

Hey John.

Hey fucking Phillio.

That thing.

The pilot bared the polished palisade of her puce fanged
maw. What thing? she hissed.

The barbated one lost his footing in the snow.

They were at the gates now. The pilot turned her back to the clamor and knelt and unclasped the child's palsied pallidknuckled grip from around her neck and helped her through a rent in the wood.

That is the one.

You stay inside, the pilot told her.

Dachni clambered in and turned. Through the hole all she
could see were legs and she stood to look through a higher rent.

The pilot was facing the crowd like some provost cornered by a seditious pupiltry. How to sever the lines arrived this trouble to my house. Or what scapegoat offer up to satisfy their desires. And should I then go to a cave. The huntress was offering a forty sixty cut which her partner amended to that of even splits. Others argued jurisdictional rights to the waif felon, others pietistic appeals and for the sake of Christendom stamp out this homicidal virulence now ere the spirit itself descends into the general vicinages of man and what blasphemy was it to house the devil in a house of god disused though it may be.

The pilot smiled.

The crowd parted for a heavy bruiser badged of lapel to whom they were compliant insofar as at his order to settle they did.

The law of Matraple, spoke the pilot.

The law fixed the pilot with a gaze of arrogant stolidity insufficient to the masking of a certain wariness that the pilot perceiving caused her leer viciously.

John, he said. I dont know what itched you to harbor that little miscreant but youre gonna have to hand it over.

Among the phallic pipeorgan crowns of his deputies' shadows his stood out farthest yet moving to disadvantage the posse the pilot's elongate imprint did subsume them and a further yard. He tongued a tobacco browned wad of phlegm from his gums and hawked it.

Ssek, said the pilot.

What?

Nein.

I thought the conclusion was I dont speak the tongues and no debater neither.

But I am, said the pilot, and in the contest of tongues won and in feats of arms how could you best me? Or what conceit overcomes the discretion so well exercised before?

And after you broke my bread. You never got no fetter nor fuss from me about squatting.

If in your folly you misthought it your place to correct me
then the fault is your own. You have given nothing for there was never any means by which you could take.

I could book you.

The body is mine, dearly paid for.

The law arched a brow.

The pilot assumed a regal air in which her categorizing gaze drifted to the morning star reluming them with a conspicuous and irreverent egality. None spoke. She seemed in communion with that dull orb and when she finally deigned to perceive them it was with a benign interest as if at fallacies whose very life were spurious and she seemed vexed that the deafness she afforded their claims might have revealed their insubstantiality and in that revelation might have sublimated them into the speculative ether of nothingness.

Ignorant peons begone, she said.

Why you slim shit.

Return to the cloak of thy master. Whom you address you could not guess.

Im my own master.

The pilot scoffed. Not in all you have seen of me could you fathom who I am.

Youre nothing.

Think again.


The badgeman did need convincing. Nor would he argue further. He drew back his duster. Holstered in his belt was an ion revolver of a model documented to have ignited ethanol in the bodies of sots.

An eye of the pilot narrowed to a slit out which the irises regarded him with viperous intent. Her ears stretched straight back. Ill burn down your shitly little podunk.

Ill call that bluff.

Call it. The planes are fueling now. In twenty minutes they will be dropping fire on you.

Bullshit.

Tell me who I am.

Nothing.

Those who insert themselves into the histories of strangers oft disbelieve the most credible statements.

Assumptions of impotence in the enemy are symptomatic of the hubric mind. But Ill not demonstrate vainly. Draw thy steel. Or who did you think I was? Some feckless syjin mislaid midway upon the waste of life? Look at me. Tell me who I am.

The law reached for the revolver. There was a wet crack. He bent but he didnt go down. His incisors lowered in bloody tresses of spit. Doves would have called you kin had you not eaten them for thou hast failed in thy heresy. The law fished his teeth from the snow and straightened unsteadily.

The pilot had his revolver and she surveyed the countenances from behind the sights. Go. Before you ruin your lives.

At barrel's end none would risk it. Their bridled counters of despise to ground or heavens. They turned. They walked away. Some backwards glancing but without word. When they had reached the treeline the pilot pulled open the gate and came in.

Dachni cowering in the marble snuffled puny weepful mewls.

Hello little one.

Nevered lefted! she wailed tearfully.

Anaya acceded she hadnt and gathered her into her arms. Outside a man had left from the treeline and paced through the snow. The pilot stepped out again and Dachni clutched her jaw.

Nooo, Anaya no out no out. Anayaaaa.

But the pilot was already crossing the road. What could he do to me?

At the sight of the pilot the man stopped and called out. I
lost my glasses. Thats all.

The pilot crossed the last spanse between them and peered down at him.

L-l-lost them, he stammered.

The pilot set the child down in a bank of snow and gestured for the man to continue his search. She looked into the woods. The posse was still in sight marching slowly through the trees. She began to dredge the snow. The man did. He looked at her.

Dont look at her, said the pilot.

The man averted his eyes quickly but in another minute he was stealing glances.

The pilot lifted him by the collar. What the fuck did I say?

I cant even see.

Youre lying.

Its no lie.

The pilot dropped him and he slipped to his rump and rolled over and backed away.

I need to find my glasses.

She leveled the revolver at him. You dont wear glasses.

The man took a few steps back with his hands raised then
turned and ran.

The pilot watched him go and then she picked up the child but as she was walking back she she stopped and pawed the snow and came up with the spectacles.

Vaeshka. Wait here.

She turned and demanded the woods deliver up the blind man unto her and he appeared warily and they held a brief congress and then broke of another. The man returned of his sight bowing to the pilot's backside as he retreated into the wood and the pilot stalking back towards the cathedral gates outside which lay the bounty on whats papyrus was the rendition of the child. The pilot crumpled and ate it and bore the original inside and closed the gate and went down the aisle to the altar where she placed the child and unhooked the crucifix from the base on the wall and winched down the lamp and came back and opened its doors and beckoned to her.

Come here.

Nuh uh.

Come here now.

Dachni lunged at her with the bayonet. The pilot merely bent her knee outward and the point shot past and raked sparks out of the living stone and then she was airborne dangling by the skull before the pilot's saddened face. She no longer had the rifle. The pilot leaned it against the altar and set her inside the lamp.

Whom do you worship?

Dachni peered at her thrice sided incunabula with a
constrained terror. It was swinging slightly back and forth.

Who?

Noned. Yandy.

So be it but not to that will I pray or sacrifice to. Arms up.

Dachni blinked at Anaya. Who touched tenderly her cheek.

Come on.

She raised her arms.

Anaya took her sweater by the hem and began to lift it and she dropped her arms and fended in panic and wail but Anaya cooed and sang and with caresses soothed her fighting to the speechless and petrified querying of her ineffable hurt.

Feral fettered child to the cypress go, bring a kindred
spider, find the roe. This then a bath then a tailors then mass. Haxshi ko priagii, haki nog prentat erage. Tis it is alls alright.

Aldes us.

Tis.

Stoooop.

Calm.

Anaya lifted the sweater over her head and removed her bottoms and the blue boxers with the word justice blazoned boldly across the front. The wemflesh revealed seemingly composed out of bruised scarring. Fantastical discolorations of atrophic quagmire like the camouflages of certain beetles dwelling among the roots of equatorial jungles.

Widely I paint head to toe, first the soles then bridge of her nose, under her mouth, the pits of her arms, betweeeeen her thighs open open, and down her spine between each finger and under the lids of her eyes and with care even unto her messy hair.

She powdered her eyes and at last let ash trickle upon her from her fist as if through the neck of a sandwatch. When she had done she slid a leg behind her and sat back and bid her out.
Dachni achooed a plume of duff.

Anaya evoked her again and she croaked a hoarse refusal. She was taken under arms and lifted out and she threw her arms around her and sniffled into her neck. Gray beads slurred heavily down her cheeks and she smeared them on Anaya's collarbone and she shook like a dog a pall of ash from herself and stopped to cough and shook again.

Anaya backed out of the pall. You didnt sleep.

Ihmim.

Why dont you sleep now.

She put loose fists to her mouth and shook her head and
the loosed ash hung like a worn afterimage of the fling of her hair.

Are you hungry?

She croaked sadly no.

What would you like? Or how about a bath?

Eghh.

Do you want to talk?

The least of things she wanted to do.

Pick one.

Epbgehh.

Bath it is.
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  #153  
Old 11-23-2017, 04:01 PM
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You are probably the best unknown writer Iíve ever come across. The only one (so far) Iíd let get away with the shit you do grammatically, without some fuss. Youíre so far in that Iím at a loss to even criticize. How you create tenderness in this gross, fuck-hole of an existence is damn amazing.

ĎParty on, Wayne.í


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  #154  
Old 11-23-2017, 07:01 PM
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Thats very flattering. Ill try and keep up what good I do and hopefully improve over the coming years.
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Old 11-23-2017, 08:15 PM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
Thats very flattering. Ill try and keep up what good I do and hopefully improve over the coming years.


If you get lazy Iíll be one of the first to say so.😀😀😀


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  #156  
Old 11-26-2017, 09:11 AM
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And so in this ever enlargening work I decided that going forward Ill incorporate all of the material developments into a fictional report by an unnamed senior intel analyst from DESEC, brother organ to ISEC. As before this will be updated concurrently (if far more intermittently) with MT.



The Bear Dances: An Overview of The Russian Federation At the Turn of the Millennium




Preface


Throuought the history of colonial power in the Volga region and Don Basin DESEC has striven to uncover, understand, and meet the full range of security challenges facing our fledgling nation. Despite a limited sphere of influence and contested near abroad we have in a mere century established ourselves as one of the two major powers operating in the region, solidified a national identity, proven capable of defending our territory and interests, and achieved international recognition from the Deutsche Bsorgnis, China, the Southern Dominion and the Northern United States, as well as several planetary nations.

Despite these achievements our holdings are precarious and our force projection is limited. Closer relations with our neighbors have proven to be a source of agitation with Moscow that chafes at the subversion of its traditional sphere of influence. Regional proxies and protectorates that until the last sixty years could be expected to kowtow to directives from Moscow have in recent years reasserted their sovereignty forcing a humiliating capitulation which Moscow is eager to redress.

While high confidence exists in total victory that victory is dependent on a full understanding of Moscow's capabilities. In light of today's political atmosphere DESEC has decided to publish an updated edition of Russian Potence. What follows in three sections will be an enumeration and brief description of systems employed and soon to be deployed, an assessment of DOTMLPF, and finally an overall assessment of capability, vulnerability, and intent.
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  #157  
Old 12-09-2017, 03:02 PM
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Anaya had no bathtub. She levered back two wrenches clamped to valve bolts behind the lampshade showerhead and the spoutlets sputtered to strength and sheets of mistle yawned off the tiles.

How is it?

Dachni touched her hand to the water and jerked it back and flapped it grimacingly about.

Hot hot hot.

She adjusted the leftward wrench.

Better?

Dachni tested the water again with the care of the burned. Pehkay.

Anaya locked the wrenches in place and stepped back and began to divest herself of her garmentures. The silk fringed pashmina shawls and the plaid kilt of the same acrylic as the chess checkered cardigan serape fronting the bone king of Mictlan. The pilot draped these articles over an arm and crossed the washroom a titanic bald flawlessness gliding with the cocksure lissome passivity of olympians. Glistening shades of dark green and subtler hints of amber shading with the flex of her paired spines like those serpents helically entwined round the apothecary's stave and ruby blue downed ears more majestic than the remiges of eagles. She hung her coverings on a wall mount by the door and when she came back smiling her sorrow rimmed affection Dachni lunged.

How now?

The child clawing up that great trunk reckoned the sealing of those pneumatic pipes would evermore avenge all wrongs but Anaya in her imperturbable fathoming bent and met their lips together. A kiss void cold and with such tenderness as to draw the pins from her knees and she crumpled to the tiles and bawled.

Thrones and principalities what misfortune hath wrenched thee so far out my remembering?

She wailed and wailed. Heartbreak and loss and the Judas of her hate lifted her from the floor and stepped back into a wreathing aura of gray orange diaphanity diffracting through the steam. The water browsed her hair of its monochromatic elderliness of ash to a maiden hue crow black and leaden streams sleeched from her toes. That great breast against which she was flush was frigid, likewise the dandling arms. Scales colder than the hot tetchery that cried her. And growing colder. Icy tracing of her backbones. The soggy bandaging slipped way and cold breath across her cheek and palms like the bellies of salamanders in their lightless keeps caressing soft down her as the catholicon lullaby decanted in her skull's auguries.

Come on baby stop your crying. Come on baby stop your crying now. Come on baby stop your crying. Come on baby stop your crying now.

Dachni needs a minute to snuffle and to wipe the cough and discharge of her laments but the water did come down. She looked up past the inquisitive stamp of the pilot at the falling rain like discrete packets of puppet strings and the pilot awned over her smiling and nipped her chin and tickled her at rib and foot and she choked a chimeric squeal of betragedied giddiness that died in rue and then the pilot hooked a tooth and directed her sight to the tiles where tassels of steam stretched upwards thin as harp chords. Or what spirit could play the ether or what music be played and is it for the ears of mortals or are gods their audience?

In the steam were the pilot's elixirs of purification. She bent at the knee and reached up a bottle.

Hold on.

She did. A pale shivering simian clasped to.

Anaya squeezed out a bottle a strawberry shampoo and massaged it into her scalp. It seared her open sores. She bowed her head to evade the pain and Anaya shielded her eyes from the suds.

Laeshii co, nim iglii vas hatl fae lo min.

She didnt and the pilot closed her eyes for her and pivoted
her under the water. A cream showerfall curtained her face and diluted and cleared and Anaya soaped her loofah with an exfoliate and dislodged plates of gore from her person as if debriding some horrent rash. A fould tide grueled towards a drain. Anaya flossed the bloody gunk from between her outcrop ribs and moved her about in the water, letting it rinse her and her whole petite mutilation seemed exhaling a vaporous malaise yet she was that cold and the pilot altogether rimy in the hot chrysalis of mist. Below her the drain had failed to evacuate the junked viscera cleaned of her and a lough of gore spread and she thought she could see some shrimpish monster suspended just below the surface. Like some strange fossil where the bones have gone and only the flesh remains. Sorrow overcame her. Tears began to slip out her eyes again and it was all that would do their damming the weak fluttering down of eyelids like a staccato close of dawn.

Little one.

In these little one's bone seeped the weariness that makes feathers of the burdens of the world. The arm crook her head nestled in jostled her but the last strength she had was to cover her face and cry. Gowaygowaygoway. The steam curled over her and she the yin in this cradle of cold. Her fists uncurled like dying spiders. Purge these toxins have poisoned you the livelong. Is it colored? No. Anaya kissed her. Soft perambulation of tonguetip across her forehead. Her bosom tightening.

Are we talking?

Dachni moaned that they werent.

Smooth slick flexility textured not unlike leather. Never was there such a thing. Union of the mammalian, the piscean. No her chest was flat, she gave no milk.

We slept on the deck once and he asked: Are you a woman? He said: You smell like a woman.

The words were far away. Whuh?

Nothing. Are you alright?

No, she sobbed. No.

Anaya hugged her. Freezing in the steam. In the hot rain patches of frost. Soft lips drifting across her temples. Her eyes.

What a world this is.
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Old 12-10-2017, 07:34 AM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
Anaya had no bathtub. She levered back two wrenches clamped to valve bolts behind the lampshade showerhead and the spoutlets sputtered to strength and sheets of mistle yawned off the tiles.

How is it?

Dachni touched her hand to the water and jerked it back and flapped it grimacingly about.

Hot hot hot.

She adjusted the leftward wrench.

Better?

Dachni tested the water again with the care of the burned. Pehkay.

Anaya locked the wrenches in place and stepped back and began to divest herself of her garmentures. The silk fringed pashmina shawls and the plaid kilt of the same acrylic as the chess checkered cardigan serape fronting the bone king of Mictlan. The pilot draped these articles over an arm and crossed the washroom a titanic bald flawlessness gliding with the cocksure lissome passivity of olympians. Glistening shades of dark green and subtler hints of amber shading with the flex of her paired spines like those serpents helically entwined round the apothecary's stave and ruby blue downed ears more majestic than the remiges of eagles. She hung her coverings on a wall mount by the door and when she came back smiling her sorrow rimmed affection Dachni lunged.

How now?

The child clawing up that great trunk reckoned the sealing of those pneumatic pipes would evermore avenge all wrongs but Anaya in her imperturbable fathoming bent and met their lips together. A kiss void cold and with such tenderness as to draw the pins from her knees and she crumpled to the tiles and bawled.

Thrones and principalities what misfortune hath wrenched thee so far out my remembering?

She wailed and wailed. Heartbreak and loss and the Judas of her hate lifted her from the floor and stepped back into a wreathing aura of gray orange diaphanity diffracting through the steam. The water browsed her hair of its monochromatic elderliness of ash to a maiden hue crow black and leaden streams sleeched from her toes. That great breast against which she was flush was frigid, likewise the dandling arms. Scales colder than the hot tetchery that cried her. And growing colder. Icy tracing of her backbones. The soggy bandaging slipped way and cold breath across her cheek and palms like the bellies of salamanders in their lightless keeps caressing soft down her as the catholicon lullaby decanted in her skull's auguries.

Come on baby stop your crying. Come on baby stop your crying now. Come on baby stop your crying. Come on baby stop your crying now.

Dachni needs a minute to snuffle and to wipe the cough and discharge of her laments but the water did come down. She looked up past the inquisitive stamp of the pilot at the falling rain like discrete packets of puppet strings and the pilot awned over her smiling and nipped her chin and tickled her at rib and foot and she choked a chimeric squeal of betragedied giddiness that died in rue and then the pilot hooked a tooth and directed her sight to the tiles where tassels of steam stretched upwards thin as harp chords. Or what spirit could play the ether or what music be played and is it for the ears of mortals or are gods their audience?

In the steam were the pilot's elixirs of purification. She bent at the knee and reached up a bottle.

Hold on.

She did. A pale shivering simian clasped to.

Anaya squeezed out a bottle a strawberry shampoo and massaged it into her scalp. It seared her open sores. She bowed her head to evade the pain and Anaya shielded her eyes from the suds.

Laeshii co, nim iglii vas hatl fae lo min.

She didnt and the pilot closed her eyes for her and pivoted
her under the water. A cream showerfall curtained her face and diluted and cleared and Anaya soaped her loofah with an exfoliate and dislodged plates of gore from her person as if debriding some horrent rash. A fould tide grueled towards a drain. Anaya flossed the bloody gunk from between her outcrop ribs and moved her about in the water, letting it rinse her and her whole petite mutilation seemed exhaling a vaporous malaise yet she was that cold and the pilot altogether rimy in the hot chrysalis of mist. Below her the drain had failed to evacuate the junked viscera cleaned of her and a lough of gore spread and she thought she could see some shrimpish monster suspended just below the surface. Like some strange fossil where the bones have gone and only the flesh remains. Sorrow overcame her. Tears began to slip out her eyes again and it was all that would do their damming the weak fluttering down of eyelids like a staccato close of dawn.

Little one.

In these little one's bone seeped the weariness that makes feathers of the burdens of the world. The arm crook her head nestled in jostled her but the last strength she had was to cover her face and cry. Gowaygowaygoway. The steam curled over her and she the yin in this cradle of cold. Her fists uncurled like dying spiders. Purge these toxins have poisoned you the livelong. Is it colored? No. Anaya kissed her. Soft perambulation of tonguetip across her forehead. Her bosom tightening.

Are we talking?

Dachni moaned that they werent.

Smooth slick flexility textured not unlike leather. Never was there such a thing. Union of the mammalian, the piscean. No her chest was flat, she gave no milk.

We slept on the deck once and he asked: Are you a woman? He said: You smell like a woman.

The words were far away. Whuh?

Nothing. Are you alright?

No, she sobbed. No.

Anaya hugged her. Freezing in the steam. In the hot rain patches of frost. Soft lips drifting across her temples. Her eyes.

What a world this is.
I read this part without knowing too much about where you were, and my goodness, your writing is strong and almost invincible! Yes, hard to read, but I got into it (my English M.A. helped) and found it almost heart-wrenching. The depiction of sadness is so well done, and almost too sad. What happens to her next?
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Old 12-10-2017, 07:40 AM
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bluewpc, did you cry when you wrote this? I would have because I tend to love the people I make on paper, and when misery hits them, I am sad, too.
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Old 12-10-2017, 09:14 AM
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No I tend not to cry even at these such things. As much as I love them, and I do, even the least of them, I have to retain a certain distance otherwise I would intrude upon them and in so doing violate their agency so to speak.

Edit: I dont think thats an overblown assessment. Cormac McCarthy in Blood Meridian gives a wonderful exposition upon the authority that mantles the author:

The judge watched him. Was it always your idea, he said, that if you did not speak you would not be recognized?
You seen me.

The judge ignored this. I recognized you when I first saw you and yet you were a disappointment to me. Then and now. Even so at the last I find you here with me.

I aint with you.

The judge raised his bald brow. Not? he said. He looked about him in a puzzled and artful way and he was a passable thespian.

I never come here huntin you.

What then? said the judge.

What would I want with you? I come here same reason as any man.

And what reason is that?

What reason is what?

That these men are here.

They come here to have a good time.

The judge watched him. He began to point out various men in the room and to ask if these men were here for a good time or if indeed they knew why they were here at all.

Everbody dont have to have a reason to be someplace.

That's so, said the judge. They do not have to have a reason. But order is not set aside because of their indifference.
He regarded the judge warily.

Let me put it this way, said the judge. If it is so that they themselves have no reason and yet are indeed here must they not be here by reason of some other? And if this is so can you guess who that other might be?

No. Can you?

I know him well.

He poured the tumbler full once more and he took a drink himself from the bottle and he wiped his mouth and turned to regard the room. This is an orchestration for an event. For a dance in fact. The participants will be apprised of their roles at the proper time. For now it is enough that they have arrived. As the dance is the thing with which we are concerned and contains complete within itself its own arrangement and history and finale there is no necessity that the dancers contain these things within themselves as well. In any event the history of all is not the history of each nor indeed the sum of those histories and none here can finally comprehend the reason for his presence for he has no way of knowing even in what the event consists. In fact, were he to know he might well absent himself and you can see that that cannot be any part of the plan if plan there be.

He smiled, his great teeth shone. He drank.

An event, a ceremony. The orchestration thereof. The overture carries certain marks of decisiveness. It includes the slaying of a large bear. The evening's progress will not appear strange or unusual even to those who question the rightness of the events so ordered.

A ceremony then. One could well argue that there are not categories of no ceremony but only ceremonies of greater or lesser degree and deferring to this argument we will say that this is a ceremony of a certain magnitude perhaps more commonly called a ritual. A ritual includes the letting of blood. Rituals which fail in this requirement are but mock rituals. Here every man knows the false at once. Never doubt it. That feeling in the breast that evokes a child's memory of loneliness such as when the others have gone and only the game is left with its solitary participant. A solitary game, without opponent. Where only the rules are at hazard. Dont look away. We are not speaking in mysteries. You of all men are no stranger to that feeling, the emptiness and the despair.

It is that which we take arms against, is it not? Is not blood the tempering agent in the mortar which bonds? The judge leaned closer. What do you think death is, man? Of whom do we speak when we speak of a man who was and is not? Are these blind riddles or are they not some part of every man's jurisdiction? What is death if not an agency? And whom does he intend toward? Look at me.
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Old 12-10-2017, 12:31 PM
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Oh, well, I liked your piece better than the one you posted from that book. I guess you'd have to explain it to me
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Old 12-15-2017, 09:31 PM
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Dyspepsia of the heavens. The tressed levin searing the witch gloom a high white. Riot sonnets abrading the polluted salitter from the face of the squalled dala a thunderous verse at a time. Wind has routed trees from their fastholds and there is a pianist smashing the keys to this braying orchestra of elements. His are musics transmitted tectonically. The world is going out of the world beyond all rectification. A spaceman hath cometh.

Sickness had ground the child into a kind of apathy that deserted her of opinion. Depthed in a welter of acedia. Indeed a sphere is the same in profile and perspective. You are inhabited of a dreamstate tainted by pyrexia. And is it the dream brings the fever or the fever the dreams?

She disassembled her rifle but this catechism provided no relief. In its reassembling she forgot to attach the guiding rod to the bolthead and in her frustrated mashing together of parts snapped off the tapered tip of the firing pin and she threw the whole contraption down.

Hot tears salted her cheeks. And such weighted thoughts and every sickness and no rest. New sheets covered her bed but in dark's fastness she could not make it to the bathroom and she lay in the wetness. Man cherishes his infirmity. Verily defend them against all remedy. Nurse with every care his ailments, hoards them. She dashed the railroader's lamp against the wall. She tore at her hair. Unmade the bed and cleared books from the shelves and tore the good cream pages from the spines and ripped the calf leather and shoved over the nightstand. She stood gasping. Out the nightstand drawer had spilled a bottle of whiskey. She was young enough to mistake the stupor it inflicted for a calmative property and she unplugged it and drank deeply a fever stronger than ever she had known. It swirled angrily in her belly. She put a hand to the headboard to steady herself and drank again and set the bottle on the bed. Immediately she swiped it up and took a longer drink and paced with it through the room. Walking on the backblade of her injured foot. Hearing a crepitus grind in vague articulation like asteroids colliding in the fetid nebula of flesh. She glared hatefully at the pain. At the neat seaming in the garish bloatedness of it. She was suddenly convinced of the absolute necessity of the world's end. She drained the bottle. She looked at the scattered parts of the mosin-nagant. She raised her foot and lowered it again. Then raised it a second time and stamped down.

There was an ugly crack. A fear long and loud erupted through her and escaped out her throat.

The door flew open and to the pilot arrived she held out her hands in accusation.

Was you!

The pilot's ears dropped flush along her neck.

Es leaven! Ettin staykin gear!

The pilot looked down at her wound and spat. You think this was a small price to pay. That you can bear to regret it. You cant.

Ye dedded it.

The pilot stepped into the room. Art thou dispossessed of thine senses? She touched a talon to her forehead. Be wise and get them home.

Dachni was clapping her fists to her skull and sobbing aloud. Wassent purposed! Happid ascidident!

To entertain such fantasies is to think me a child. Why then come here?

Naint cripple.

Ishktii.

She wouldnt look. The pilot forced her. What she saw were her feet addorsed, the right eversed, the tibula vomited out the thin stratum of flesh in a steady damask leakage. Some ill of conscience might have wished her bleed a worser pollutant but the pilot claimed her always a child who bled child's blood.

Thirsty, pleaded the child.

I imagine so.

Etll eel. Water.

Its going to rot. Gangrene is going to hue you colors you have not seen before and it is going to stink and the stink will devour you from the inside.

Dachni received these prophecies with a sickening dread of their veracity. This mayhem in which was meant to bear her weight. Her breathing was shallow. The pilot removed a shawl, that same astronomical shawl, and shawled her in it and she mulled the fabric.

Fex it, she panted. Water.

Naught was broke. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you have done. How this moment has wrenched your life out its natural path and sent it hurling on some alter course?

Etll be kayed. Et well et well raelly. Wone it? Want water.

Youve crippled yourself.

Fer owed longed?

Forever.


Dachni shook her head. Naint true an lyin. Esent there nothin to do? Et weretint no mean on it. It happed mistaded. Was on the bed an step wronged an it came out an it wasnt no mean it wasnt promise it wasnt.

Do you want me to fix it?

Aghg, she cried.

Are you going to stay here?

What?

Are you going to stay.

Dont wanna stay. Has ta go. Has ta leave it aint judged gainst ye.

She began to cast about for some means by which to doctorfy herself but there was nothing. She hopped back to the bed with the foot flapping wildly and sat and tried to align the foot right but her courage in anything was feeble and it broke against such pain.

Even so the pilot, Anaya looked on with an egregious hurt. Holding her breast as if afflicted with angina in the heart she did not have. Like a sudden flare of a latent case of dysthymia and she came forward saying: Good god child. How can you hate me this much?

These halls down which now the child is born are adorned with tapestries a tapestry of the siege of Zara, the bloodletting of Jerusalem. These moments melded into novel horrors of old wars fought in jungles of carnivorous flora, where pestilential tornadoes devoured the fleshy canopy from the trees so that in battle the combatants fought in bloodshowers, where the trees screech like rattlers choking on their shaking tails and where the field's perimeter was defined by lamp bearers whom it was sacrilege to assault for they drove off the worst of those airborne parasites so that the ground with all its egalitarian inimicality could be contested.

They came to an infirmary. Dour gray the walls, the plastic curtains. Dachni was put on a gurney whereon she hyperventilated herself to the edge of consciousness. Above her a lantern hung from the ceiling. A diminutive clone to that other lantern hung over the altar. A cross likewise was subordinated to it. It looked like a winged mace on the end of a flail and Anaya would later advise her the aienee had employed such weapons in antiquity and still did in updated forms.

For now the pilot laid out a big hardcase on a stainless steel instrument table. Dachni sitting up watched the accumulation of divers devices and strange.

Hows ta do this? she panted between panicked shallow breaths.

The right way.

Right ways? Whats is gonna do?

Im going to reattach your tibia back to your malleoli.

What? Kassin ye get machines of it?

The pilot closed the case and latched it and put it away.
Any diminishment of you is an insult to me thus any treatment of you must obviously be subordinated to my discretion. Youll not.

Dachni shook her head. Crying openly again. Dont touch. Et hurts really really bad.

Either this or amputation.

Whats amputation?

I cut your foot off. The rest of the way.

Dachni reared almost standing. No! No! No! No! No! Dont
do it dont stop Anayaa stop.

Anaya swept her from her foot and laid her back down neither roughly but without tolerance.

Want it work now! Fix it now! Fix it. Wered ascident. It wered. Its yourn fault! Ye did et. You you you!

She tried to lunge but Anaya held her.

Fex it, she sobbed. Fex it. Fix it fix it. Please fex it. Is sorry. Is sorry please elp. Please help. Is sorry.

At this Anaya softened to the verge of tears and she daubed those of the child's away with her hair.

Ill fix it.

Promise wont to be no cripple.

I promise.

Promise, she said more urgently.

I promise, said the pilot.

Promises always entail some anguish in their keeping that otherwise could have been avoided and it is this in part that sets sentience higher than the instinct ruled members of the lower kingdoms. Who do fulfill their filial obligations but that cannot do the most trivial act further which often enough saves the life because it does not avoid pain. In this case it was a travesty of pain. In lieu of the ministrations of an anesthesiologist the child was given three shots of Philadelphia whiskey and supped four glasses of water. Then the pilot cupped her atrophied calf and very carefully restored her foot forward.

Promises! Dachni bellowed.

The pilot ripped a strip off her limbus that was a festive easter blee and tied the foot in place. Then she studied the break. Moving to view it from various angles.

Whatns see?

Look yourself.

She would have looked but a voice in her said to do so would imperil her soul, her holding such a conceit.

After the pilot had mapped out the dimensions and extent of the break she got a fat nozzled canister and deposited a few seconds spray into her wound. A foamy liquid metal possessed of a mercurial intelligence. Mucilaginous. Clammy. Hot blue in luminescence. It swam into the break gathering fragments of bones, infusing the bone, fortifying it, solidifying into the consistency of gum to anchor the bones together.

When her tibia and malleoli had been restructured the pilot set about working on the tendons. The strap of the inferior retinaculum was badly strained and she reinforced it with a glue as she did the others. The brevis had snapped and withdrawn into its sheathe and she fished it out with a suture. By this point the child had gone unconscious and the pilot did not wake her. She kept working the little calcium white worm out and when she managed it she pierced it medially about a centimeter back from the laceration. She drew the wire through and then she drove the suture through again near the exit and through just the epitenon and then again just behind the epitenon insert and through the tendon and out its laceration at the center. She mirrored the epitenon suture on the other side and then tied it to its counterpart and she did this and then did the same longus tendon and then she let in self-suturing wires into the wound like worms that bored through the flesh reinforcing and reconnecting the tissue, knotting neatly together and sealing little by little the breach to hide the things that made her.
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Last edited by bluewpc; 12-20-2017 at 07:08 PM.. Reason: fixing up the last two paragraphs
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Old 12-22-2017, 02:50 PM
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Twenty minutes later the child woke up. The pilot was carrying her and through a puzzle of umbrageous corridors broadspread with a thousand suggestions of monsters across its grim candle lit gothicity. Some hell the pilot had found it advantageous to home in. What seasoned tramps would avoid if they could help it and where no bindlestiff would dare night twice. Smeared gutters of tallow or wax kept this place alight, the wicks installed haphazardly so that their sick lucent congresses clustered or slurred. They descended a zigzag of stairs. Down a different flight far away. To a level where bamboo broke through the stones slabs. Thick clustered shoots of a mutation grown by means other than photosynthesis. It became humid. Vines crawled up the walls. Roots groped from the ceiling. And still further down. The floor no longer stone but dirt. The tunnel smelled of earth and ozone and in places the walls were set so close together the pilot had to advance sideways and elsewhere she must crawl. A dungeon infinite, any aughting know where lied hell's locality. Deep down they came upon a catacombs. Pillars of skulls in a carousel. Sarcophagi filled with newly embalmed kings and prime ministers. A cyborg. And through a tomb into a cellar's casket blackness to the pilot's bedchamber.

A canopy bed occupied the main of the chamber and its noir curtain was like fine skeins of ash fented by a master so that it resembled a cage of suspended ink. There were bookshelves, no free space upon them, columns of books on the floor, plinths of books. So many it might have been the storage closet of a library save that it smelled of a soapy pine for it was laos she boated in the cloisonne enamel bowls. A jingoistic chaos of wicker charms hung pendant from the ceiling. Others iron, meandered into ursigils and coated in blackblood. A motley scrawl of hexes diseased the walls and between them hung oil portraits, trawlers of sea, fishers of land. Who fished for fish and men but men as unlike any had seen before. Who pyred their losses for the perpetuation of reality. A human skull on a pedestal. A table for alchemy and the concoction of poultices. A ristra of studded diadems and a lifesize christ purpureal crowned, who knows what heads theyd graced, how heavily they had laid. There were x-rays of dwarf knees. Open data slates slow scrolling the deployments of the MVD, reports detailing the feeding habits of certain species of locusts. In the corner a jhaggik, a malignant polylobed junk flora like a fat half digested pineapple. Long thin feelers sprouted out of its squash body that pulsed the color of brick and drooled a pink goop. Several had ensnared a toad and holding it over its porous membrane of a face slowly wrung it of its juices.

Is this hell?

I think were a little nigh of hell.

The pilot navigated with preternatural grace to the bed and parted the curtains and pulled back the cashmere duvet and bent to lay the child on the good pillowtop. Dachni clung to her. Come on, said the pilot unclasping her hands from her neck a finger at a time. Youre supposed to hate me right now. She got free of the child and composed her hands on her breast. She tucked the child in, keeping a corner of the duvet folded back so her foot was exposed.

Lift up a little.

Dachni lifted her leg and the pilot positioned a pillow lengthwise under it.

Ill bring some beer.

Aint huntry.

Well, said the pilot smiling and patting her knee. Ill bring some. She pointed at the jhaggik. Dont go near that. Its dangerous.

Dachni glared at it. It was shoving the flaccid frogskin into a orifice belching digestive fluids through the gape.

Aint getting near that fuckin thing.

Smart girl.

Get it the fuck outta here.

The pilot laughed. Aye a good idea.

She went and twirled a talon over it and spoke a word and it twisted up tight in a protective case and inflated to size and she picked it up and put it in an urn and clamped a lid upon it. Then she came back to the bed and bent to bestow a goodnight kiss upon the child and the child snarled and battered at her with her tiny fists but she pushed through and planted the soft kiss upon her forehead and made to leave.

Wheres yer go?

The pilot turned at the door.

I needs hold congress with a lout unknown to you. But whistle and Ill come.

Dachni pulled the duvet over her head. Git on then ye sunuvabitch.

I can stay if you want.

She peeked out.

The pilot relaxed into a stance vixenish fey, a mouth corner turned seductively up, a hip bowed out. If you want.

Go way.

She shrugged. Khasta.

The lantern illuminating the room drained away.

Hey!

I thought you liked the dark.

Pet em back on! Fuckin light! Hassent light? Is fored ta see ye idijit.

There was a long pause. Something clicked against the stone threshold of the door.

Ill get a flashlight.

The door closed and the talonic scratching faded down the hall. She hadnt turned on the light.
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Old 12-24-2017, 02:54 AM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
The Mere Tide



Is this the promised end?
Or image of that horror?

King Lear Act 5 Scene 3




I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself and repent, being but dust and ashes.

Job 42:5-6


They say that pride comes just before a fall
I have fallen and I wasn't proud
You know that I have fallen further before
I just cannot stand fallin no more

Jason Pierce





Sing! mortal evil, afore the earth before the heavens thou wert, formlessness thou wert gainst wishing formed. Shine! vital countenance coeternal pon this gnomon guise circled by shadow puzzling the celestial wards whereout issues rain from the lazaret, the fathomless blank intersticing the galaxies and veil to the empyrean and how be it the bruited wells of blackness shade not these stars, this sun, and the pails where are they for to haul up the shroud and reclaim the matter.

She eats the belles. Has eaten the last of the girl. Other girls shuffle in their summer dresses to hear sermons that learn none dread. Afterwards is a plaited girleen strayed from church and parish and forthwith she is nake slaughtered in the shack and coupled to at the loins. She eats bread from her belly. She drinks the wine.

Hark then these voices of men resounding up the cold face of the mountain. They tramp the switchbacks a few days and go back.

In the villages now are wards to which she knows no excantations. She slingshots a raven out of the sky and stuffs it with human teeth and wraps it in human skin and wears it on her back. She stalks the hexen not gimpen not undesirable to her earthen hŁtte and sits upon a knoll in its clear view.

Six days in siege. She hears chanting in the nights. On the seventh day the hexen attempts a parley and is shot through the skull.

The hŁtte has a strange stock. Poultices. Jars. Newt eyes and grimalkin tails, ground bones of babes and bat claws. The ash of brogans. Bloody pages of old books in no tongues long forgotten. A drowned landsman's map. The recorded prayer of a girl drowned in a cistern. Soviet amulets. Pictures of the dead, chamrs of warlocks, old chesspiece kings. The shivs of prisoners and the keepsafes of nuns.

What they in their full potency can conjure is as nothing to the industrialized butchery to come, so many years in preparation. Lo the witches pray for the recall of what none may call back. It is already here. Has already been. Who can do even sinning wrong.

She goes a revanchist, a nominal harbinger of murderous theogony derived out the narcomaniacal yearnings of privation and a thousand miles of conifers. Moving in auditory nihilism what could not fathom the nemoral songs of birds and so in dismissive solipsism attributed the very symphony of life to the claustral earth so as to say no meaning to them at all. She scratched her teeth to rid them of itch. Sublimate this intellect, be it a hearth, let it not loose on the world. But it is loose and in the world.

On a certain morning she came down from the mountain in followance of that tributary leading to the bluff wherein stairs were carved. She went up and hammered on the steel door with the stock of her mosin but there was no answer. She pulled at the hatch. It creaked like anciency. The light that fell inside seemed the first in a long time and seemed slow in its filling of the confines as if the dark within had been caught sleeping.

She moved through the close maze and out into a vaulted hall. She checked the rooms. The filthy kitchen, the empty larder. In the mess hall was an antique arcade game whose play was a pixelated B17 bombing a bird's eye caricature of the western front. A stool before it. Thick layers of dust on the seat. She played. Bombed panzers, trenches, AA nests. The cries of the gray shapes of infantry infantry distorted in the speakers. A V2 rocket shot her avatar down. She went on to the squad bay. Bunks lined the bay like unfinished cages. She could hear him breathing at the rear of the bay somehow on a top bunk. His legs were slathered in a flesh colored pus dripping down through the springs. She climbed onto the bunk next his. He didnt notice. His shirt was open and sweat beaded on his chest, his brow. She nudged his shoulder. Eyes like saucers in that black face. Squinting in the dim light that fell from the ceiling he well could see her his visitor and pushed himself up.

Git out. Git out.

These commands seemed to tax him to the brink and he held his throat as if he had thrown up the words by force. In his breast pocket she could see a bight of maroon. Beads or some other jewelry.

I sayed I doan known yuh but if Ida known yuh was the devil Ida said. Ida mohved dese legs ta yuh. Is do it now.

He reached for her and she rolled sideways and climbed down from the bunk. He laid back down.

She looked about the spartan confines. Dust concrete and worn. She reached into her pocket and took out a sachet of blackberries and stood a tip toe and placed them at the foot of his bunk.

I bout kill yo daddy I heard what he done but Is wished he done it sooner fo you was old nuff to crawl back out.
Even that very noon she dredged the surrogate from the garden. It had been interred almost a year and it came apart in her hands. She hauled it up arm by skull by spine. A soily brisket woven to corset by dropwort. She compiled the bones in the fireplace with those of her matriarch but anger alone cannot make a fire to start. Her hands smelled of cosmoline. She had mended her rancid costumes with shot patches and bloodstained linens and spools of stitchwire saved out the mutilations of her own person and she seemed some aposematic refugee scaped from who knew what carnival disaster. She had a crude leather satchel fabricated badly out of the flensed hides of children and she girded her waist with four belts fashioned from the same with scalp hair swinging strawberry or blond tailed pony or pig. She watched the stars from her perch and she watched jealous hued omen come down and she set out.

In those end days of summer it was rain and rain and nights awash in caves. The ruddy sunsets behind sawtoothed ridges where virga licked the tenuous fires of a few lone expatriates or plemena camped deep in the stony recesses like men exiled to the very corners of the world mayhaps in wait of a cue.

Travailing a vale of birch and broadleaf she spotted high above a kind of pale glowing polymorph she thought might belong to Shura. She climbed the steepness of the mountain slope swinging trunk to trunk or scrabbling on fours until she reached the bright night limned mouth of the cave.

He was a forger when she looked, no trade she knew. He sat at his credenza punching a brass keyboard fashioned after a typewriter. He didnt notice her for a long while. He did so but gradually. A dim apprehension of something out of place. He peered into the dark without his abode a full minute before he patterned the shape of her standing there.

Come in.

She edged into the light.
Come in.


She entered the cave. She pointed at the electric lamps strung about. The forger glanced at them. At his press, his stamps and printers. Histories. Pictures. He looked at a stack of passports amidst the clutter. She went over to his desk and took up a pen and unscrewed the nib from the tubes and unscrewed the tubes from another and emptied out the refill and the spring. She stared at the wall. When the forger looked to see what it was she looked at she looked at the ground. Then she reached for one of the passports. Inside the lines were blank, the portrait an empty space. Beyond were colorful pages with images like lithographs of old cities long since destroyed and other cities yet to be. As if each depiction of ruin were a chronicling, each city whole a promissory of things which could be brought back, be made right again.

Yes, he said placing his hand on the stack, do you want something made?

She searched her clothes and offered up for his inspection her own documents. Brown worn leather. He regarded the coat of arms with his eyes and then he opened the booklet and read the data page line by line. He looked at the signature.

This was signed in aienee, he said. Dagestai John Anaya Adelinda Vilate Hasti. Quite a name.

His right eye telescoped out to study the watermarks and then he scanned the barcode and then he mated a cable to the chip below her name.

Is it Dachni or Catherine? he said.

Dachni squirmed her shoulders.

He handed her passport back to her. Youre already ready. This is genuine. Theyll take you anywhere.

Dachni smacked her fist against her lips.

What?

She did it again and again tappingly.

Are you hungry?

She kept tapping.

I have a barrel of pistachios.

Dachni nodded strangely and then rolled her head about her shoulders.

I dont know what that means. Are you hungry? I have elk too. If I can ask where did you get those scars? They are extensive.

Dachni shrugged up her garments.

If youll permit Id like to photograph them for my work. I have portfolios of scars, burns, blemishes, imperfections. Defects. Amputations. Everything. Im always collecting.

She shook her head.

It will be a hurt upon another person.

She shook her head again.

Well. Do you want me to make you something?

And a third time.

The forger met his fingertips together. There isnt rest but you can stay here tonight. Theres a sleeping bag in the back. It wont do but its there.

She moved carefully past the forger to the back of the cave where were reams of silicon paper and androids by the hundreds in the fetal position and new. She let down her gear and found the sleeping bag and crawled in. She lay for a long while. Then she took out her passport and looked at the unmarred visage staring blankly back from behind the laminate and disbelieved it. She watched the forger at his work. His fingers danced across the keyboard. He leaned near to the screen. His hands were augmentations and the fingers styluses and from time to time he would draft in the air with singular grace and address. Old artisan crafting false face and false history for the false men he would have walk the world.

Are you awake? When the hero goes forth from his kingdom he can bring back only two things. What restores his people. Or what destroys them. But myths ignore many things. They do not say that while he goes he may return to nothing. That he was not in time to save the kingdom. Or that someone else had saved it. They do not say that he left no kingdom. That it was already dead before he left and that there was nothing he could do to save it.

She was up before the dawn but the forger had not yet slept nor did he seem to slack in his work. She climbed atop his desk and stepped gingerly between the documents and scrawled a happier image of him at his labors and then she filled her pockets with pistachios from the barrel and took a pound of meat and the mouse of his laptop and left out. He waved. Nothing more.
I truly find this most noteworthy. A truly well put together, imaginative and all round breath taking short story. You should get published!

On the bad side, the wording is very 'big.' The speed the reader reads at is diminished because the complexity of the writing is so compressed, so that they are breathing maybe three times a word, where you want them to breathe as little as possible to allow for the story to take root and be comforting, that they might have a heart attack if they are elderly - your target audience, yes?

On the other hand, the writing is supposed to be sharp jolted breathes, yes? This will raise tension, of course. If that is what you are going for, then big words all the way.

You should pat yourself on the back.
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  #165  
Old 12-24-2017, 08:39 AM
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Thanks Nortje. And one day I will get it published! But maybe four to five years from now and itll probably be self-published. Mostly because its firmly in the novel length even at this early juncture, me word processor tells me 112393 words thus far, and itll probably be 500k by the time it ends. Most publishers dont want to take on the logistical costs of printing so large a book and I dont blame them. Publishing is a cutthroat industry with evermore new authors competing to be noticed. If you had to pick between a fairly conventional novel of 100k and a tome that eschewed most punctuation even I would probably go with the 100k book if only because I could also go with four other 100k books for the cost of taking on the tome.

As for the language its kind of a acquired taste I think? I dont know if I were a better writer I could do it all but alas Im only lowly me
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Old 12-24-2017, 10:05 AM
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Yeah, youíve pretty much priced yourself out of the market here.

I think you probably know that.

You could chop this into hell and bring something the masses want to read, but I wouldnít do that.

If I were you Iíd ride this bitch to the end and publish it in any way possible.

Yeah, youíre going to die in poverty and suffer the abuses of a minute by minute social media culture, but you could get lucky and die on horseback in the steppes of central Russia defending some woman from certain abuse, or maybe in Kiev in a bar fight, but itís pretty certain youíll be crucified in the worst way.

The bonus: there is a slim chance that some Chinese archeologists will uncover your genius in 200 years and proclaim you an ancient Van Gogh. So... thatís a silver lining.😆😆😆


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Old 12-24-2017, 07:45 PM
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Hahahah oh god we can only hope
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Old 12-25-2017, 01:35 PM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
Hahahah oh god we can only hope 😀


Hey, when you publish I need a hard copy so I can store it in the attic. That way my great great great great great grandkids can get rich😀


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Old 12-29-2017, 08:05 PM
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@brian Ill send ya two

If it has been noted of the wicked that they are affined more to the sun skirted regions than the balmy coast it is because they fear more the judgments of the day then the predacity of night. For while the wicked may meet the noose of the town or the tooth of the lion yet the lion will not pronounce his devourment nor will other lions travel from afar to spectate. In the end it is judgment the wicked flee and private the death they prefer. This preference however is latent in children and the fear of shame is easily overcome by other fears and in unfamiliar darks evil has neither leniency nor clemency and may awake even in dolts a genius for the conjuring of dangers and make every hope a jacklight.

Thus in creep cirrhosis of the rake hour. Contours slaverous of maw or sweaty yoni oozing forth to suckle her hag dry with carneous labia. A sick squelching echoed, maudlin fellation of the dismembered organs of centaurs ejaculating shrill priapic and soteriological pleas through the principal flues and harlequin infamy exhibiting symptoms of the yaws. Ferrety elves are come to thief her satchels. A distaff damnata emulging out of grout to debut her in the bordellos of Tophet. Hapless Morrigu with her murders floundering at curb whilst passes a parade of the nullifidians in lab coats. But who fears judgment carries in themselves judgment formed and it is the validation of that judgment that so inspires terror. For Cain slewed also Adam, Adam residing in Abel, and god in Adam, and Adam in Cain. And so every man who slays the seed of his father slays also his father and his father in himself, and if it is so the American and the Mandarin, the Nippon, the Indian, the European, mayhaps even the nigger and the rusk all descend from common ancestries then they from Mercury's Guinness Station to the nitrogen miners of Pluto's plantum to the hibernating colonists of Themisto dashing for the next star over, not least in Eden nor East of it, have slaughtered unfortunate Adam many trillion times over.
Anyaaaaaaaa!

A furious scraping closed upon the door and threw it open

Are you alright?

Es not!

Anaya slid to her bedside. Calm down what happened?

Fuck ded ye go?

A beam illuminated the pilot's face. Dachni scrabbled the torch away and held it on top her head like an antenna and flipped onto her belly and buried her face in the pillow.

Somethins en here.

Youre in here.

Geht rid it, she sobbed. Dont wan it here.

Do you want to go back to your room?

Dachni hacked her winded breaths. Caught in a place she did not want to be and miles of place she did not want to go to reach a place she did not want to be. The pilot gripped the canopy rail and turned in a swing and sat on the bed. A heavy hand dropped onto her back.

Did you want to talk?

She shook her head vigorously, the friction warming the wetted pillowcase.

The pilot rose in an audible ease of springs and undid her wrappings and rolled them neatly and put them aside and lifted the duvet and slid in. Dachni rolled back in yelp of fear and sudden jolting pain.

Theres nothing to be afraid of.

Git away!

An ophic arm cupped her hip and shored her up to a newborn nakedness freezing. That cold Dachni could feel frost on the pilot's belly. As though she were exuding the cryogenic sleep out which she had prematurely arisen. It made Dachni writhed. She shielded her face with the flashlight and the pilot drew it from her fists and placed it on the nightstand. Then she licked in her affectionate manner the scar that formed the taper of the child's brow. Her tongue was slick, no roughness to it, a frigid moisture. Cold needling points traced up her shirt to her panting heart and blossomed out over it. The child's arms floundered above her head and her elbows bowed out. She tried to push the coldness back down gasping shrill whimpers in the effort but obsidian rictuses of bone with lean grading leathery lips at their bases arched over her shoulders and latched to her scapulae. Two more on her either side hooked to her shortribs and a last pair perched in her omphalos. She struggled to deperch the talons from her ossature but they were fastened tight.

Hello heartbeat.

She squealed her little girl squeals of pain and fear and struggled on. She managed a single talon off and then it bore down harder than before and a writhing wave rolled up from her toes and she arched her back and her head shook side to side.

The pilot whispered a cool salve into her ear. Her mint breath was breath from some arctic clime and the plume of it rolled tenderly over her face. She made a final feeble essay to break free of her imprisonment and failed and collapsed spent in breathless defeat.

Tis not thy blooded casement wherein is seated life but the lungs. For each breath is the last breath but blood dries in the chambers of the veins. Cults of blood are thralled to the hypostasis, below them are the materialists, below them the hedonists. Its like old times isnt it?

Let go.

Why?

Let gooooo, she cried and began to slap at her again like a vicious petting.

The talons detached. Withdrew to her breast and massaged there. Geyshla child. Geyshla.

Her heaving sobs slowed in their deepening and the furious pace of her hearted chambers slacked.

Youll be alright.

Saided was a monster, she cried.

I know.

She shrank, her eyes creased tight, a brittle kindermonstrum sprawled. Isnt a monster. Isnt.

I know, said the pilot.
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Old 01-04-2018, 12:01 AM
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delete?

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Old 01-04-2018, 12:03 AM
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ahem. don't mind the old timers... from the top..

The Mere Tide



Is this the promised end?
Or image of that horror?

King Lear Act 5 Scene 3




I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself and repent, being but dust and ashes.

Job 42:5-6


They say that pride comes just before a fall
I have fallen and I wasn't proud
You know that I have fallen further before
I just cannot stand fallin no more

Jason Pierce


Here we go smurfy-b, Iíll give you my reactions as I read it on through. Iím sure I wonít find much in edits, but letís see, I'll try to refrain from comma comments:



Sing! mortal evil, afore the earth before the heavens thou wert, formlessness thou wert gainst wishing formed. Shine! vital countenance coeternal pon this gnomon guise circled by shadow puzzling the celestial wards whereout issues rain from the lazaret, the fathomless blank intersticing the galaxies and veil to the empyrean and how be it the bruited wells of blackness shade not these stars, this sun, and the pails where are they for to haul up the shroud and reclaim the matter. (Perhaps a style, yet a query-mark makes sense to me at the end of this paragraph. It doesnít look great these ??? but you could change the prose to not seem like a question, even though it is.. isnít it?)

She eats the belles. Has eaten the last of the girl. Other girls shuffle in their summer dresses to hear sermons that learn none dread. Afterwards is a plaited girleen strayed from church and parish and forthwith she is nake slaughtered in the shack and coupled to at the loins. She eats bread from her belly. She drinks the wine.

Hark then these voices of men resounding up the cold face of the mountain. (Ďthen theseí sounds weak to my ears. Then or these. I like these.) They tramp the switchbacks a few days and go back. (solid setting. Lessís more)

In the villages now are wards to which she knows no excantations. She slingshots a raven out of the sky and stuffs it with human teeth and wraps it in human skin and wears it on her back. (She stuffs it before gutting it? Or does she leave the innards and where in the bird do the teeth go?) She stalks the hexen not gimpen not undesirable to her earthen hŁtte (whoís the hexen? Instead of knowing the characters motivation and knowing that the hexenís not a gimpen, as a reader Iíd want some detail imagery as to what sheís stalking) and sits upon a knoll in its clear view.

Six days in siege. She hears chanting in the nights. On the seventh day the hexen attempts a parley and is shot through the skull. (Oh. So here we have jumped without any knowledge as to what was killed. So, as your reader, even though beautiful, Iím not as satisfied as I could be).

The hŁtte has a strange stock. Poultices. Jars. Newt eyes and grimalkin tails, ground bones of babes and bat claws. The ash of brogans. Bloody pages of old books in no tongues (no tongues? Is that a typo or what you meant?) long forgotten. A drowned landsman's map. (Drowned landsmans map is a mouth-full, fun to say) The recorded prayer of a girl drowned in a cistern. Soviet amulets. Pictures of the dead, chamrs of warlocks, old chesspiece kings. The shivs of prisoners and the keepsafes of nuns.

What theyin their full potency can conjure is as nothing to the industrialized butchery to come, so many years in preparation. (they. Who is this they here? Iíd suggest with a new paragraph and your vocab, this they could be anything other then that--) Lo the witches pray for the recall of what none may call back. It is already here. Has already been. Who can do even sinning wrong. (So it is a choice to avoid ?? as it is the comma. Okay. But Iíd suggest change the sentence so that it doesnít sound like a question. Also, Iím surprised that of all your archaic choices, you stick with Ďwitchesí instead of anything else. In fact, this whole paragraph, or perhaps stanza, sounds the most modern of what Iíve read thus far, not that this is strange or out of place, Iím just calling it out )

She goes a revanchist, a nominal harbinger of murderous theogony derived out the narcomaniacal yearnings of privation and a thousand miles of conifers. Moving in auditory nihilism what could not fathom the nemoral songs of birds and so in dismissive solipsism attributed the very symphony of life to the claustral earth so as to say no meaning to them* at all. (ďthemĒ here, I believe this word could be anything else and should indeed change. Them, they. Who or what is this? Them is weak, especially near the end.) She scratched her teeth to rid them of itch. (Teeth itch. Heheh. Gums maybe? I guess teeth can itch. Youíll have to explain yourself out of that one) Sublimate this intellect, be it a hearth, let it not loose on the world. But it is loose and in the world. (like this line. Most lines I donít comment on I like though. Including the avoidance of contractions).

On a certain morning she came down from the mountain in followance of that tributary leading to the bluff wherein stairs were carved. (Chirp) She went up and hammered on the steel door with the stock of her mosin but there was no answer. She pulled at the hatch. It creaked like anciency. The light that fell inside seemed the first in a long time and seemed slow in its filling of the confines as if the dark within had been caught sleeping. (Solid)

She moved through the close maze and out into a vaulted hall. She checked the rooms. The filthy kitchen, the empty larder. (Do I see a comma?) In the mess hall was an antique arcade game whose play was a pixelated B17 bombing a bird's eye caricature of the western front. (Oh goody) A stool before it. (I donít think this sentence should be on itís own and could be fed into the last) Thick layers of dust on the seat. She played. Bombed panzers, trenches, AA nests. The cries of the gray shapes of infantry infantry distorted in the speakers. (Doubling the fun or typo typo?) A V2 rocket shot her avatar down. She went on to the squad bay. Bunks lined the bay like unfinished cages. (Any other choices for bay? Or X one of the bays blue) She could hear him breathing at the rear of the bay somehow on a top bunk. (Yep. Third bay. Take at least one away) His legs were slathered in a flesh colored pus dripping down through the springs. (His pus was dripping into springs? This is an odd image and it could probably use more description of the springs, because Iím thinking of water-springs and am brought out of the environment and back into thinking she still playing the video game, but she isnít. I think the problem here is that there needed to be a paragraph sectioned arriba, after ďA V2 shot her Ödown.) She climbed onto the bunk next his. He didnt notice. His shirt was open and sweat beaded on his chest, his brow. (shocking commas) She nudged his shoulder. Eyes like saucers in that black face. Squinting in the dim light that fell from the ceiling he well could see her his visitor and pushed himself up.

Git out. Git out.

These commands seemed to tax him to the brink and he held his throat as if he had thrown up the words by force. In his breast pocket she could see a bight of maroon. Beads or some other jewelry.

I sayed I doan known yuh but if Ida known yuh was the devil Ida said. Ida mohved dese legs ta yuh. Is do it now. (Oh boy. Here we go. Youíd get a kick out of Uncle Reamus)

He reached for her and she rolled sideways and climbed down from the bunk. He laid back down.

She looked about the spartan confines. Dust concrete and worn. She reached into her pocket and took out a sachet of blackberries and stood a tip toe (No hyphen eh?) and placed them at the foot of his bunk.

I bout kill yo daddy I heard what he done but Is wished he done it sooner fo you was old nuff to crawl back out.
Even that very noon she dredged the surrogate from the garden. It had been interred almost a year and it came apart in her hands. She hauled it up arm by skull by spine. (Really like this line) A soily brisket woven to corset by dropwort. (But not this line. It sounds awkward. For me Ďcorsetí and Ďdropwortí is only slightly horrendous. Itís the vowels and the consonants) She compiled the bones in the fireplace with those of her matriarch but anger alone cannot make a fire to start. (cannot or could not. Iíd prefer could not) Her hands smelled of cosmoline. She had mended her rancid costumes with shot patches and bloodstained linens and spools of stitchwire saved out the mutilations of her own person (hahaha! Ew.) and she seemed some aposematic refugee scaped from who knew what carnival disaster (So she harvested her own body for her spells. Am I getting that right? And I see a lady that kind of resembles a leper carnie.) She had a crude leather satchel fabricated badly out of the flensed hides of children and she girded her waist with four belts fashioned from the same with scalp hair swinging strawberry or blond tailed pony or pig. (Pigs and ponies! I am laughing at this, yes. Never change it. It looks like a hulu-skirt of scalps) She watched the stars from her perch and she watched jealous hued omen come down and she set out. (This line has too many ands and could use less and watched is used twice, and ďshe watched jealous hued omenĒ doesnít work. A jealous hued omenÖ wonder what this could look or feel like to witness? Hued. Is the omen a color? Iíd suggest elaborating on this element as it is an opportunity for extra prose of poetic description.)

In those end days of summer it was rain and rain and nights awash in caves. (Here I enjoy the redundancy of rain.) The ruddy sunsets behind sawtoothed ridges where virga licked the tenuous fires of a few lone expatriates or plemena camped deep in the stony recesses like men exiled to the very corners of the world mayhaps in wait of a cue. (Great longer sentences and would encourage more)

Travailing a vale of birch and broadleaf she spotted high above a kind of pale glowing polymorph she thought might belong to Shura. (Finally a name. I wish we could get the name of the main character unless thereís something Iíve missedÖ) She climbed the steepness of the mountain slope swinging trunk to trunk or scrabbling on fours until she reached the bright night limned mouth of the cave.

He was a forger when she looked, no trade she knew. (Here a new person has been introduced without setting first, and no name. Itís only slightly frustrating for the reader as it seems the scenes have jumped around in quick spurts, lots of time lapse, and flashes of the world that donít yet meet, however this is the case of many fantasies, but without coming back to the details established they become misplaced flowers.) He sat at his credenza punching a brass keyboard fashioned after a typewriter. He didnt notice her for a long while. He did so but gradually. A dim apprehension of something out of place. He peered into the dark without his abode a full minute before he patterned the shape of her standing there. (ďwithout his abode a full minuteĒ this mix here doesnít work. I think itís Ďwithout his abodeí that fully throws me off and could be erased and the sentence would probably be stronger.)

Come in.

She edged into the light.
Come in.


She entered the cave. She pointed at the electric lamps strung about. The forger glanced at them. At his press, his stamps and printers. Histories. Pictures. He looked at a stack of passports amidst the clutter. (Okay. This is all great. I think what the problem prior is that after she climbs the mountain instead of bringing the reader away from the MC to the man in the cave, youíve lost the scene of her standing at the cave itself. It may be a simple rearrangement in paragraphs) She went over to his desk and took up a pen and unscrewed the nib from the tubes and unscrewed the tubes from another and emptied out the refill and the spring. She stared at the wall. When the forger looked to see what it was she looked at she looked at the ground. (This end of the sentence is sloppy and Iím only going to say its slack and let you judge the fix). Then she reached for one of the passports. Inside the lines were blank, the portrait an empty space. (comma! Jaja. Iím only calling them out to show you that you do use them, even though you try so hard not to, thíre useful) Beyond were colorful pages with images like lithographs of old cities long since destroyed and other cities yet to be. As if each depiction of ruin were a chronicling, each city whole a promissory of things which could be brought back, be made right again. (Okay. Iíll stop pointing out the commas, but if I were reading your book Iíd still crit you for it, wondering why itís not a solid choice one way or the other. The effort to be vastly abnormal can harm as much as it does aid in your ability to show how you break the rules you knew and chose to ignore, ya know?)

Yes, he said placing his hand on the stack, do you want something made?

She searched her clothes and offered up for his inspection her own documents. (her, his her, she. Thereís too many in this sentence and it needs to be tightened much shorter). Brown worn leather. He regarded the coat of arms with his eyes and then he opened the booklet and read the data page line by line. He looked at the signature.

This was signed in aienee, he said. Dagestai John Anaya Adelinda Vilate Hasti. Quite a name.

His right eye telescoped out to study the watermarks and then he scanned the barcode and then he mated a cable to the chip below her name. (Telecoped. Lovely as it implies action and description. I can see him moving forward without the motion being mentioned. Could have used a comma and erase ďand thenĒ just saying)

Is it Dachni or Catherine? he said.

Dachni squirmed her shoulders. (Style. I have to finally call out your dialogue formatting. Here in this line, the question is if the MC verbally says her name or if she is shrugging in silence. This is a serious question that Iíd have as a reader, and is the best example of where you can cause miniscule doses confusion. I know why you do it, but Iím using the most simplistic line to illustrate the editorial concern a publisher would fight with you about, and I think you should be able to have your way, but it needs to be so precise if itís going to break the rules. So here, if the answer is that Dachni is silent, then it may need to be mentioned that she didnít rightly answer)

He handed her passport back to her. Youre already ready. This is genuine. Theyll take you anywhere.

Dachni smacked her fist against her lips.

What?

She did it again and again tappingly.

Are you hungry?

She kept tapping.

I have a barrel of pistachios.

Dachni nodded strangely and then rolled her head about her shoulders. (Intriguing interaction. As a reader, I am not wondering what happened to the girl playing the arcade video game and if itís the same character here Dachni, and not some other. Iím assuming its been the same girl this whole time, but this is where my mind goes as I consume. It felt that the other man in the bunk knew the girl, but the scene ended too abruptly to have given enough info away for me to feel satiated with what happened at the beginning or who the other man was.)

I dont know what that means. Are you hungry? I have elk too. If I can ask where did you get those scars? They are extensive.

Dachni shrugged up her garments. (Shrugged has been used recently by Dachni. Perhaps some other descriptor)

If youll permit Id like to photograph them for my work. I have portfolios of scars, burns, blemishes, imperfections. Defects. Amputations. Everything. Im always collecting.

She shook her head.

It will be a hurt upon another person. (It hurt him that she refused? Thatís what it sounds like he means, but it sounds strange and I certainly donít know what he means besides perhaps forgery of defects?)

She shook her head again.

Well. Do you want me to make you something?

And a third time.

The forger met his fingertips together. There isnt rest but you can stay here tonight. Theres a sleeping bag in the back. It wont do but its there.

She moved carefully past the forger to the back of the cave where were (there were?) reams of silicon paper and androids by the hundreds in the fetal position and new (end the sentence with ďfetal positionĒ and take new and plug it before Ďandriodsí). She let down her gear and found the sleeping bag and crawled in. She lay for a long while. Then she took out her passport and looked at the unmarred visage staring blankly back from behind the laminate and disbelieved it. (Finishing a sentence with Ďití is not as powerful as a descriptive noun, what didnít she believe exactly?) She watched the forger at his work. His fingers danced across the keyboard. He leaned near to the screen. His hands were augmentations and the fingers styluses and from time to time he would draft in the air with singular grace and address. Old artisan crafting false face and false history for the false men he would have walk the world. (Solid)

Are you awake? (I feel like this question could be a standalone line, as I imagine itís the forger, but then is whatís written after the question also dialogue of the forger or narrative? These are the questions that would plague the editor) When the hero goes forth from his kingdom he can bring back only two things. What restores his people. Or what destroys them. (These two short sentences next to each other donít work and should be married together. The silence between the two is unnecessarily dramatic) But myths ignore many things. (This one is also too short and could be woven with the other two above) They do not say that while he goes he may return to nothing. That he was not in time to save the kingdom. Or that someone else had saved it. They do not say that he left no kingdom. That it was already dead before he left and that there was nothing he could do to save it.

She was up before the dawn but the forger had not yet slept nor did he seem to slack in his work. (Strong change scene) She climbed atop his desk and stepped gingerly between the documents and scrawled a happier image of him at his labors and then (and then again. Itís because of your no comma rule. Here Iíd put a period. She filled..) she filled her pockets with pistachios from the barrel and took a pound of meat and the mouse of his laptop and left out. He waved. Nothing more. (She stole his mouse. Haha. What a ho. I mean. This sure is a funny bit. By god, hope this helped Blue. I enjoy being able to edit something so strange



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  #172  
Old 01-04-2018, 12:32 AM
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("...interesting read..." went the goblin adding "...I take an interest in this partly because it's online and judging from the reaction to it, it differs from a book on that account becoming something more like someone watching someone else paint...")
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  #173  
Old 01-04-2018, 05:51 PM
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@Bee Id thought ye'd dissolved into the Arizona ether

Thanks for giving it the hard over. Youre right about the short sentences and I think it was Lucia made the same observation too that its not my forte. Nevertheless I gotta work on it. Im good with long sentence I intend to be as good with the shorts too. Fortunately I have all my liiiiiiiife to improve I did adopt some of your changes though. Removed the its and the what nots.

Ill post up a newer draft. I have a newer draft (I actually have about twelve ) but Ill work on it again
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Old 01-05-2018, 06:31 PM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
@Bee Id thought ye'd dissolved into the Arizona ether

Thanks for giving it the hard over. Youre right about the short sentences and I think it was Lucia made the same observation too that its not my forte. Nevertheless I gotta work on it. Im good with long sentence I intend to be as good with the shorts too. Fortunately I have all my liiiiiiiife to improve I did adopt some of your changes though. Removed the its and the what nots.

Ill post up a newer draft. I have a newer draft (I actually have about twelve ) but Ill work on it again

I wasn't saying that you should avoid short sentences. Avoidance of such is limiting. I just point out what's I sees.
Glad to hear you actually looked over whatever i'd suggest.
maybe i'll do you another in a while, i've got 'em loaded, we'll see if i keep enjoying it without having read the first book. you've done enough to keep me busy telling you do more

Without having read the first book, and picking this up as is, I could go right back to the top after you edit after I edited, and I'd come up with a whole different angel of crits. in which landscapes would be detailed beyond belief. it's not that i, as reader need to even know what happened in the last book, I'd simply want a wide angle 360 panorama

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Old 01-06-2018, 12:54 AM
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I wasn't saying that you should avoid short sentences. Avoidance of such is limiting. I just point out what's I sees.

No no I wasnt sayin ye was I really do appreciate the time ye took. Hugs and kisses bee.

I tried to write this so readers dont have to read the first to appreciate it. I can give a little note about something. I used to read a lot of WH40k and one of the flagship series of that was Gaunt's Ghosts and out of curiosity I decided to pick up the latest one Warmaster and the first forty pages is all about catching the reader up to the series. I mean it omits enormous amounts but its all about reintroducing characters that a long time reader would be already overly familiar with and I wanted to avoid that. So previous events are rarely ever referenced directly, characters are never given background, which is actually in keeping with the style so thats just kind of a plus. I think the benefit of that is that the significance of events is hidden which really is kind of how I want it. I mean theres plenty of foreshadowing from one book to the next and even direct references. So two examples I guess I could give. The black in this post is directly referenced in TFA:

And night again in a cold that burned the lungs. Like the burn of drowning. To make you wish not to breathe. She said all cold should be this cold. And dawn again. What wiry elisions cast of light cognate to man and tree. All fertile desolation. And again the dawn. They walked a day's worth of miles. Late in the morning they passed a concrete stairwell carved into the rock leading up to a bunker's steel door. Dachni slowed to see if the nigger was there but the nigger's legs were ulcerous these days and he would be dead a year hence.

Then theres the foreshadowing of Dachni getting her ears docked. Thats also in TFA but I wont say where ill let folks figure that out for themselves and besides Ive already said wayyyyyyy too much and I resolve to never reveal such things again






The Mere Tide



Is this the promised end?
Or image of that horror?
King Lear Act 5 Scene 3




I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself and repent, being but dust and ashes.
Job Chapter 42, Verse 5-6




They say that pride comes just before a fall
I have fallen and I wasnt proud
You know that I have fallen further before
I just cannot stand fallin no more
Jason Pierce












Dachni as inverted Pippa. R. Browning








August 2nd, 2605



Sing! Mortal evil, afore the earth before the heavens thou wert. Formlessness thou wert gainst wishing formed. Shine! Vital countenance coeternal pon this gnomon guise by shadow circled puzzling the celestial wards whereout issues rain from the lazaret, fathomless interstice of galaxies and veil to the empyrean. How be it the bruited blank shade not these stars, this sun, and the pails where are they for to up the shroud and reclaim the matter?
She eats the belles. Has eaten the last of the girl and sucked dry the marrowbones. Other girls shuffle in their summer dresses to sermons that learn none dread more than this haunter of the outer dark. After mass a plaited girleen strays from the parish and forthwith she is nake slaughtered in the shack and coupled to at the loins. She eats the bread from her belly. Imbibes the wine.
Hark then alarms resound up the face of the mountains. These seeking voices. They tramp the switchbacks a few days and go back.
On the outskirts of the villages now are wards to which she knows no excantations. She slingshots a raven and gorges it on human teeth by means of gavage and wraps it in human skins slaked with blood and she wears this on her back with the bird squawking like a demented herald. She finds tracks in the mud.
They are hexens. They hold convent in a riddance of trees and masturbate round a living skewered hog chanting through their gestalt orgasm. Their convulsions precede the ecstasy. They put the thing to fire and tongue the cum from their fingertips and sucted the heated semen from the hog's hooked pizzle. Among these zoophiliacs is a witch whose pockets jangle and she stalks her a hŁtte in a marsh and waits upon a knoll. The witch chants through the night and in the morning when she attempts to parley she shoots her. Her brains splatter across the crude board jamb. She goes down, the marksman, and stands over the hexen and she is not gimpen, not undesirable.
In the hŁtte a fremd stock of poultices and hydria. Newt eyes and grimalkin tails. Babe bones ground to meal. Batwings. She stirs the ash of brogans. In a churner has been mashed an obese infant. An eye peering out of the buttered gore. Turns bloody pages of old manuals in no tongues long forgotten. A drowned landsman's map, the recorded prayer of a girl drowned in a cistern. Soviet amulets among them, medals and commemorations and secreted pictures of the dead erased centuries ago by committee decree these photos alone evidence of their ever having existed, as if their veins of causality were to be annulled.
What they in their absolute potency can conjure as as nothing to the industrialized butchery to come, so many years prepared. They have plied their arts but lo the tower is in the spread and what comes cannot be called back. Is already here.
Under saurian bones is a newspaper. The frontispiece is of a soldier frozen in midfall. She touches him and the bullet that has felled him rips out his heart and he rights himself. Bright red flowers withdraw into the muzzles of guns and buildings erect out the recess of explosions of dust and smoke seeps into cities and bombs rise out of the earth into the bays of planes and children spring up to a platform where men unhood them and remove their halters. A voice speaks. You can stop the future. Enlist today. It can be done.
Now a revanchist she goes. Nominal harbinger of a theogony derived out the narcomaniacal yearnings of privation and a thousand miles of conifers. A meandering locus of auditory nihilism what could not fathom the nemoral birdsongs and so attributed the very symphony of life to the claustral earth.
Off the mountain. In followance of a tributary leading to the bluff wherein stairs are carved. A steel door at the landing. She hammers upon it with the stock of her rifle but there is no answer. She pulls at the hatch. It creaks like anciency. The light that fell inside seemed the first in a long while and slow in its filling of the confines as if the dark within had been caught sleeping.
She moves through the maze out into a vaulted portico. She checks the rooms. The filthy kitchen, the empty larder. In the mess hall is an antique arcade game whose play is a pixelated B17 bombing a bird's eye caricature of the western front. She dusts the stool before it and takes the quarter out the coin slot and deposits it again. The game starts in sixteenbit music and mock bomber effects. She bombs panzers, trenches, AA nests. Guns down Messersmichts and Fock-wulfs. The cries of the gray shapes of infantry distorted in the speakers. A V2 rocket falls her plane and she reads the only word she knows as it spins broadwise up to fill the screen.
She goes on down the hall to the squadbays. Bunks line them like unfinished cages. She hears him breathing at the read of the bay somehow on a top bunk. A sickly nigger, infirm by age. His legs slathered in a flesh colored pus dripping through the springs. She climbs atop the bunk next his. He doesnt notice. His shirt is unbuttoned and sweat beads on his chest, his brow. She nudges his shoulder with a toe. Eyes like saucers in that sable face. Squinting in the dim light falling from the ceiling he poorly could discern his visitor and he props himself up painfully on an elbow.
Git out. Git out.
These whispered commands seemed to tax him to the brink and he holds his throat as if he he had thrown up the words by force. In his breast pocket she could see a bight of maroon. Beads or some other jewelry.
I sayed I doan knowned yuh but if Ida known yuh was the devil's own Ida said. Ida mohved dese legs. Is do it now.
He gripped the springs and hauled himself up and reached for her and she rolled sideways off the bunk. He fell back down.
She looked about the spartan confines. Pocks in the qualmish bulkhead. Dust motes. She reached into her pocket and took out a sachet of blackberries and stood a tip toe and placed them at the foot of his bunk.
I bout kill yo daddy I heard what he done but Is wished he done it sooner. Fo you was old nuff to crawl back out.
Even that very noon she dredged the surrogate from the garden. It had been interred almost a year and it came apart in her hands. She hauled it up arm by skull by spine. A soil stuffed brisket woven to corset by dropwort. She compiled the bones in the fireplace with those of her matriarch but anger alone cannot compel a fire to start. Her hands smelled of cosmoline. She had mended her rancid costumes with shot patches and bloodstained linens and spools of stitchwire salvaged out the mutilations of her own person and she seemed some aposematic refugee scaped from who knew what carnival disaster. She had a crude leather satchel fabricated badly out of the flensed hides of children and she girded her waist with four belts fashioned from the same with the scalp hair swinging strawberry or blond tailed pony or pig. She watched the stars from her perch and she watched come down an omen the color of envy and set out.
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Old 01-06-2018, 07:04 AM
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I mean it omits enormous amounts but its all about reintroducing characters that a long time reader would be already overly familiar with and I wanted to avoid that.
I figured this, i agree and despise reintroductions, and that's why i refrained and even said in my crit. "i dont care about what happened in the last story" i wouldn't care about backstory if i were sucked into the atmosphere page one. i sure do have some stylistic suggestions for your final product but i'd not want to give away too much advice before youre ready.

i have not read the new edits on this new post, i've got to get back to mine for a bit.
i'll be back.
maybee

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Old 01-07-2018, 06:11 AM
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Old 01-14-2018, 09:59 PM
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And that is a rap for the month. Ill be taking a break and updates will resume February 15th. As I work I keep finding myself going back and adding in new scenes which all in all has amounted to something like a few dozen additional pages. I dont know if this is a good method of writing as sometimes I feel the scenes can become disjointed with another but then again thats what editing is for. With TFA I removed something like a hundred and fifty pages from the final draft that maybe one day many years from now Ill reincorporate. In the interim Ill continue working on Ontario and the on the military addendum of MT and definitely pick up my editing of other folks works as I have seriously slacked on that. And so see yars on the morrows!



They didnt sleep. Only an inert rigor overcame them. The airsuck of the pilot's operculum suctioning the sheets to a seal and exhaling them back out again. Dachni laid supine, her leg hiked up to rest on the pilot's hip. Over the day, the night a weak heartlorn numbed her, a deep foreboding revelation that her father had always hated her.

In the pilot a compartmentalized relaxation seeped through muscle by muscle yet under this pacific current she detected another presence. A core buried under the inscrutable layers of cause and motivation. Unknowable how she knew. Some cold beyond the cold. Beyond the pulsing of organs, the facades of character. A gordian tenseness detectable masked by other turmoils, detectable only because of the calm in the way those instruments detect the most distant of phenomena by the removal of all noise and why was it then in her own disquiet she picked it up. Some link from dagestai through the last vestige of Hasti, below John, below even Anaya to a boiling malevolence. Some rotten cyst, some boiling entity terribly entwined mellem the title and the mausoleum of her soul.

Years hence Avrin would remark that Dachni was one mean cunt. And a helluva deceivress.

And when he said this the pilot would let fall the qeusnelia from betwixt her knuckles for its deficiency of palette and fall it would back among its brethren in their own flowerfall down the bluffs and she would look out upon the Tocantin with its heavy traffic of juggernaut junks and skiffs and punts and across its iron duckslab bridge to the airstrip where Allen Grant was arriving by canard.

Shes not a deceiver.

How would you call it?

Shes a liar. And a bad one at that. She couldnt deceive if her life depended on it.

Roger Kratz reclined on a bed of discast tires belched good naturedly in his miasma of gluttony and satisfied lust at a staggered column of Ashankinkas filing into a cleft in the wall of jungle. A monkey screamish is rising whereto they go to pitch and then cutoff without subsidence. Some simian perishing by leopard or other cat.

Surmising you reckon theres a difference.

Bill Camel blew into his snot rag and studied what had come out a moment then threw it into the fire in disgust. He looked at her in that same piercing acuity as he would when dying many years even after that on their return from Nigger Big's rescue.

Tis the quality of the untruth, said the pilot. Shell lie for a goal. Nothing else. Its a plain single use contradiction of reality forgotten with its telling. Deception is mostly truth or even all truth and because it is effective deception is almost impossible to disentangle from the lie. A lie can hurt a man. Enough lies or the right one can break him. But a man can endure lies. Even some big ones. Enough lies may even by accident assume the flavor of deception but it isnt. Deception breaks not just the man but his world. He cannot endure deception because deception is betrayal and no man truly betrayed ever truly recovers.

You dont think she'd ever plunk that bowie in that back?

I think she would sicken to her bowels at the thought. I think she would throw up a messy brunch and then eat it against just to rinse more of whatever rottenness had gotten in her.

Avrin would tongue then the roof of his mouth and spit a dark venom out his sublingual gland. He peered down the coy torrent of dahlia raining down the bluffs and at the porters rolling oil drums towards the waiting ferries.

Thats one helluva conviction.

Yet it is.

Bill thumbed back the brim of his hat. He looked at Paris. He looked at Ferran. It wouldnt flat a man permanent.

No?

You could say its the hardcore breaks but sometimes thats the drug needs administerin an iffa man plugs up hell pull through. And prolly have a sight damn better than what he did.

His world though, said the pilot, is lost.

But the world aint lost. The world dont break. Its only men that break.

The world consists of perspectives. When one yields it is
to the invasion of another.

The world is only itself. It dont care what nobody says about it. Theres only two perceptions what matter. The first is the world's and the second is god's. Those wont never break. A man can put a meaning on a bow but time will wash it away. Ever time.

God is dead.

He remains dead.

Someone laughed. A deep cynical laugh of feigned knowing. This someone was Louis Basker. He was a narcissist and he would have been able to exhibit strains of that disorder more often were it not that life had injected into him a terrible humility by the spine and which was ever his private torment. As it was he was only able to indulge in his vice but rarely.

And its no compliment neither, said Avrin glancing quickly between the two debaters. Say sin shes too dumb to be no concern. He squinted an eye to find out any partiality between them. Is that really what you believe?

The pilot rolled her neck upon the waving of her shoulders. In so many words.

I know this, said Bill. Ill kill her she ever wets her bed above me again.
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  #179  
Old 01-15-2018, 02:01 AM
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("...have you tried gearing this to a reading app..." inquired the goblin thinking that increasingly readers would depend upon such things not because they themselves couldn't read still, no more because they wanted to be read to while using their hands and eyes for other tasks such as driving, having a bath, housework, or just while resting in bed, adding "...to date I have used a reading app myself though I suspect that the old man's eyesight might call for such at some point, and if one is ahead of the curve it might jump start one readership, just saying...")
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Old 01-15-2018, 09:34 AM
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Gearing to a reading app? Not sure I understand. Do you mean an audiobook type thing?
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