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selfproducingfanfictionauthor · 4 years

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The Lore of the Forest - Chapter 1: What Winter Brings

Summary: Nothing ancient and magical is ever really lost. When the descendants and heirs of the myths and legends come together to live a normal life, something - someone - is thrown into their plans. Bringing with them aid, magic and so much more.

Pairing: Eventual BTS x Reader Genre: Poly, Romance, Fantasy

Chapter Warnings: Hidden Greek myth pun, Seokjin as town doctor, reader! appears, sick kids, lots of Seokjin focus sorrynotsorry, unedited, lots of backstory

Word Count: 7k+

Taglist: @xxqueenwxtchxx @lysannnnaa PROLOGUE HERE

Being back in the village is odd, Jungkook decides, especially since he has no recollection of his own absence.

Everyone in the village, from the young ones to the few remaining elders, look at him like he’s a ghost for the first few days of his return. Every time he approached someone, they’d turn to him with a small jolt as if they didn’t expect him even with him announcing his presence time and time again. It bummed him out for a bit but considering how the whole village mourned for him for almost a month, it was more than understandable and worth the awkwardness after every encounter.

At least now, there’s no more suppressed shrieks from the old ladies in the market.

Humming, Jungkook nods to himself, reaching for his wardrobe and picking out one of his brother’s shirts. They’d really gone ahead and burned all his clothes, huh? Good thing Taehyung’s still got some of his bigger shirts lying around. Brushing off some cloth balls, Jungkook shrugs on his thick coat and heads out the cottage.

Winter’s almost here, making its presence known with the barren trees and biting winds. The village streets are almost deserted, the inhabitants of their settlement preferring to stay at home and tend to their families. Snow has not fallen yet, and the few that are out are mostly adult men and women, gathering the last of their supplies for the coming cold, strengthening the roofs of their houses and bringing in their smoked catch.

Seokjin had mentioned that by the looks of the stars, it’s going to be one of the harsher winters they’ve had. As Jungkook’s feet lead him to the healing hut, he remembers the harshest winter their settlement has gone through.

He was only thirteen then, and the settlement was only composed of seven people. None of them older than eighteen. Seven young teenagers from different lineages, all thrown out from villages that didn’t want them and feared them. Remembering it now, still, brings forth a bitter taste in Jungkook’s mouth. He had never been one of the forgiving ones in their family.

That winter, they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and some dried fruits they’ve managed to steal from their wanderings from town to town. Their eldest, Seokjin, had only been eighteen but he and his other older brothers had done their best to scrounge up resources before winter hit, however, no matter how much they worked odd jobs for the “purebloods” – humans – it still wasn’t enough. When the first harsh gale came, Namjoon managed to convince an old kind gentleman to let them stay in his storage hut for the winter, in exchange for never ending fire. The old man, with winter living in his bones, was wedded to a woman who had spring in hers, so he wasn’t foolish enough to even think of turning them down.

However, the moment Jungkook, all young and barely presenting of his old blood, stepped from behind Hoseok everything came crashing down and they were sent packing.

(After, long long after, once the old couple’s children found their settlement, they found out that their lineage was nearly driven extinct by an old feud between them and Jungkook’s old blood. It was a bloody war, they’d said and their father, up until his death, still flinched at the sound of howling wolves.)

After they were kicked out – with the old man reluctantly parting with some of their supplies at the glare of his wife – Jungkook managed to sniff out an den deep in the forest. It was one of the few remaining dens of the old wolves, large enough to fit three adult werewolves and definitely large enough for seven of them – a bit tight but who were they to complain?

It was there, huddled together for warmth, did the eight of them spend what turned out to be the worst winter in two decades. It was there where Namjoon swore that it will never happen again – and where Jungkook swore he would follow that older male his entire life.

It took two years of non-stop work, of many many rejections and threats, one near-famine and, trial and error when it comes to farming and medicine, for them to finally settle down in their home between two mountains. And after that, it only took months for families to join them, it started with young adults, then their ailing parents and then their children. All of them believing in Namjoon’s leadership, brought forth by Yoongi’s expertise and Seokjin’s medical knowledge, charmed by Taehyung, assured by Hoseok’s strength and Jungkook’s hunt and kept by Jimin’s warmth.

As the healing hut came to view, Jungkook chews on the thought that the one thing he brings to the village is now banned by his brothers. He hasn’t been allowed to hunt since his return. Although a part of him understood, another part is disappointed that his skills couldn’t be put to use especially during these times. Winter means scarcity and scarcity means a possibility for people to starve.

He’d tried once to sneak out only to find out that Taehyung had put a subtle tracking charm on his person that notified them when he tried to step into the forest. And now, he’s rendered to be Seokjin’s assistant and errand boy in the healing hut.

“Jungkook! Great, you’re here!”

The wolf descent looks up to see his hyung looking ragged and wearing a cloth around his nose and mouth. Before he could ask, the son of fae tosses him a similar cloth and gestures him to tie it tight.

The moment he enters the healing hut, he understands.

Inside the hut is what looks like a half of the village kids, lying on cots parallel to the walls, all looking wan and weak even under the warm light. At the farthest corner of the room was Jimin, murmuring comforting words to a young girl around five while he wipes her arms with a cool cloth. Jungkook quickly walks towards Seokjin.

“Hyung, what’s happening?” he asks, words slightly muffled by the cloth around his face. Behind him, a watery cough splutters out a boy of six years old, quickly covered by his own mother sitting vigil by his side.

Seokjin pauses from reaching into his medicine cabinet. The cabinet is littered by different colored vials, some glass jars filled with roots and powders, all labeled with Seokjin’s crisp handwriting. This close, Jungkook could see the exhaustion in the older male’s eyes and the slight tremble of his hand. Quietly, Seokjin tips his head to the backroom and walks away with several jars.

The backroom of the healing hut is a relatively new addition, created to provide Seokjin some breathing space away from his patients. Usually, the patients are seen to where the kids are lying and then sent home to recover in their homes, with occasional visits from the village doctor.

Inside the backroom is a small bed and a large wide table. The table is littered with notes and powder marks from the upturned pestle and mortar. With a muted thud, Seokjin sets down the jars and rips away the mask from his face. Frustrated, he runs his hand through his hair and sighs.

“We’ve got ten kids sick in the middle of winter, that’s what we have.” Seokjin sighs and flops down the chair. He hasn’t slept in more than a day, only getting half hour sleeps while shifting with Jimin and Taehyung. It’s not sustainable, even if it’s only been a few days.

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow. Ten? “But, yesterday we only had two. And I saw Yeon-Joo with Jimin back there. Didn’t we give her medicine three days ago?”

“That’s the thing.” The older male sighs, reaching out for his charts. In clear handwriting, he could see the emerging pattern and it’s not looking pretty. For the past week, all the ten kids in the other room came with the same symptoms characteristic of a cold. Common, especially with the cold change of the weather.

Seven days ago, it was the eight year-old daughter of the newly arrived couple from the east. Upon observation, Seokjin diagnosed it as a case of travel fatigue and sent the daughter and her mom with a vial of cold medicine.

Three days after, the triplets of the dryad descent came in with the same symptoms. Seokjin kept them overnight, running himself ragged at taking care of three puking kids at the same time. The day after they felt better and went home with a tweaked vial of stomach flu medicine, only to be replaced by two siblings, followed by another four in two days.

It was quiet for a few days until today, when Seokjin found a long line of parents carrying their kids – the same kids- in front of the healing hut.

Seokjin’s eyes focus on the charts and saw one common factor. All of the kids live in the same area, near the park and the registry, except one – Yeseo, the newcomers’ daughter. If his hunch is right, he’d have to notify Namjoon to convene what to tell the parents, else an argument and finger-pointing ensue.

“Jungkook, I need favor.”

And that’s how Jungkook finds himself in front of Yeseo, mask down and ready to sniff around the kid. Part of the reason why Namjoon assigned him in the healing hut is his acute sense of smell. Perks of being a wolf descent, he teased. It has helped them in the past to determine if someone was sick, or getting sick, or if something is poisonous or not.

I bet hyung didn’t see it coming this handy so soon.

Seokjin deemed it safe for him to get close as the children’s parents were left healthy even with constant exposure to their kids. Jungkook resolves to ignore the worried adults hovering behind him and sits low beside the trembling girl.

The babe’s face is flushed and sweat beads down her cheeks. With fearful eyes, she stares at Jungkook before flicking towards her mom. Her lips tremble.

“Hey, hey.” Jungkook’s voice is low and quiet, “Don’t cry. I’m not going do anything bad. Just going to check up on you, yeah? So you could get better faster.”

“And make snowballs?”

A fond smile tugs on Jungkook’s lips and he nods. “Yeah, and have snowball fights. Now, stay still for me, okay?”

Jungkook leans forward, close enough that there’s only a few centimeters between his nose and Yeseo’s forehead. He sniffs quietly, eyes closed and focused.

Underneath the smell of sweat, dry vomit and porridge are the nauseating smell of fear and nervousness. Detecting nothing different from normal cold, Jungkook moves to lift Yeseo’s wrist to his nose. Sniffing, he shuts his eyes tighter, blocking all the outside smells from his thoughts – from Jimin’s soap to the smell of ash from the fireplace – and finds something… sweet.

Dropping the child’s wrist gently, Jungkook looks at Seokjin and beckons him closer. The parents, sensing the atmosphere, give them space while Jungkook whispers to the fae descent.

Seokjin nods at the words before turning to Yeseo and her mom. “Sweetheart, did you eat something sweet? A fruit, maybe?”

The child tucks her head down as her mother answers. “No, we don’t have anything sweet in our house. And, we’ve only bought meat and vegetables from the market since we came here.”

The village doctor nods, understanding, before tilting his head to the young kid. Subtly, Seokjin releases some of his energy, enticing Yeseo to feel calm and honest. Her eyes turn slightly glassy and her cheeks flush prettily before she shifts in her place.

After a few moments, the child produces a small pouch from underneath the bed. “I… I found it before we came here. They’re my new favorite berries.”

Confused, the mother turns to her child and plucks the pouch from her little hands and gives it to Seokjin. When Seokjin opens it, the faint sickly sweet scent hits Jungkook like a raging bull and by the looks of it, Seokjin and Jimin are reeling from it too.

“What’s that?” Jimin asks from behind them.

Seokjin measures the heft of the silk pouch on his palm, feeling small malleable spheres inside. Opening it, Seokjin holds his breath and plucks out one bruised orange berry. Dread creeps under his skin, colder than the gusts of wind outside.

“Fetch Namjoon.”

The townhall is less of a hall and more of an open gazebo, located at the center of village right under the bell tower. It used to be a site for an ancient sequoia tree but a summer storm blew its branches down, to the point that it became dangerous being around it.

Instead of uprooting the tree, their group decided to carve the townhall inside its trunk. Now, it stands a few stories tall with high ceilings and open doors and windows. If you stand at its entrance, you can see the village vegetable gardens behind it. The trunk’s carved with tree carvings, leaves and fruits, honoring the creature it’s built in. Usually, the beauty and spaciousness of the townhall brings a sense of calm to meetings but, with the crowd of worried parents in thick coats – it’s anything but.

“Calm down. Everybody! Calm. Down.” Namjoon’s booming voice brings the crowd to a silence as he makes his way to the center, where Seokjin and Jungkook stand. At the left corner of the townhall, Hoseok towers, keeping an eye out for his brothers while Yoongi sits in front of the crowd and Taehyung hovers over the second-floor balcony.

The small pause of silence is broken by a large man with muted red hair and vibrant blue eyes. He wears very thin clothes compared to those around him, and towers over others by almost two feet.

“I knew we shouldn’t have accepted outsiders this close to winter!” he exclaims, and Seokjin remembers him to be the father of the sturdy triplets he watched over. For a winter giant descent, he’s got a fiery temper and a warm heart.

Murmurs of agreement fill the hall, and suddenly, the cold melts away. From the center of the room, Yoongi watches almost amusedly at how Namjoon controls his temper against the mere thought of it the way he controls his fire – seething just beneath the surface, crawling all over the floors.

“And let them suffer a winter homeless?” Namjoon asks, calmly and yet all of them could see the faint smoke curling from his nostrils. “Shin-hyung, you should know how bad winter can be for children.”

The winter giant descent flinches and holds his younger daughter, the only one who didn’t get sick, closer against his knees. Beside him, his human wife huddles close, likely remembering the last winter they spent in the mountains before finding this settlement.

“That’s not what this village stands for.” Namjoon reminds the people, “It’s founded by us who were cast away, do we really want to turn into the very people who left us for dead?”

At this, everyone is silenced.

From his corner of the room, Hoseok grins. It’s almost amazing how far Namjoon has come, from a reluctant leader of a bunch of kids to one who commands not only people’s attention but also their loyalty and trust through competence and empathy. Hoseok’s sharp eyes flicker up where Taehyung is and catches a sight of a sheer film laying over the people. It doesn’t take a second for each and every one to sit down calmly.

Hoseok shoots the younger male a warning glare, to which Taehyung just shrugs and flutters his fingers with a motion.

That kid can be very terrifying.

“Now, thank you for coming at such short notice and at such a weather. But this is the easiest and fastest way to relay information given how valuable time is to us now that winter’s coming,” Namjoon begins and turns to Seokjin. “Jin-hyung, will you share what you found?”

Seokjin steps forward and produces one of the percyberries from the Yeseo’s silk pouch. “This is a percyberry. I’m sure you’re all familiar with this. They tend to grow along the river bend a few kilometers from here. It was used to dress flesh wounds during the war, but was discouraged from patronage because of its ill effects when eaten.”

Seokjin pauses and empties the pouch on the table in front of him. “It causes dizziness and headaches for adults and flu-like symptoms for children, that when left untreated may cause death.”

Gasps erupt in the townhall and Hoseok curses Seokjin’s flair for the dramatic.

“Death??”

“My baby!”

“BUT! Since we’ve been treating them since the week before with similar medicine that combat percyberry poisoning, your children will be fine. We still decided to call everyone here to ask if any other child have eaten one of these”

Yeseo said she picked over two dozens and gave it away as offerings of friendship to the children in town when she and her family arrived. There are ten sick kids in the healing hut right now, assuming they ate two each and Yeseo ate four (or so she says) it should be all accounted for, but it’s never a bad idea to be thorough.

With a quick check-in on the remaining village kids and after making sure they didn’t eat even a bite of it. The townhall moves to a different and yet related concern.

“While we can treat your children, we have to ask for your help as well,” Jungkook starts with a parchment of paper in his hand, “Due to the several days straight of using our supplies, we’re running low on some roots and leaves, I have a list here with me. If you have any to spare, please let us know or drop it off the healing hut.”

It’s already near supper when the townhall dismisses. Seokjin left shortly after Jungkook finished listing the supplies to attend to the children they left with Jimin while the rest of them accompanied Namjoon as he answers the concerns and questions of the settlers.

Cast under the shadows from the hearth, Seokjin and Jimin watch over the children, their eyes sharp and catching each and every breath from each one. They’ve just finished brewing and administering the tweaked formula of the cold medicine to the children and the results are already showing. Unlike the nights before, at least this time, they’re sleeping through the night.

All of them, except one – Yeseo.

They’ve already given her two doses in the span of six hours, and yet, there’s very little improvement. As Seokjin watches her toss and turn in her bed, he sighs, exhaustion evident in his shoulders.

“I wish I’d inherited my kind’s healing abilities. Instead, I’m just good looking.”

Jimin looks at his hyung’s wry smile and stays silent, knowing how rare the older male lets his guard down. Seokjin may be all jokes and self-confidence, but when it comes to being the village doctor, he’s wrought with insecurities and fears.

“I should’ve diagnosed her correctly earlier.” Seokjin bites his lip and clenches his fist against his lap. “I wasn’t looking hard enough.”

“Hyung, nobody would’ve guessed that it’s percyberry poisoning – it’s winter. Percyberries only fruit during spring. Nobody would’ve thought of it.” Jimin reaches out to unfurl Seokjin’s fist and curls his fingers around his, “Besides, you figured it out and you formulated the new medicine. It was just a mistake.”

Yeah, a mistake that can cause a child’s life. Seokjin almost replies. It’s his fear that although Yeseo looked only as worse as the other kids before even after eating four pieces of the berries, it doesn’t mean she’s in the same amount of danger. Percyberry poisoning can be a hidden devil – striking fast and in the dark. Seokjin doesn’t want to attend a six year-old’s funeral.

“She’s going to be fine, hyung. Look, why don’t you nap in the backroom? I’ll take first watch.”

Winter’s first steps arrive in their town just as the kids recover and go home to their delighted and relived families. All of them, except one.

“It’s been three days and all the other kids already got better. Tell us, what’s happening to our daughter?”

It’s noon and yet the windows rattle with the intensity of the winds. The sun has not been out since yesterday. The healing hut is empty of ill children except one and Seokjin could see her from the little window of the partition between the backroom and waiting room. Deathly pale and shivering underneath thick layers of blankets. Jungkook’s beside her while Jimin naps on one of the vacant cots.

Beside Seokjin, Namjoon answers Yeseo’s father.

“Our healers have administered the medicine continuously since three days ago, however, we think with the number of berries Yeseo consumed, it will be much more difficult for her body to recover.”

It’s a diplomatic statement, kind in a way but not as honest as the father would’ve liked. So, he turns to Seokjin, with red-rimmed eyes, surprised when he meets another pair lined with despair too. Oh, this descendant of faes is still so young in many ways.

“Fae son, I’m a descendant of the dryads, cousin, tell me the truth.”

Seokjin, sat across the man and his wife, straightens in his seat at the word. His inky black eyes flickers back to the sleeping child, trying to will the color to come back to her cheeks. But what is will against facts? “The toxins has reached her intestines and the medicine is only managing the symptoms at this point. With the amount of percyberries Yeseo consumed, I’m afraid she won’t make it through winter.”

A heart wrenching sob tears through Yeseo’s mother as she clutches her husband for support. Had she not been sitting, her knees would’ve buckled and slid her down to the floor. Her baby, her precious innocent baby dead before tasting a better life? No.

“Is there anything else we could do? Anything! Please. I can’t lose our baby.”

Yeseo’s mother is a wisp of a woman, short and slim and with grief etched to her face, Seokjin doesn’t expect the intensity with which she grabbed his wrists. Her husband beside her keeps his anguish inside him, quiet like a storm, trying to keep at least one of them stable.

Seokjin shuts his eyes and weighs his options. Ignoring the weight of Namjoon’s stare and the imploring eyes of Yeseo’s parents, he remembers back to last night when he spent countless of hours going through the old texts he’d gathered over the years. In one book lined with golden boughs, he found a procedure so promising… and yet so risky.

It’s a book previously owned by a pure human doctor. (Though Seokjin thinks he’s part fae, just that he didn’t know it. The book was practically a half-diary with all he wrote at the margins and he had many, many lovers and one really bad heartbreak) It told of a perceberry poisoning case during the war wherein a female doctor extracted the poison directly from the patient’s body using a medical technique harnessing nature’s energy while making use of a differently ratioed concoction of the antidote mixture. It said to be inserted straight into one side of the patient’s body like a bubble, and pulled through a deep cut at the other side. It was supposedly repeated until the patient starts to vomit clear saliva.

Seokjin isn’t a doctor or a healer. Not really. He never got the chance to apprentice for someone, nor did his family ever get the chance to train him. The only reason he became the village doctor was because he’s the only one with the slightest familiarity with sicknesses and cures, all learned from a brief stint as an errand boy in a rundown clinic when he was thirteen.

But that doesn’t matter – because at this moment, regardless of whether or not he’s qualified, he’s the only one who can even remotely make things better for this kid. And so –

“There’s one thing we could do, but—” Seokjin pauses, not wanting to give false blind hope to the couple. Outside the wind howls and batters the hut, and Seokjin could feel Namjoon radiating heat like a furnace beside him. “—but, it’s very risky. I’ll be honest, it’s going to be very dangerous but we can try an operation. It’s proven and tested by a doctor during the war—”

“Have you ever done it before?” Yeseo’s mother asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Seokjin admits, “But, if you agree to this, I will exhaust every resource in my possession to save your daughter. I swear it on the remnants of magic in my blood.”

Yoongi hasn’t believed in a god for so long.

His brothers think of it as something he just says, bitter old man down to his bones, they joke but, it’s not. How can it be when the world’s so cruel? Harsh and unforgiving. Whatever beauty the fates provide are just mere consolation to what it plans to take away.

He knows, because it’s taken too much from him too. Everything he got to keep he fought tooth and nail, and blood for. Never was it given or kept easily.

That’s why, even if the odds are stacked against them, he volunteers to help the sick kid’s father. As the village blacksmith and occasional craftsman, Yoongi absolutely refuses to build a child-sized coffin.

So, no, Yoongi doesn’t believe in gods, but as he tilts his head up and basks in the peeking rays of the winter sun – maybe, just maybe, he believes in luck.

Just after Seokjin’s suggestion, Namjoon immediately gathered his brothers for this mission: gathering as many percyberries as they can for the operation. The winds were howling then, frigid and unforgiving and so the two other dragon bloods were chosen. It was almost a fight against Jungkook, but he understood that his pride and desire to prove himself once again will always take a backseat against the good of the many.

It only took a quarter of an hour for them to assemble all they need, most of the time going to Yeseo’s dad who refused to not be included in the team. And because he was the one who was sure about where his daughter got the berries, Namjoon agreed.

The moment they stepped out of the village gates, the winds calmed downed and the sun peeked – luck is more powerful than any preparations.

“Yoongi, maybe we should talk to him.” Hoseok jogs up to the blacksmith as he nods to the dryad descent ahead of them. Unlike them, he’s wrapped tight in heavy fur, warding off the chill.

Yoongi eyes the giant of a man and sees the stiffness in his shoulder and remembers how tight-lipped he was during the whole journey even at dinner when they ate around the campfire Hoseok set up. “I don’t think he wants to talk, Hoseok.”

Hoseok, never one for silence and not acknowledging other people’s suffering, sighs. It’s not like he knows what to say either, but shouldn’t he at least offer hope? He opens his mouth to protest before being cut off by a wild gust of wind.

Yoongi once again tilt his face up to the sky, seeing it darken quicker than he’s ever seen. It seems like their luck just ran out.

“It’s just a half-hour journey from here!” the dryad descent calls out, his voice wrapped in desperation and fear. They all knew that the percyberries will not survive this type of blizzard – if it had survived the first steps of winter, that is. “We can make it if we run!”

Hoseok nods and runs ahead, and Yoongi once again, curses the non-existing gods.

Winter, has always been a challenge for you.

It’s not that you hate it, not really. Winter, after all, is an integral part to the cycle of life. Although heavily associated to death – spring, being rebirth – it is also rest. It is when everything slows down, when animals hibernate and recharge. If anything, it’s nature at its recovery.

Winter is also very beautiful. The way intricate snowflakes fall to the ground, covering the weary soil with a blanket of white. Or the way it gathers on top of trees and how the cold creates frost on window sills and fog around your breath.

You don’t hate winter, not at all.

It’s just so fucking cold.

Shivering, you trudge through the snow covered ground, you wince under your robe at how the cold penetrates your boots. Even with a heated robe, everything still feels cold down to your bones. Without even consulting the stars, you already know that it’s gonna be less of those picturesque winters you’ve had the past few years and more of a whole ordeal that you just need to survive.

And to survive, you need your supplies.

Turning just around the river bend, you let a small smile tug your lips at the sight of the bubbling river. It’s not a big river by any measure, but never in history has it frozen, allowing people – magical or otherwise – to survive on the fish that inhabits it during lean months.

It’s littered by giant rocks of all colors, some see through while the others reflect its surroundings. In spring, it reflects all the colors of the forest it hides in – all the reds, oranges, purples and greens of the flowers and trees, - making the river look as magical as the stories used to go.

Your mother used to tell you that it’s where mermaids and mermans sunbathe with their colorful tails and beautiful faces and wait for their human lovers and half-human children. You remember smiling giddy at the thought while your grandmother pulls you aside and tells you too how the pearls under the river were tears of said mermaids and mermans who were betrayed and killed by their lovers, simply because they were too beautiful – and no creature that beautiful ever remains loyal or so the mad men used to say.

Your grandmother always did know how to douse you with a cold bucket of water – literally and otherwise.

After a hop and a skip, and nearly slipping on one of the smooth rocks, you approach the nearly barren riverbank. Waving a hand, the illusion wavers like disturbed water and reveals several vibrant percyberry bushes. Under the cool light of winter, the orange berries shine like marbles.

Normally, you wouldn’t grow spring bushes in winter time. It’s one of the ways you’ve gone undetected for years but after the incident last month, your supplies have dwindled down to a measly two jars of the berries. You eye the healthy shrubs, eyebrows knitting together at the bald spot on one of the shrubs. Perhaps you should practice your growing spells more often.

Shrugging, you get to work. As you pick the berries with nimble hands, you wonder of the man you sheltered for a month.

He was handsome, perhaps younger than you by a few years. It was luck that you came across him at the edge of the forest. You rarely step out of it during busy seasons, when hunters are at their most abundant and busy. You’ve used almost all of your percyberry stocks on his wounds and as a tranquilizer to keep him sedated and unconscious for most of the month he was with you.

Handsome as he was, it wouldn’t do good for anyone to know where you are.

Distantly, you hear the whistle of the wind before a sharp gust threatened to knock you over the bushes. To your surprise, it was followed by sounds of huffing breath and heavy breathing.

Shit. Who in their right minds are out this far in the middle of winter?

Quickly, you scramble to pick the last of the percyberries and placed them in your basket before turning away. You pause and debate to whether or not to cast the illusion back but the crunch and slosh sounds against the wet earth had you murmuring a different spell before turning away.

Crossing the river is not an option. It’s too wide and too open, there’s no way to hide unless underwater and you don’t fancy being frozen to death.

Eyes darting around, your eyes catch a small cave hidden in the shadows of the bare winter trees. Quickly, you murmur a notice-me-not spell and watch as your footprints disappear as you run into the cave. You make your body as small as possible, your knees tucked to your chest and your hood wrapped around your body – finally, you murmur another spell as you disappear from sight.

From your position, you could see a group of three men appear by the bend. The first one is an older man, with stubble as white as snow and deep brown eyes. He breathes heavily as he trudges through the snow, seemingly looking for something or someone. His eyes catches your percyberry shrubs, and the anguish that takes over his face almost had your magic wavering.

The man’s knees hit the cold ground as despair breaks out of him in the form of a choked sob. The shrubs are empty, bare of leaves and fruits, and covered in snow. To hide your trace, your spell took away all it life energy and shrouded it with snow as similar as its surroundings.

From behind him, two thinly-clothed younger males approach cautiously. The taller one approached the older man with sympathy in his amber eyes, his eyes trained on the very same bushes. Even from the distance, you could tell that he’s not purely human.

You could always tell.

Knowing that, you double your energy into strengthening your spell and added one that will help you hear them from a far. By now, the winds are howling, beckoning a storm to come. The third man of the group is shorter than both of the first two men, but with eyes sharp and trained on the forest shadows.

For a moment, he pauses looking straight at you.

A few heartbeats pass before a huge gust of wind blows once again. You know he can’t see you, but you still hold your magic close to you, murmuring another set of spell to divert his attention.

“Yoongi, we need to go!” the taller man calls, and the man named Yoongi turns away from you and nearer to the sobbing man on the forest floor.

“No, no, no! There has got to be more shrubs here!”

The shorter man – Yoongi – bites his cheek and runs over to the other two. His brows are furrowed, and his jaw clenched tight as if readying to strike a blow. “There’s none. You and I both know that—”

Desperately, the dryad descent chokes and shoves the younger men off him. “Then let me die here.” How can he possibly face his wife, his daughter – his darling, precious daughter – his soon-to-be dead daughter—

Yoongi grabs the man by the neckline of his coat, dragging him up to his knees with his eyes looking straight into his. “You’re an idiot and a coward if for a second you’d think we’d agree to that,” the dragon descent lets out a puff of fire, watching it sizzle and disintegrate into the cold, “You plan to die ahead of your family to avoid suffering? Go ahead. But don’t do it while we’re around.”

The bitter words echo in your bones. The dread of realization dawning unto you – the empty spot in one of the bushes… but how? Who?

With that, Yoongi releases the older male and nods to Hoseok. “We have to find shelter. The blizzard’s coming, send word ahead to Seokjin – tell him to see what he could scavenge from the old greenhouse.”

Pausing, the blacksmith turns to the lost dryad who’s still staring at the bushes blankly. This is what he hates about hope. How easily it’s snuffed out by things out of your control, but perhaps living with his brothers has got Yoongi soft and so he offers this;

“It’s not over yet.”

After sitting out the blizzard in one of the old dens they found in the map, the three of them travel by foot until nightfall. It’s only a half-day’s away from their home, and Seokjin has already sent word via a messenger bird that they’ve gathered barely enough percyberries to continue with the operation.

That means there’s going to be an operation, yes.

And absolutely no room for errors.

Hoseok definitely doesn’t envy Seokjin right now. Across him, Yeseo’s father sleeps, as close to the campfire as he could without being burned. The ground is not comfortable, but it’s the best they could do at the moment.

“Did you see what I saw earlier?” Hoseok asks as he looks straight ahead into the fire he built. Beside him, Yoongi shifts and bends one leg to his chest, his back resting against the tree.

“Depends on what you saw.” The blacksmith replies, his eyes closed. Being a dragon descent has its advantages, like getting to control your body temperature if you try hard enough.

“You know what I mean.” The younger male sighs, not in a mood for a back and forth guessing game. “The ground beneath the shrubs, it wasn’t frozen.”

Hoseok almost missed it, too busy comforting the sobbing man earlier that day. But as he knelt beside the grieving father, he saw fresh earth peeking underneath the snow covering the shrubs. One sniff and he knew that the dirt was healthy and new, smelling so much like spring. It didn’t make sense because the shrubs were devoid of life, shriveled and breaking off into pieces as the snow covered them.

“It wasn’t.” Yoongi agrees, his eyes opening, lids heavy with contemplation. He remembers seeing the same thing and feeling the odd heaviness of someone watching them the whole time. It’s not the first time somebody slipped under their radar, but every time it happens, it’s always a bad sign.

“I sent a separate missive to Namjoon. With winter being as harsh at is right now, we won’t have any time to investigate, best be prepared for the worst.” Hoseok says, and Yoongi’s reminded why he was chosen to lead the security for their village.

Despite Hoseok’s fun and flighty image, he’s unparalleled when it comes to tactics and maneuvers. His dragon encouraging him to protect his family and those close to them as much as he can.

Above them, the sky is dark and there are no stars in sight.

“You okay, hyung?” Jimin asks as he passes yet another polished glass to the older male. A glance at Seokjin could tell how exhausted the young man is. The moment the letter arrived from Hoseok, Seokjin and Jimin had gone out to the old greenhouse to scavenge percyberries.

What they found barely filled up a whole fruit bowl, most of them still small and barely containing the elements needed for the antidote mixture. But they have to work with what they have. And what they have is Seokjin, an old book and very limited resources.

Seokjin looks up from his notes and offers Jimin a tight smile. “I’d say I am but then I’d be lying.” There are bags under his eyes, and his skin has turned pale from the continuous sleepless nights he had either taking care of Yeseo or researching on the procedure that might potentially save her life. The procedure that will be taking place in less than an hour.

Yeseo’s been transferred to the backroom, which in turn was turned into a de facto operating room with boiling water prepared at one corner, courtesy of Namjoon, and towels and cloths at another. The mixture is bubbling in three of the cauldrons, and in the middle of the room is a tall bed, perfect for Seokjin’s height, illuminated by several candles.

“Hyung?” Jungkook’s head pops out from behind the door, “We just gave Yeseo the sedative. Are we ready?”

Seokjin stands and pulls out several basins, “As much as we could be.”

When Seokjin enters the backroom, he sees Yeseo’s parents huddled against the wall at the end of the bed where their only daughter lies. Her father hasn’t changed from his travelling clothes and there’s a telltale streak of tears dried on his face, similar to the fresh rivers flowing from his wife’s eyes. Seokjin looks at Jungkook and nods towards the couple. Instantly, Jungkook ushers them to sit down a distance away from their child, just so Seokjin has enough room to work.

The lack of percyberries that resulted from their escapade really hurt the plan. When Seokjin calculated just how many cauldrons he’d need, he came up with six and yet what they have is only three – or two and a half, if he’s being completely honest. Barely enough to clear out the toxins in the child’s digestive organs, let alone from her lungs and even her heart.

But, Seokjin found a similar technique from a different book that allows limited volumes of mixtures to be stretched when resources are scarce. It highly depends on control, something Seokjin has practiced for years. He used to shake at the thought of blood, but now, it’s only seen as something that needs to be done.

Behind him, Jimin enters with a basin of hot water where sharp tools are submerged to ensure cleanliness. He places it on one of the lower tables beside Yeseo and then stands still beside Seokjin, waiting for instructions.

The sedative should last for two hours, Seokjin calculates. That’s enough time to ensure that the child will not feel pain as he creates incisions and pulls out the poison directly from her organs. They don’t have time to waste.

“Jimin, give me the knife.”

With steady hands, Jimin hands him a small knife and watches as Seokjin creates a deep cut underneath Yeseo’s fourth rib. Blood oozes out and the smell penetrates the room. Quickly, Seokjin holds the wound close with one of the towels before gesturing Jimin to take over and hold the pressure. Seokjin then repeats it on Yeseo’s left side second rib.

Reaching over one of the basins filled with the antidote mixture, Seokjin focuses his deep seated magic over the water mixture. His palm is stretched wide over the basin, just a few inches above it. Slowly but surely, the water dances up to his palm, almost like it’s magnetized, wrapping itself around his fingers up until the basin empties.

Eyes wide with wonder, Jungkook and Jimin watch as their hyung breaks out a sweat injecting the antidote mixture into the incision he made on Yeseo’s left side. Yeseo’s small body begins to trash at the invasive procedure, much to her parents’ concern. Her limbs begin to rattle, shaking the table with its intensity.

“Jungkook! Hold her down! Go!”

As the wind howls outside, Jungkook quickly uses his strength and holds Yeseo’s arms down with his forearm, while his other hand cradles her small head. “I got her, I got her.”

“Okay, don’t let go.” Seokjin instructs and injects more of the mixture into her body. He closes his eyes, visualizing where he wills the antidote to go. As it passes through her lungs, he sees how the mixture strips the organ of the poison and how it traps it within itself. Confident with his control, Seokjin reaches over Yeseo’s right side and draws the mixture out through the incision under her right rib.

He hears a soft gasp from the side of the room, as the mixture is suspended in mid-air, heavy with black goo. Eyes alight at the prospect of success, Seokjin turns to Jimin with renewed vigor.

“Pass me one of the basins, quick!”

Slowly, Seokjin releases his hold of the floating glob and it sloshes around the basin before settling. The goo settles at the bottom of the basin, looking every bit of malignant and terrifying in its quiet. This, this is what torments the young child on Seokjin table.

For a moment, Seokjin sees his reflection looking back at him from the surface of the poison he extracted. His eyes, though tired, are alight with hope and adrenaline.

With the possibility of doing something right.

But, then again, what is will against facts?

It is on hour three when things start to fall apart.

Seokjin’s hands are numb and his reserves are scraped raw. They were never deep to begin with, what with his lack of practice in the magical side of his heritage, but he’d thought he’d have at least enough. The last of the cauldrons lie beside him, tipped over with no remaining drop of the antidote inside and the wastes on the bins are just barely transparent.

There’s still so much left inside this girl’s tiny body, and Seokjin has nothing left to give.

Pulling the last of the mixture out of the incision on Yeseo’s side, Seokjin drops it unceremoniously on one of the remaining basins, his magic snuffed out.

“Is that all?” Yeseo’s mother whispers, her eyes trained on the basins filled with black goo. Seokjin lets out a shuddering breath, frustrated tears burning at the back of his eyes.

“It’s all we have.”

After hours of debating, and pushing against the harsh gales of the winter wind, the village gates peek around the dirt road. Large and imposing, it’s a sign of a stable settlement of perhaps a few generations.

To you, it’s a sign of danger.

When the men left, you rushed back to your little cabin and summoned your looking glass with urgency. And because nature is the witness of all things past, present and future, you squeezed one of the percyberries onto the river water and enticed it to show what it saw.

It showed you a little girl, accompanied with her parents. It showed you their curving eyes and mouths, smiling and joyous and loving the prospect of their new home. In her parents’ excitement, the child is left alone and trips over your bushes.

Children, with their open hearts and boundless imaginations, often trip into magic accidentally, no questions asked.

You saw how your illusion melted before her, her eyes rounding at the beautiful ripe berries. You saw how she picked handfuls of the berries, shoving it into her pockets and when that filled out, you saw her open a pouch and fill that too.

To your horror, you saw her eat one. Then another. And another.

And so you’ve come. Armed with your magic, shedding away the anonymity and safety that your distance afforded you through the years. Although fearful and wary, to you, it just comes down to two things: it was your mistake and it is a child.

Eyeing the guard posts by the gates, you take a deep breath and with tired limbs and wary eyes, you drop off the notice-me-not charm, pull of your hood and step inside the village gates.

Notes: Aaaand! Enter Y/N! Feedback is much appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! So so far, here are the facts: - Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok are of dragon-descent - Jungkook is of werewolf descent - Jin is of fae descent - Jimin is ??? - Taehyung is ???

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ofallingstar · 5 years

Text

First lines from the books I read in 2018

Hawksmoor by Peter Ackroyd: Thus is 1711, the ninth year of the reign of Queen Anne, an Act of Parliament was passed to erect seven new Parish Churches in the Cities of London and Westminster, which commission was delivered to Her Majesty’s Office of Works in Scotland Yard.

Métamorphose en bord de ciel by Mathias Malzieu: Les oiseaux, ça s'enterre en plein ciel.

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen: The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex.

Le plus petit baiser jamais recensé by Mathias Malzieu: Le plus petit baiser jamais recensé.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll: Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice, “without pictures or conversations?”

Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll: One thing was certain, that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it -it was the black kitten’s fault entirely.

Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson: Ba-room, ba-room, ba-room, baripity, baripity, baripity, baripity-Good.

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin: Dear James: I had begun this letter five times and torn it up five times.

The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri: Benjamín Miguel Chaparro stops short and decides he’s not going.

At the Mountains of Madness by H. P. Lovecraft: I am forced into speech because men of science have refused to follow my advice without knowing why.

The Minds of Billy Milligan by Daniel Keyes: This books is the factual account of the life, up to now, of William Stanley Milligan, the first person in U.S. history to be found not guilty of major crimes, by reason of unsanity, because he possessed multiple personalities.

The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket: If you are interested in stories in happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.

Puckoon by Spike Milligan: Several and a half metric miles North East of Sligo, split by a cascading stream, her body on earth, her feet in water, dwells the microcephalic community of Puckoon.

Piercing by Ryu Murakami: A small living creature asleep in its crib.

The Reptile Room by Lemony Snicket: The stretch of the road that leads out of this city, past Hazy Harbor and into the town of Tedia, is perhaps the most unpleasant in the world.

And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini: So, then.

The Shape of Water by Guillermo Del Toro and Daniel Kraus: Richard Strickland reads the brief from General Hoyt.

Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell: He’d stopped trying to bring her back.

Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell: The Rue du Coq d’Or, Paris, seven in the morning.

We Were Liars by E. Lockhart: Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusack: First the colors. Then the humans. That’s usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try.

The Wide Window by Lemony Snicket: If you didn’t know much about the Baudelaire orphans, and you saw them sitting on their suitcases at Damocles Dock, you might think they were bound for an exciting adventure.

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson: No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.

Battles in the Desert by José Emilio Pacheco: I remember, I don’t remember.

The Miserable Mill by Lemony Snicket: Sometime during your lifetime -in fact, very soon- you may find yourself reading a book, and you may notice that a book’s first sentence can often tell you what sort of story your book contains.

The Age of American Unreason by Susan Jacoby: The word is everywhere, a plague spread by the President of the United States, television anchors, radio talk show hosts, preachers in megachurches, self-help gurus, and anyone else attempting to demostrate his or her identification with ordinary, presumably wholesome American values.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare: Theseus, duke of Athens, is planning the festivities for his upcoming wedding to the newly captured Amazon, Hippolyta.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert: We were in study hall when the headmaster walked in, followed by a new boy not wearing a school uniform, and by a janitor carrying a large desk.

The Austere Academy by Lemony Snicket: If you were going to give a gold medal to the last delightful person on Earth, you would have to give that medal to a person named Carmelita Spats, and if you didn’t give it to her, Carmelita Spats was the sort of person who would snatch it from your hands anyway.

Lord of the Flies by William Golding: The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon.

The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare: Christopher Sly, a drunken beggar, is driven out of an alehouse by its hostess.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee: When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro: My name is Katy H.

Hear the Wind Sing by Haruki Murakami: “There’s no such thing as a perfect piece of writing.”

The Ersatz Elevator by Lemony Snicket: The book you are holding in your two hands right now -assuming that you are, in fact, holding this book, and that you have only two hands- is one of two books in the world that will show you the difference between the words “nervous” and the word “anxious.”

Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare: Two households, both alike in dignity, (In fair Verona, where we lay our scene), From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

Adventure Time: The Enchiridion & Marcy’s Super Secret Scrapbook!!!: My Devoted Evil Daighter, Marceline, I admit we’ve had a somewhat volatile father-daughter relantionship ever since the regrettable Fry Incident.

A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin: Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with desinterest.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley: You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

Pinball, 1973 by Haruki Murakami: I used to love listening to stories about faraway places.

The Vile Village by Lemony Snicket: No matter who you are, no matter where you live, and no matter how many people are chasing you, what you don’t read is often as important as what you do read.

Dracula by Bram Stoker: 3 May. Bistritz. –Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:43, but train was an hour late.

The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare: I know this hartred mocks all Christian virtue, but They I loathe: their very sight abhors me.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac: I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up.

A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami: It was a short one-paragraph item in the morning edition.

The Hostile Hospital by Lemony Snicket: There are two reasons why a writer would end a sentence with the word “stop” written in entirely in capital letters STOP.

The Most Beautiful: My Life with Prince by Mayte Garcia: The chain-link fence around Praisley Park is woven with purple ribbons and roses, love notes, tributes, and prayers for peace.

Hamlet by William Shakespeare: Who’s there?

A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin: The comet’s tail spread across the dawn, a red slash that bled above the crags of Dragonstone like a wound in the pink and purple sky.

Out of Africa by Isak Dinensen: I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of Ngong Hills.

Carrie by Stephen King: News item from the Westover (Me.) weekly enterprise, August 19, 1966: RAIN OF STONES REPORTED.

The Carnivorous Carnival by Lemony Snicket: When my workday is over, and I have closed my notebook, hidden my pen and sawed holes in my rented canoe so it cannot be found, I often like to spend the evening in conversation with my few surviving friends.

Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock by Matthew Quick: The P-38 WWII Nazi handgun looks comical lying on the breakfast table next to a boal of outmeal.

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James: The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve on an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only tale he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child.

Carmilla by Sheridan J. Le Fanu: Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Doctor Hesselius has written a rather elaborated note, which he accompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which the MS. illuminates.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson: No one has ever suffered as I have.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka: One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski: I still get nightmares.

Othello by William Shakespeare: In the streets of Venice, Iago tells Roderigo of his hatred for Othello, who has given Cassio the lieutenancy that Iago wanted and has made Iago a mere ensign.

Dance, Dance, Dance by Haruki Murakami: I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel.

The Slippery Slope by Lemony Snicket: A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called “The Road Less Traveled,” describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou: “What you looking at me for? I didn’t come to stay…”

A Most Haunted House by G. L. Davies: The house first came to my attention a few years ago.

Ghost Sex, The Violation by G. L. Davies: I met with Lisa at her home in Pembroke Dock.

Any Man by Amber Tamblyn: Am I in a body?

A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay: “This must be so difficult for you, Meredith.”

A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin: The day was grey and bitter cold, and the dogs would not take the scent.

Macbeth by William Shakespeare: When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?

You by Caroline Kepnes: You walk into the bookstore and you keep your hand on the door to make sure it doesn’t slam.

The Grim Grotto by Lemony Snicket: After a great deal of examining oceans, investigating rainstorms and staring very hard at several drinking fountains, the scientists of the worlds developed a theory regarding how water is distributed around our planet, which they have named “the water cycle.”

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys: They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did.

Mansfield Park by Jane Austen: About thirthy years ago, Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the country of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet’s lady, with all the comforts and consequences of a handsome house and a large income.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë: My name is Gilbert Markham, and my story begings in October 1827, when I was twenty-four years old.

The Tempest by William Shakespeare: Boatswain!

Lucky by Alice Sebold: In the tunnel where I was raped, a tunnel that was once an underground entry to an amphitheather, a place where actors burst forth from underneath the seats of a crowd, a girl had been murdered and dismembered.

The Penultimate Peril by Lemony Snicket: Certain people had said that the world is like a calm pond, and that anytime a person does even the smallest thing, it is as if a stone has dropped into the pond, spreading circles of ripples further and further out, until the entire world has been changed by one tiny action.

#books #books 2018 #long post #like... really really long

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redux-pain · 5 years

Text

FORT Info: 地域/PLC

[note: part 1: Kisaragi City to Kisaragi Post Office. These entries are where more omissions and mistakes start to show up, either due to lack of space or because the TL was overworked. It seems that the same person did the area descriptions you see on the map, since a few of those area descriptions use information from these entries here to sum things up in less space.]

如月市

海に臨む小高い丘に広がる、周囲２キロ四方ほどの小さな市。夕日が特に美しいことから、別名サンセット・シティとも呼ばれている。如月市自体は小さいが、１５０年近く前に撮られた数枚の街の風景が、銀板写真として残っていることから、古い街と言える。

歴史の表舞台に登場したことが無く、その古い写真以前の資料としては、田畑の区画帳に街の名が記されているぐらいである。海は近くにあるが、水深と波の高さの問題で港に適しておらず、せまくて急な坂が多く、景観には優れているが田畑にするには困難である。

歴史ある街でありながら、これら、さまざまな悪条件が、街の発展を遅らせていった原因であると分析されている。

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｃｉｔｙ

Ａ　ｓｅａｓｉｄｅ　ｔｏｗｎ　ｎｅａｒｔｈｅ　ｈｉｌｌｓ，　２ｋｍ　ｗｉｄｅ　ｉｎａｌｌ　ｄｉｒｅｃｔｉｏｎｓ．　Ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｈｅｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ　ｄｕｓｋ　ｉｔ’ｓ　ａｌｓｏｃａｌｌｅｄ　Ｓｕｎｓｅｔ　Ｃｉｔｙ．Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｃｉｔｙ　ｉｓ　ｓｍａｌｌ，ｂｕｔ　ｈａｓ　ｂｅｅｎ　ａｒｏｕｎｄ　ｆｏｒａｂｏｕｔ　１５０　ｙｅａｒｓ．　Ｐｈｏｔｏｓ

ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｈａｔ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｅｘｉｓｔ　ｂｕｔｏｔｈｅｒ　ｔｈａｎ　ｔｈａｔ，　ｍａｐｓｏｆ　ｆｉｅｌｄｓ　ａｒｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｎｌｙｒｅｃｏｒｄｅｄ　ｈｉｓｔｏｒｉｃａｌ　ｄｏｃ－ｕｍｅｎｔｓ　ｌｅｆｔ．　Ｄｕｅ　ｔｏ　ｗａｖｅｈｅｉｇｈｔ　＆　ｈｉｌｌｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｏｗｎｉｓｎ’ｔ　ｓｕｉｔａｂｌｅ　ａｓ　ａ　ｐｏｒｔｂｕｔ　ｈａｓ　ｇｒｅａｔ　ｖｉｅｗｓ．

Ｔｈｅ　ｔｏｗｎ　ｈａｓ　ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ，ｂｕｔ　ｕｎｆａｖｏｒａｂｌｅ　ｃｏｎｄｉ－ｔｉｏｎｓ　ｈａｖｅ　ｋｅｐｔ　ｔｈｅｔｏｗｎ’ｓ　ｐｒｏｇｒｅｓｓ　ｓｌｏｗ．

Kisaragi City

A small city, two kilometers in area, that extends to a small hill that looks out over the sea. Because of the exceptional beauty of the setting sun, it’s also called “Sunset City”. Kisaragi City itself is small, but because there are several daguerreotypes remaining of the town’s scenery from about 150 years ago, it can be considered an old town.

[Kisaragi] has never made an entrance the center stage of history, the only existing documents before those old photographs being the town’s name, written in records of the division of [farming] fields. Although it’s close to the sea, problems with the depth of the water and the height of the waves keep it from being suitable as a port. It’s small and full of steep hills, which makes for excellent scenery but difficult farming.

While it’s a historic town, these various unfavorable conditions would seem to be the reason its development was stalled.

[notes:

海に臨む is describing the 小高い丘 that directly follows it--i.e., Crimson Hill--rather than 海に臨む and 小高い丘に広がる both describing the city.

“Sunset City” is in English]

如月市民会館

市民達から寄付された絵画や書画、などの美術品を展示する多目的施設。地元出身の芸術家、マキ　フミヒコの作品が多く展示されているので、他府県の絵画好きな人々にもよく知られている場所である。

その他にも住民の要望もあって、空いたスペースを利用して、着付け教室や、手芸教室、カラオケ教室など参加人数が一定数集まれば、文化教室として開催される。

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｃｉｖｉｃ　Ｈａｌｌ

Ａ　ｍｕｌｔｉｐｕｒｐｏｓｅ　ｆａｃｉｌｉｔｙｕｓｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｈｏｌｄ　ａｒｔ　＆　ｏｔｈｅｒｓｕｃｈ　ｗｏｒｋｓ　ｂｙ　ｔｏｗｎｓ－ｐｅｏｐｌｅ．　Ｔｈｅ　ａｒｔｉｓｔ　Ｆｕｍｉ－ｈｉｋｏ　Ｍａｋｉ　ｆｒｏｍ　Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉｈａｓ　ｍａｎｙ　ｗｏｒｋｓ　ｔｈｅｒｅ．

Ｉｔ　ａｌｓｏ　ｈａｓ　ｐａｒｔｓ　ｔｈａｔａｒｅ　ｕｓｅｄ　ｂｙ　ｔｏｗｎｓｐｅｏｐｌｅａｓ　ｃｌａｓｓｒｏｏｍｓ　＆　ｗｏｒｋ－ｓｈｏｐｓ　ｔｏ　ｔｅａｃｈ　ｖａｒｉｏｕｓｃｌａｓｓｅｓ　＆　ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｓ．

Kisaragi Civic Hall

A multipurpose facility that displays artwork like paintings and calligraphic works donated by the townspeople. Many works by local artist Maki Fumihiko are on display, so the location is well known to non-resident art lovers.

It’s also [open to] requests from the townspeople, and if a certain number of people [are interested], courses in kimono dressing, handicrafts, or karaoke are held as cultural art classes.

[note: 絵画: paintings done in oils, etc.; 書画: calligraphy or drawings done with calligraphic brushes)

共同墓地

如月市に四十年以上住んでいる者ならば、この墓地の一角の土地をもらうことができる。これは税金を四十年以上はらっていただければ、死んだ後も安心していただけるという、街の宣伝の一つである。しかし、今まで問題が無かったわけではなかった。

もし子供なら、規定年数の四十年に成人になるまでの年齢をプラスしなければならない、という内容を表立って言っていなかったため、十年ほど前に、放火が原因で全焼したスーパーの経営者、ミチダ　ナオヤが、役人の鼻がおれるほどナグリつけるという事件が起こった。

不幸にも火事の時、二階で寝ていた家族のうち妻だけしか、共同墓地に入れないと役人が平然と言い放ち、その役人を完全にＫＯしてしまったため、ミチダ　ナオヤは警察に捕まった。

また、他府県の娘と結婚した夫が、妻に死なれ、彼女が条件を満たせていないという理由で、引越しをしたということなどがあったが、五年前に「夫か妻の、どちらかが四十年以上」という条件に変わってからは、現在のところ問題は出ていない。

Ｃｅｍｅｔａｒｙ

Ａｎｙｏｎｅ　ｌｉｖｉｎｇ　ｉｎ　Ｋｉｓａ－ｒａｇｉ　ｆｏｒ　ｏｖｅｒ　４０　ｙｅａｒｓｉｓ　ｅｎｔｉｔｌｅｄ　ｔｏ　ａ　ｐｌｏｔ　ｉｎｔｈｅ　ｃｅｍｅｔａｒｙ．　”Ｐａｙ　ｔａｘｅｓｆｏｒ　４０　ｙｅａｒｓ，　ｓｌｅｅｐ　ｉｎｐｅａｃｅ　ｆｏｒ　ｅｔｅｒｎｉｔｙ”　ｉｓｉｔ’ｓ　ｍｏｔｔｏ．　Ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｅｒｅｈａｖｅ　ｂｅｅｎ　ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ．

Ｔｈｅ　ｙｅａｒｓ　ｂｅｆｏｒｅ　ａ　ｃｈｉｌｄｂｅｃｏｍｅｓ　ａｎ　ａｄｕｌｔ　ｍｕｓｔｂｅ　ａｄｄｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｏｓｅ　４０，ｗｈｉｃｈ　ｗａｓｎ’ｔ　ｍａｄｅ　ｃｌｅａｒｃａｕｓｉｎｇ　Ｎａｏｙａ　Ｍｉｃｈｉｄａ，ｏｗｎｅｒ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｓｈｏｐ　ｂｕｒｎｅｄｄｏｗｎ　ｂｙ　ａｎ　ａｒｓｏｎ，　ｔｏｂｒｅａｋ　ｔｈｅ　ｎｏｓｅｓ　ｏｆ

ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ　ｃｉｔｙ　ｏｆｆｉｃｉａｌｓ１０　ｙｅａｒｓ　ａｇｏ．　Ｈｉｓ　ｃｈｉｌ－ｄｒｅｎ，　��ｈｏ　ｄｉｅｄ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅｆｉｒｅ，　ｗｅｒｅｎ’ｔ　ａｌｌｏｗｅｄ　ａｂｕｒｉａｌ，　ｓｏ　Ｍｉｃｈｉｄａ　ａｓ－ｓａｕｌｔｅｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｆｆｉｃｉａｌｓ．

Ｍｉｃｈｉｄａ　ｗａｓ　ａｒｒｅｓｔｅｄ．５　ｙｅａｒｓ　ａｇｏ　ｌａｗｓ　ｗｅｒｅｃｈａｎｇｅｄ　ｔｏ　ａｌｌｏｗ　ｔｈｅｂｕｒｉａｌ　ｏｆ　ｆａｍｉｌｙ　ｍｅｍｂｅｒｓａｓ　ｌｏｎｇ　ａｓ　ｏｎｅ　ｐｅｒｓｏｎｆｕｌｆｉｌｌｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｃｏｎｄｉｔｉｏｎｓ．Ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｈａｖｅ　ｂｅｅｎ　ｎｏｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ　ｓｉｎｃｅ．

Public Cemetery

Anyone living in Kisaragi City for 40 years or more is entitled to a plot in this cemetery. “As long as you’ve paid taxes for 40 years, you don’t have to worry what happens after you die,” is one of the town slogans. But that doesn’t mean there have never been problems.

“If children [are included], the years until they become an adult must be added to those stipulated 40 years [for the included adult].” This part was not stated formally. So 10 years ago, there was an incident in which Michida Naoya, manager of a supermarket that burned down due to arson, punched a city official hard enough to break his nose.

Unfortunately, at the time of the fire, his family had been asleep on the second floor. When the official told him straight out that [of the family,] his wife [alone] couldn’t be buried in the public cemetery, Michida Naoya knocked him out cold and was arrested by the police.

[There was also an incident where] a man had married a woman from another prefecture, who was now dying, and they moved because she wouldn’t be able to meet the requirements. The terms were changed 5 years ago to, “If either husband or wife [has been a resident for] more than 40 years.” There have been no more problems since.

[note: This has some confusing wording but I think I finally puzzled it out. The EN release, obviously, chose to omit all the confusing parts.

(Legal adulthood in Japan is at 20 rather than 18, so this would add even more time to the necessary years of residence.)]

千歳池

二十年ほど前までは、池には白鳥や渡り鳥が泳ぎ、学生や若者達のカップルが、貸しボートをこぎながら、甘いひと時を過ごすような場所であった。休みの日などは、子供連れの親子なども訪れ、にぎやかさの中にも心温まる風景が広がっていた。

しかしいつの日からか、若者達が訪れる場所がＹ市の繁華街や遊園地などに変わり、子供達は自宅でゲームなどして遊ぶようになって、次第に人の足が遠のいていった。

ちょうどその頃、ごみを不法投棄していく者が増えだした。数年前に市が大掛かりな清掃工事を行い、池を以前の姿へと戻したが、心無い者の侵入をふせぐ目的で、高いフェンスを張り巡らせ、中に入れる時間帯を朝９：００－１７：００までと規定した。

朝と夕の二回、市の職員がフェンスの開け閉めに訪れる。池は元の姿へと戻ったが、街の者の��味は離れたままで、訪れる者の少ない閑散とした場所となっている。

Ｃｈｉｔｏｓｅ　Ｐｏｎｄ

Ｕｎｔｉｌ　２０　ｙｅａｒｓ　ａｇｏ，ｂｉｒｄｓ　ｓｗａｍ　＆　ｙｏｕｎｇｃｏｕｐｌｅｓ　ｐａｄｄｌｅｄ　ｂｏａｔｓ　ｉｎｔｈｉｓ　ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ　ｓｐｏｔ．　Ｏｎｄａｙｓ　ｏｆｆ，　ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ　＆　ｋｉｄｓｗｏｕｌｄ　ｃｏｍｅ　＆　ｅｎｊｏｙ　ｔｈｅｗａｒｍ，　ｆｒｅｓｈ　ａｉｒ．

Ｂｕｔ　ｎｏｗ　ｐｅｏｐｌｅ　ｇｏｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　Ｙ　Ｃｉｔｙ　ｒｅｄｌｉｇｈｔｄｉｓｔｒｉｃｔ　ｔｏ　ｐｌａｙ　＆　ｋｉｄｓｓｔａｙ　ａｔ　ｈｏｍｅ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｖｉｄｅｏｇａｍｅｓ．　Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ　ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ

ｃｏｍｉｎｇ．　Ｎｏｗ，　ｐｅｏｐｌｅｌｅａｖｅ　ｇａｒｂａｇｅ　ｈｅｒｅ　ｉｌ－ｌｅｇａｌｌｙ．　Ｔｈｅ　ｃｉｔｙ　ｔｏｏｋａｃｔｉｏｎ　＆　ｃｌｅａｎｅｄ　ｕｐ　ｔｈｅｐｏｎｄ，　ｂｕｔ　ｎｏｗ　ａ　ｆｅｎｃｅｓｕｒｒｏｕｎｄｓ　ｉｔ，　ａｎｄ　ｉｔ’ｓｏｎｌｙ　ｏｐｅｎ　ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ　ｔｈｅｈｏｕｒｓ　ｏｆ　９ａｍ－５ｐｍ．

Ｃｉｔｙ　ｗｏｒｋｅｒｓ　ｃｏｍｅ　ｔｏｏｐｅｎ　＆　ｃｌｏｓｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｇａｔｅｔｗｉｃｅ　ａ　ｄａｙ．　Ｉｔ’ｓ　ｒｅｇａｉ－ｎｅｄ　ｉｔ’ｓ　ｆｏｒｍｅｒ　ｂｅａｕｔｙ，ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｔｏｗｎｓｐｅｏｐｌｅ　ｈａｖｅｌｏｓｔ　ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔ　ａｎｄ　ｈａｒｄｌｙａｎｙｏｎｅ　ｅｖｅｒ　ｃｏｍｅｓ　ｎｏｗ．

Chitose Pond

Up until 20 years ago, it was a place where swans and migratory birds swam, and students and young couples spent sweet moments while paddling rental boats. On vacation days, parents would visit with their children and enjoy the sights amidst all the activity.

But at some point, young people started visiting the shopping district and amusement park in Y City, and children started playing video games at home. Gradually, people stopped coming.

Right about then, unlawful dumpers of trash started to multiply. A few years ago, the city carried out a large-scale cleanup/construction project, and the pond was restored to its former state, but a tall fence surrounds it to keep out thoughtless people. Hours of entry are set at 9AM-5PM.

Officials visit in the morning and evening to open and close the fence. The pond is back in its former state, but the townspeople still aren’t interested, and so few people come by that it’s practically deserted.

[note: The TL seems to have mostly checked out by this point; the characters 温 and 風 mean “warm” and “wind”, hence “warm, fresh air” in the EN release. However, both characters are obviously part of other words, so I suspect someone was rushing to finish this after some good work on the rest of the FORT database file. “Business/shopping district” turning into “red light district” is maybe one of the worst flubs in the game?]

ＡＭＳ銀行如月支店

ＡＭＳ　Ｂａｎｋ

業務破綻して実質上倒産となった如月信用銀行を吸収する形で、如月市に進出してきたメガバンクである。ＡＭＳ銀行は、戦前の旧福島財閥が創設した旭日銀行と、アメリカでも有数の銀行モーゲンシーが合併した銀行である。

旭日は戦後の財閥解体やバブル崩壊の大変動にも影響を受けず、成長を続けてきた銀行であり、早くから取締役や頭取に、海外の有名な経営者を呼び寄せ、来るべき金融ビックバンに備えていたことでも業界内で有名である。

その業績の良かった旭日が、モーゲンシー銀行に吸収合併されたニュースは、業界内に激震を走らせた。経済界の大事件であり、その預金高で１００兆を超える巨大バンクが誕生した。

Ａ　ｍｅｇａｂａｎｋ　ｔｈａｔ　ｃａｍｅ　ｔｏＫｉｓａｒａｇｉ　ｔｏ　ａｂｓｏｒｂ　ｔｈｅｂａｎｋｒｕｐｔ　Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　ＴｒｕｓｔＢａｎｋ．　Ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ｆｏｕｎｄｅｄ　ａｓＡｓａｈｉ　Ｂａｎｋ，　ａｎｄ　ｌａｔｅｒｍｅｒｇｅｄ　ｗｉｔｈ　Ｍｏｒｇｅｎ　ＳｅａＢａｎｋ．

Ａｓａｈｉ　ｔｈｒｉｖｅｄ　ａｆｔｅｒｔｈｅ　２ｎｄ　Ｗｏｒｌｄ　Ｗａｒ，ａｎｄ　ｉｓ　ｆａｍｏｕｓ　ｆｏｒ　ｒｅｍａｉ－ｎｉｎｇ　ｕｎａｆｆｅｃｔｅｄ　ｂｙ　ｅｃｏ－ｎｏｍｉｃ　ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅｓ　＆　ｆｏｒｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ　ｏｆｆ　ｏｔｈｅｒ　ｂｉｇｂａｎｋｓ　ｏｖｅｒ　ｔｈｅ　ｙｅａｒｓ．

Ｔｈｅ　ｎｅｗｓ　ｔｈａｔ　Ａｓａｈｉ　ｗａｓａｂｓｏｒｂｅｄ　ｂｙ　Ｍｏｒｇｅｎ　ＳｅａＢａｎｋ　ｓｅｎｔ　ｓｈｏｃｋｗａｖｅｓｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ　ｔｈｅ　ｉｎｄｕｓｔｒｙ．Ａ　ｎｅｗ　ｍｅｇａｂａｎｋ　ｗｉｔｈｏｖｅｒ　１　ｔｒｉｌｌｉｏｎ　ｄｏｌｌａｒｓｉｎ　ｄｅｐｏｓｉｔｓ　ｗａｓ　ｂｏｒｎ．

AMS Bank: Kisaragi City branch

A megabank that expanded into Kisaragi City by absorbing the essentially bankrupt and no longer functioning Kisaragi Credit Bank. AMS Bank was founded as Asahi Bank before the [Second World] War by a former Fukushima business conglomerate, and merged with one of the leading banks in America, Morgen Sea.

Asahi Bank was unaffected by the huge changes of the post-war dissolution of business conglomerates and the collapse of the bubble economy, and continued to grow. [The bank is] famous in the financial world because the company director and bank president called in famous managers from overseas to make preparations ahead of time for the approaching Big Bang.

Shockwaves ran through the business world at the news of high-achieving Asahi Bank merging with Morgen Sea Bank. The birth of a megabank with deposits in excess of 100 trillion was a major happening in economic circles.

[notes:

The second paragraph references the dissolution of zaibatsu conglomerates under the American occupation, Japan’s economic collapse in the early 1990s after a “bubble” in the late 80s, and the “financial Big Bang”, a deregulation of financial markets that was carried out from 1996 to 2001.

It’s not specified whether that 100 trillion is in dollars or yen, but the EN release gives it as 1 trillion, which would be a rough conversion of 100 trillion yen into US dollars.]

如月駅

完成した姿は、当時にとっては最新の設計と技術が使われた鋼鉄の建築物となり、見る者のドギモを抜いた。当時の盛況ぶりを表す出来事としては、休日になると物珍しさに他の都府県からも見物客が訪れ、それ目当てに屋台が出る小規模の祭りのようだったと言われている。

駅の玄関口は、奇跡的に先の戦争の被害に遭わず、現在もかつての姿のまま残っており、レトロな雰囲気のただよう建物として街の名物である。

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ

Ｗｈｅｎ　ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ｆｉｒｓｔ　ｂｕｉｌｔ，ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ａ　ｈｉｇｈ－ｔｅｃｈ，ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ　ｅｄｇｅ　ｗｏｒｋ　ｏｆｍｏｄｅｒｎ　ａｒｃｈｉｔｅｃｔｕｒｅ　＆ａｒｔ．　Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ　ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｏｗｎｓａｌｌ　ｏｖｅｒ　ｔｈｅ　ａｒｅａ　ｗｏｕｌｄｃｏｍｅ　ｔｏ　ｓｅｅ　ｉｔ，　ａｎｄ　ｆｅｓ－ｔｉｖａｌｓ　ｗｅｒｅ　ｈｅｌｄ　ｎｅａｒ．

Ｔｈｅ　ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ’ｓ　ｆｒｏｎｔ　ｈａｌｌｗａｓｎ’ｔ　ｄａｍａｇｅｄ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅｗａｒ，　ｍｉｒａｃｕｌｏｕｓｌｙ，　ａｎｄａｐｐｅａｒｓ　ｖｅｒｙ　ｒｅｔｒｏ　ｎｏｗ．

Kisaragi Train Station

When this steel building was [first] completed, using technology and designs that were very modern for the time, those who saw it were awestruck. [It was seen] as a manifestation of the era’s prosperity, and on holidays, people would visit from all over [to satisfy] their curiosity. It’s said that food stalls were put up, making it like a miniature festival.

Miraculously, the station’s entryway was undamaged during the war, and its appearance remains unchanged in the modern day. It’s a famous part of the town for the retro atmosphere it gives off.

如月警察署

昔は四階建て箱型のコンクリート作りの質素な建物だったが、二年前に改築が終わり、今では現代風の建物に変わっている。署の前にはパトカーやミニパトが止まっているが、主にパトロール以外には、緊急出動というような状況は、ここ何十年の間で数えるほどである。

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｐｏｌｉｃｅ　Ｓｔｎ．

２　ｙｅａｒｓ　ａｇｏ　ｔｈｅ　４－ｓｔｏｒｙｃｏｎｃｒｅｔｅ　ｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇ　ｗａｓｒｅｂｕｉｌｔ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｉｔｓ　ｍｏｒｅｍｏｄｅｒｎ　ｉｎｃａｒｎａｔｅ．Ｐａｔｒｏｌ　ｃａｒｓ　ａｒｅ　ｐａｒｋｅｄｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ，　ｂｕｔ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｐａｓｔｄｅｃａｄｅ　ｔｈｅｙ’ｖｅ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｂｅｅｎｓｅｎｔ　ｏｕｔ　ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ　ｔｉｍｅｓ．

Kisaragi Police Station

It used to be a plain four-story box-shaped building made of concrete, but two years ago it was remodeled and is now a modern-style building. There are police cars and miniature police cars in front of the station, but generally they aren’t used except for [routine] patrolling. The emergency deployments around here in the past few decades can be counted [on one hand].

[note: ミニパト (minipato) are special small patrol cars used in Japan.

Also, the first sentence is the same as the one appearing in the map description, which I translated just two weeks ago. You can look at the differences to get an idea of how much translations can differ even when the same person is doing them!]

如月市庁舎

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｃｉｔｙ　Ｈａｌｌ

元は公会堂であった建物。戦時中、永久平和論をとなえ、数多くの青年将校の殉教者を出した「ムラタ　ゼンジロウ」の講演がなされたことでも有名である。ムラタは如月学園の教授でもあり、有名な哲学者であった。

ムラタの教授としての定年が近づくにつれて、何とかムラタ哲学の真ずいに触れようという人々で、広大な公会堂があふれ返り、壇上を和服姿で行き戻りつするムラタ教授の姿をぎょう視し、公会堂全体がシーンと水を打ったように静かだった、と伝えられている。

Ｆｏｒｍｅｒｌｙ　ａ　ｐｕｂｌｉｃ　ｈａｌｌ．Ｆａｍｏｕｓ　ｆｏｒ　ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇＺｅｎｊｉｒｏ　Ｍｕｒａｔａ’ｓ　”Ｅｔｅｒ－ｎａｌ　Ｐｅａｃｅ”　ｌｅｃｔｕｒｅｓ　ｙｅａｒｓａｇｏ．　Ｍｕｒａｔａ　ｗａｓ　ａ　Ｋｉ－ｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｓｃｈｏｏｌ　ｔｅａｃｈｅｒ　＆ｆａｍｏｕｓ　ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｅｒ．

Ｍａｎｙ　ｐｅｏｐｌｅ　ｇａｔｈｅｒｅｄ　ｔｏｈｅａｒ　Ｍｕｒａｔａ　ｓｐｅａｋ　ａｓｈｅ　ｒｅａｃｈｅｄ　ｒｅｔｉｒｅｍｅｎｔａｇｅ，　ａｎｄ　ｄｕｒｉｎｇ　ｈｉｓｌｅｃｔｕｒｅｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｈａｌｌ　ｗａｓｆｉｌｌｅｄ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｐｅｏｐｌｅ，　ｙｅｔａｓ　ｑｕｉｅｔ　ａｓ　ａ　ｍｏｕｓｅ．

Kisaragi City Hall

The building used to be the public hall. It’s famous for lectures delivered during the war by Murata Zenjirou, who had declared many young soldiers to be martyrs, advocating the Perpetual Peace theory. Murata was a famous philosopher who was also a professor at Kisaragi Academy.

As Murata’s retirement as a professor grew near, people tried to [personally] experience the spirit of his philosophy and would flood the huge public hall. It’s said that the entire hall would sit in total silence as they stared at Professor Murata’s kimono-clad form walking back and forth on the stage.

画廊プロダクションアート

如月市出身の芸術家、「マキ　フミヒコ」にあこがれ、アメリカから移住してきた画家の、アーサー・メイズが経営している画廊である。海外に渡った「マキ　フミヒコ」の絵は少ないが、幼い頃の彼が住んでいた街の美術館に、

「風と少女」という絵が展示されており、それを見たアーサー少年は電撃に撃たれたような感動を受けた。以来絵を描くことに興味をおぼえ、画家の道を歩むことになる。そしていつの日か、絵の舞台となった街に住みたいと思っていたことを実現させた。

現在アーサーは、画家をしながら空いた時間を利用し、如月学園で美術の臨時教師をしている。年齢は２８歳、童顔のせいで若く見える。無口で内向的な性格のため、人付き合いはあまりないが、人嫌いというわけではないようである。

資料によると、幼い頃病弱で家の中に居ることが多かったこともあり、おそらくそれが原因で、他人と接する方法がつかめていないと推測される。絵の才能はズバ抜けており、世界中で高い評価を受けている。そのため、彼が如月市という、辺ぴな場所に移り住んだことを不思議がる者は多い。

Ｐｒｏｄｕｃｔｉｏｎ　Ａｒｔ　Ｇａｌｌｅｒｙ

Ｆｏｒｅｉｇｎ　ａｒｔｉｓｔ　ＡｒｔｈｕｒＭａｙｓ，　ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ　ｕｐ　ｔｏＫｉｓａｒａｇｉ　ａｒｔｉｓｔ　Ｆ．　Ｍａｋｉ，ｍｏｖｅｄ　ｔｏ　Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　＆　ｎｏｗｒｕｎｓ　ｔｈｉｓ　ａｒｔｈｏｕｓｅ．　Ｍｏｓｔｏｆ　Ｆｕｍｕｈｉｋｏ　Ｍａｋｉ’ｓ　ｗｏｒｋｉｓ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ，　ｂｕｔ　ａｐａｉｎｔｉｎｇ　ｃａｌｌｅｄ　”Ｇｉｒｌ　＆

Ｔｈｅ　Ｗｉｎｄ”　ｗａｓ　ｓｈｏｗｎｉｎ　Ａｒｔｈｕｒ’ｓ　ｔｏｗｎ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｈｅｗａｓ　ａ　ｃｈｉｌｄ，　ｗｈｉｃｈｃｈａｎｇｅｄ　ｈｉｓ　ｌｉｆｅ．　Ｔｈｉｓｓｅｔ　ｈｉｍ　ｏｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｐａｔｈ　ｔｏａｒｔｉｓｔｒｙ　＆　ｍａｄｅ　ｈｉｍ　ｄｅ－ｃｉｄｅ　ｔｏ　ｓｏｍｅｄａｙ　ｌｉｖｅ　ｉｎｔｈｅ　ｔｏｗｎ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ．

Ａｒｔｈｕｒ　ｉｓ　ｎｏｗ　ｕｓｉｎｇ　ｈｉｓｆｒｅｅ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｔｏ　ｔｅａｃｈ　ａｒｔａｔ　Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｓｃｈｏｏｌ．　Ｈｅ’ｓ２８　ｂｕｔ　ｌｏｏｋｓ　ｙｏｕｎｇｅｒ．Ｈｅ’ｓ　ｑｕｉｅｔ　＆　ｉｎｔｒｏｖｅｒｔｅｄｂｕｔ　ｄｏｅｓｎ’ｔ　ｓｅｅｍ　ｔｏａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ　ｄｉｓｌｉｋｅ　ｐｅｏｐｌｅ．

Ａｓ　ａ　ｃｈｉｌｄ　ｈｅ　ｗａｓ　ｓｉｃｋａｎｄ　ｓｐｅｎｔ　ｍｏｓｔ　ｏｆ　ｈｉｓｔｉｍｅ　ｉｎｄｏｏｒｓ，　ｗｈｉｃｈ　ｉｓｗｈｙ　ｈｉｓ　ｓｏｃｉａｌ　ｓｋｉｌｌｓａｒｅ　ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ　ｌａｃｋｉｎｇ．Ｂｕｔ　ｂｅｉｎｇ　ａ　ｗｏｒｌｄ　ｆａｍｏｕｓａｒｔｉｓｔ，　ｓｏｍｅ　ｗｏｎｄｅｒ　ｗｈｙｈｅ　ｌｉｖｅｓ　ｉｎ　Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ．

Art Gallery: Production Art

The American painter Arthur Mays immigrated here because he admired Kisaragi-born artist Maki Fumihiko, and he now runs this art gallery. Few of Maki Fumihiko’s works made it overseas, but a painting called “Wind and a Girl” was displayed in a museum...

...in the town where Arthur lived as a child. When he saw it, the young Arthur was transported as if he’d been struck by lightning. After that, he developed an interest in art and began to follow the path of the artist. And he made up his mind to someday live in the town depicted in the painting.

Currently Arthur is an artist, and uses his freer time serving as a provisional art teacher at Kisaragi Academy. At 28, he appears much younger thanks to his baby face. Because he’s quiet and introverted, he’s not much given to social interaction, but he doesn’t seem to be an actual misanthrope.

According to records, he was sickly as a child and spent a lot of time at home, which is likely the reason he hasn’t acquired much skill at dealing with people. He has an outstanding talent at art, which has been recognized worldwide. For that reason, many people wonder why he moved to the remote city of Kisaragi.

如月郵便局

Ｋｉｓａｒａｇｉ　Ｐｏｓｔ　Ｏｆｆｉｃｅ

局長は榎田　シゲル。年齢４５歳、離婚歴有。物静かなどこにでもいる中年の男であるが、いわゆる宗教オタクであり、五年周期ほどでさまざまな宗教にのめり込む。

そのたびに「今度こそ本物だ、真の教えに出会った」と公言しているようだが、心変わりする時には、いつも毛虫のごとくその宗教を嫌うのを常にしている。職員を勧誘することは無いが、局内を問題にならない程度に、キテレツなポスターや不気味な像などを飾りつける。

壁紙の色や、局内の植物なども自費で変えることもある。そうすることで、聖なる力で郵便局が守られると本人は真剣に信じている様子。たいした害はないので、職員も住民達も見て見ないふりをしている。

Ｍａｎａｇｅｄ　ｂｙ　ＳｈｉｇｅｒｕＥｎｏｋｉｄａ，　４５，　ｄｉｖｏｒｃｅｄ．Ｓｅｅｍｉｎｇｌｙ　ｎｏｒｍａｌ，　ｅｘｃｅｐｔｆｏｒ　ｂｅｉｎｇ　ａ　ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｕｓｆａｎａｔｉｃ　ｏｆ　ｓｏｒｔｓ．　Ｈｅｇｅｎｅｒａｌｌｙ　ｊｏｉｎｓ　＆　ｂｅｃｏｍ－ｅｓ　ｉｎｆａｔｕａｔｅｄ　ｗｉｔｈ　ａ　ｎｅｗｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｎ　ｅｖｅｒｙ　５　ｙｅａｒｓ．

Ｅａｃｈ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｈｅ　ｓｗｅａｒｓ　ｉｔｉｓ　ｔｈｅ　”ｒｅａｌ　ｔｈｉｎｇ”，　ｂｕｔａｌｗａｙｓ　ｌｏｓｅｓ　ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔ　ｉｎｅａｃｈ　ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｎ　＆　ｆｉｎｄｓ　ａｎｅｗ　ｏｎｅ．　Ｈｅ　ｎｅｖｅｒ　ｔｒｉｅｓｔｏ　ｒｅｃｒｕｉｔ　ｈｉｓ　ｓｔａｆｆ　ｂｕｔｏｆｔｅｎ　ｈａｎｇｓ　ｃｒｅｅｐｙ　ｐｏｓｔ－ｅｒｓ　ａｒｏｕｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｆｆｉｃｅ．

Ｈｅ　ｄｅｃｏｒａｔｅｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｆｆｉｃｅｗｉｔｈ　ｈｉｓ　ｏｗｎ　ｍｏｎｅｙ．　Ｈｅｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｓ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｃａｕｓｅｔｈｅ　ｐｏｓｔ　ｏｆｆｉｃｅ　ｔｏ　ｂｅｐｒｏｔｅｃｔｅｄ　ｂｙ　Ｇｏｄ．　Ｂｅｉｎｇｗｅｉｒｄ　ｂｕｔ　ｂｅｎｉｇｎ，　ｅｖｅｒｙ－ｏｎｅ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｐｒｅｔｅｎｄｓ　ｔｈｅｙｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｎｏｔｉｃｅ．

Kisaragi Post Office

The postmaster is Enokida Shigeru. 45 years of age, divorcé. He’s an ordinary, quiet, middle-aged man, except that he’s what you might call a religion geek. Every five years he becomes obsessed with some religion or another.

Every time he announces, “This time it’s the real thing. I’ve discovered the true teachings.” But when he loses interest, he always starts to hate that [old] religion like poison. He doesn’t try to recruit his staff, but he decorates the post office with as many weird posters and creepy statues as he can get away with.

He also changes things like the color of the wallpaper and the plants at his own expense. He earnestly believes that doing so will protect the post office with sacred energy. It doesn’t cause any real harm, so the staff and citizenry pretend not to notice.

#system info #FORT data #locations

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londoncapsule · 6 years

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Transcript of Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s interview on the Howard Stern Show

I put together a rough transcript of Jeff’s latest appearance on the Howard Stern Show on 9 April 2018.

Since it was an almost hour-long interview, it’s quite a long list and also due to the NSFW topics discussed, you can find the rest of the transcript under the ‘Keep reading’ bar.

During the interview Stern asked Jeff some highly personal questions as well, but Jeff answered all of them (and did so with class and humour, I think) so proceed at your own risk if you’re not comfortable with reading about such personal stuff.

On fans and fame

- Jeff lets his beard grow long now because he’s off work, “it’s my farm thing” and “hopefully people don’t stop me on the street to tell me to go to hell”, because he gets all sorts of stuff in the streets these days

- since he’s on The Walking Dead he has experienced a new level of fame with fans, paparazzi and autograph hunters even stalking him at the airport by buying a plane ticket and stalking him at the gate, there were even fights breaking out in Chicago when he refused to sign stuff for people who were trampling over other people at the airport

- while leaving Good Morning America that morning he was called a “motherfucker” for not stopping to sign when he was late for the Howard Stern Show, which really pissed him off because they were acting like he owed them somehow, but he was like “I don’t know you, guys”

- he doesn’t want to stop for selfies all the time, especially when he’s out and about with his wife and kids, the only time he sometimes makes an exception when it’s for a little kid (unless they are being manipulated by their parents standing behind them), the kids can get any but it’s the adults that are “super rude”, but he loves the fans and tries to be very good to them, it’s “the guys trying to make a living selling your autograph online” who bother him

On his farm

- their farm has “turned into more or less a rescue operation”, they take in a lot of alpaca and now have like 16 of them, because alpaca were thought to be the “it” animals some years ago and many people got rid of them later, they are really sweet animals except for shearing time once or twice a year when they spit on you, but they have to be sheared because they don’t shed and the summer heat is not good for them, Jeff has someone helping him with their shearing but he sits on top of them while they gets sheared and they process the wool and at some point they could have a little business of it, but for now they give the wool to friends who knit

- his six-month old baby donkey, Paxton is following him around the farm like a puppy, he got three donkeys last year for Father’s Day from Hil, and 2 days later there were four donkeys, they didn’t know that one of the donkeys was pregnant, he was there when Paxton was born and he imprinted on Jeff, before the press tour he had to “fix him” because Paxton just started getting amorous and he didn’t want him to breed with his mother, so Jeff’s not sure if upon his return Paxton will look him in the eye again

- he just wants to be a “gentleman farmer”, it’s now kinda turning into a more full-time thing for them, he has a total of 120 acres of land and “it’s neat” and “really beautiful”

- they are active in the community and still have the candy store they saved together with Paul Rudd

- Rhinebeck is an an hour and a half from New York City, “hour forty tops”

- when he was doing The Good Wife he took the train to go to work, because it takes him 12 minutes to get to the Poughkeepsie station from his farm and then he took the train to Penn Station every day

- Jeff invited Stern to visit him on the farm for the day to paint, but Stern was worried because they don’t know each other that well and “you are Negan”, but Jeff replied “I’m not really Negan in real life though man!”

- Stern was still worried about the idea, so Jeff offered to leave him the farm, or they can walk or drive around the farm, he has 40 acres of just woods, three houses on the property, he’s got a herd of highland kettle, every spring they bring in yearling melt cows with their mothers he raises and then they go to the milk farm and then he brings in another set

- Jeff loves the farm life so much that sometimes he doesn’t want to go back to acting, but he hasn’t made enough money yet to do that, Stern asked him how much money he would need to stop acting and just live on the farm comfortably and take care of his family, to which Jeff said that he wants the farm to be completely paid off and his kids to go to college, he doesn’t need a big number, “I don’t know, 20? But like taxed and for that you have to make 40″ but he doesn’t think he’s getting there

On his bromance with Norman

- Norman is “awesome” and he “loves him”, he’s family and was the first person to come and see Jeff’s baby after she was born

- Jeff and Norman met like 20 years ago, they hung out, were in the same circle but then he didn’t see or talk to him for 10 years at least and when Jeff joined the show they “were just joined at the hip”, Norman was super stoked that Jeff got the role and that he knew him, but had nothing to do with Jeff getting the role, they are together all the time, Norman bought a place up near Jeff’s farm in Rhinebeck, their bromance is ”solid” and Jeff’s happy that at almost 52 he has a best friend

- he was the type of guy with a guy best friend in his 20s but when he started dating and then met Hilarie that “all went out the fucking window” and since he lives on the farm now with his family there are “no boyfriends around anymore”

- Jeff and Norman live next to each other in Georgia and are there without significant others for most of their lives now, when they’re not working they are on their bikes and sometimes when Norman’s not working that day he would drive by the set (they live an hour away from the set) to meet Jeff and they would have some bro time, that’s their quality time together, but since they are on their bikes they are not talking to each other, but on the show Negan and Daryl "are totally not bro at all”

- Jeff confirmed that Norman and Diane Kruger are together and that “she’s beautiful” and “he’s very happy” and that Stern should have him on the show because he’s listening to him every day too

On riding motorbikes

- last year Jeff and Norman rode on Norman’s TV show Ride around Spain and this year in London (which was “kinda sucky because it rained the whole time”) and all over England and while shooting they follow the camera van so they don’t have to know the way or check the GPS

- Jeff is aware of the dangers of biking and has seen some bad stuff but has always ridden knock-on on that and has always been very lucky

- he has 7 bikes, is a Harley guy (Norman’s a Triumph guy), has wanted a Harley Davidson since he was a kid and has had a relationship with Harley Davidson ever since he could afford to buy his first one

- Jeff’s dad rides too, he has a Harley as well and Jeff just saw him three weeks before the interview, they were riding together out in Palm Desert

On acting

- Jeff still thinks about his former manager who had dropped him before he made his big break by landing Grey’s Anatomy, Supernatural and Weeds, and kinda hopes “she’s kicking herself in the balls” but he doesn’t run into her these days since he moved from California years ago and now lives in Upstate New York

- Howard asked his opinion on when a struggling actor should give up acting and Jeff said that he doesn’t know because he was there at that point when he was ready to give up but at 37 he didn’t know what to do, if should he go back to college (he dropped out of college after 1 month) and he survived by building decks and fences and had no fall-back plan (”I put all my eggs in one basket”), he didn’t own a home, had a room mate, his biggest concern was making sure his dog had food and he had rent on the table, his parents weren’t fully behind his plans either, since he only got minor roles (or he wasn’t even recognisable due to being masked as an alien) or roles in shows that got cancelled or were not picked up, so what kept him in the game was that he had nothing else to do and from the age of 30 on he kept extending the deadline by 1 more year of when he would give up, he did auditions but always almost got the role, he was always auditioning for Jon Hamm (”fucking Jon Hamm destroyed my shit for a while”)

- Jeff thinks that “we don’t make enough movies anymore”, there are huge blockbusters but not enough little art films out there with brilliant acting, it’s all going on TV now, Jeff loves TV but doesn’t know what’s going on anymore because there is so much of it, it’s hard to keep up, but he wants to start watching The Bachelor because Howard likes it so much

On The Walking Dead

- Jeff promised to get Stern a Lucille so he can bash some people over the head

- Stern hates that the night scenes on The Walking Dead are too dark and you can’t see anything and Jeff has a problem with that too and hates night shoots and would do anything but night shoots, and thinks that work suffers because of that for the acting and the crew, especially midway through the season (“you’re all hurtin’, everybody’s in bad shape”)

- when they killed of Carl he “wasn’t happy” and was “bummed” because he had been a fan of the comic book before taking on the show and one of his favourite storylines was the Carl-Negan relationship, it was one of the reasons he wanted to do the show and now it’s “fucking gone”

- Andy broke Jeff’s nose in the mid-season finale of season 8 during their fist fight, and Jeff knew that he was going to punch him because Andy gets so amped up before scenes, drinks a lot of coffee, gets excited, and they did rehearse the scene but Andy went from 50% during rehearsal to 130% when the cameras were rolling, Jeff knew immediately when the scene started that they were too close to each other in the scene, they were hitting each other and on the second hit Andy cracked him on the bridge of his nose, he dropped to a knee and his eyes watered and he was like “Ah, dude!”, Andy was more upset about it than Jeff, “he’s not an asshole at all, he’s a great dude”, they kept shooting, Jeff took a minute, put an ice pack on his nose and went back to shooting after 10 minutes, and Andy sent Jeff the a massage certificate and a facial the day after, but Jeff doesn’t do them, “Andy is one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet in your life”, his nose was just popped back into place and had an X-ray done later but it was just a hairline fraction with a little bit of blood, but later in the season Jeff “kicked Andy in the nuts” which made him feel better

On the Negan vs Rick relationship

- they talked about Jeff saying on GMA that morning that he feels that on The Walking Dead Negan and Rick are equally bad, Howard said that Negan is way worse than Rick, because he forces women to marry him and fuck him, to which Jeff argued that “we never see him fuck, we don’t know”, but then they argued that he’s trying to get them pregnant, but Jeff said that “that was him getting in Dwight’s head” and Howard added that Negan irons the faces of people and burns them in the furnace as punishment and Rick would never do that, and he’s enslaving people, but Jeff argued that he isn’t enslaving them and they can go if they want

- Jeff mentioned the the kill ratio, Rick killed 50 of his people in their sleep and started the whole conflict, “Negan hasn’t done anything to Rick and his group” at that point, then Daryl took out another 20 of his guys with a bazooka, by this point Negan had lost like 70 people and then Negan killed Abraham as punishment, but because Norman/Daryl punched him, he sadly had to kill Glenn too, but Jeff “still blames Norman for that”

On Rampage and Dwayne Johnson

- Dwayne Johnson’s huge success is driving Jeff nuts “maybe a little bit”, he thinks Dwayne is such a big movie star because he’s got the ability to make fun of himself and is kinda self-deprecating and “as an audience we love that” and we all think that he’s a guy we could have a beer with, Dwayne works very hard, and Jeff wouldn’t be surprised if he ran for president, he thinks Dwayne is a very smart guy business wise, and Jeff calls him “Dwayne” or just “Rock”

- when Dwayne landed on him during a stunt while shooting the scene where the plane goes down he felt “like a freezer falling” on him but they have never worked out together

- they talked about the feud Dwayne Johnson and Vin Diesel had during shooting The Fast & Furious about Vin not coming out of his trailer, which neither Stern, nor Jeff understand (”it’s one of my peeves”), Jeff said he’s with Dwayne on this, because when he arrives on the set he’s ready to go and do the scene

- Rampage is “a popcorn movie at its finest” and “believe it or not it has some heart in there” and Dwayne and George are “cute as shit” in the movie

- Howard was wondering if George had a cock and massive balls in the movie but Jeff said no, later Howard’s looked up that an erect gorilla cock is 1 to 3 inches long only, and they were talking about cock sizes, to which Jeff added that “I’m all talk myself”

- they mentioned how hot Naomie Harris is, “she’s the real deal, a really cool chick”, Howard asked if she had a boyfriend and Jeff said no because she can’t meet any good men and she even asked Jeff if he knew anybody but he said that all the decent guys he knows are with somebody and “she’s gorgeous”, but maybe she’s too picky but Howard commented that Jeff should feel great around women like her being the greatest guy around them and that they eat their heart out that they can’t be with him because he’s married already, to which Jeff was just snickering

On his private life and family

- his first marriage didn’t end because he was a struggling actor but because his best friend had an affair with his wife, and he’s still his friend, it didn’t even faze him really, and wasn’t mad at her because “we shouldn’t have gotten married”, it was a stupid thing, they were married for like 3 months, but he was really disappointed with his buddy for breaking the bro code and didn’t talk to him for a year and then ended up with him in a fist fight at an audition at the Warner Brothers lot but then it was over and now they are buddies again, but his marriage was gonna get annulled regardless, they were both too young, too stupid and six years later they were friendly again with his ex-wife, it was a Vegas wedding because they didn’t have any money, and being married when you are broke is “ridiculous”, because he couldn’t even support himself or feed his dog

- he calls his new-born daughter Georgie, they named her after an episode of Bonanza (”A Girl Named George”) and Gus was named after Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove, because Jeff’s got “this western theme going” and thinks that “in my other life I must have been a cowboy of some sort”

- he could live without acting “a lot less”, he would be happy to do one movie a year, and do some writing and try directing at some point in his life, but he’s been so busy going from one job to the other and he feels like he’s missing out, he’s really feeling it now with Gus, when he leaves to work (he’s shooting The Walking Dead between the end of April until Thanksgiving) and he tries to get home on weekends but it’s not enough with an 8-year old and it gets really emotional, but with George “unless you have a boob with some milk in it, she doesn’t give a shit” and “she looks at me after like 5 minutes like ‘Where’s my mum? Give me my mum!’“

- Jeff doesn’t work out (”Dude, does it look like I work out? I throw around bails of hay around on the farm.”), he hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in 20 years, he works the farm as exercise, down in their basement they have a running machine but it just has 1 mile on and is “collecting dust”, Gus has a genetic disorder called PKU, his body can’t process protein so he eats a protein shake, which made Jeff’s and Hilarie’s diet much healthier, they watch what they eat, he walks his 120-acre farm as much as possible, he’s doing chores and dinking around, he chops a lot of wood, he heats his farm in the winter time with fire wood

- he doesn’t have a huge entourage, is “low maintenance”

- both of his kids were born at a hospital, not at home, he delivered them, cut the umbilical cord, had no idea what to do, thought he would be there just to lend support or hold a leg, but they had a midwife who pushed him in there as soon as the baby’s head was crowning, with Gus he waited too long and he got stuck in “no-man’s land” and “his head was shaped like a cone”, with George he was ready, and as soon as she crowned he grabbed her by the cheeks and pulled her right out perfectly

- Stern was wondering if having seen Hil give birth to their kids and the image of “the baby’s head poking through the vagina” is bothering Jeff sexually now, to which Jeff said that he has “seen a vagina before” and for some reason separates the two, it’s not the same thing, and Hil is “more beautiful than she’s ever been” and “was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen while letting it all hang out”

- Stern asked if they went back right back into “banging” to which Jeff replied that it takes a little bit, a little healing and letting that rest, but “yeah, we do all right”

- Stern asked him if they wanted more kids, to which he said “Jeez, no! We’re tapping out. Oh, dude, I’m 52!”, it’s too perfect that they have a boy and a girl now, since they were trying for a second baby since Gus was born, it was a rough go, they lost a couple of babies, it was an emotional ride for them so now “we’re done” and he thinks he will "snip the balls”, if he did it to his donkey he “might as well do it to myself”, but he feels that now he’s almost so old it “maybe shouldn’t work anyway”, Stern suggested that he should wear a rubber, because it slows him down, to which Jeff replied “I got you, I feel you on that” and “I don’t know what we will do” and he’s gonna “Howard Stern my shit” and Stern added that fucking a woman is the greatest thing to which Jeff said it’s something magical, but they agreed to discuss this further together on a different occasion together with Norman

- during the farewells Jeff said to Stern that “I just love ya” and the thing he had been the most proud of in his career was being on the show before and he still has people coming up to him every day saying that his interview on Stern was the greatest thing they had ever heard

If you want to listen to the full interview, you can do it here.

#jdm #jeffrey dean morgan #howard stern #hilarie burton #gus morgan #norman reedus #dwayne johnson #twd #the walking dead #rampage

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alicescripts · 6 years

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Live show: Los Angeles, California

On October 30, we are releasing the Alice Isn’t Dead novel, a complete reimagining of the story from the ground up. It is a standalone thriller novel for anyone looking for a scary page-turner, whether they’ve heard this podcast or not. Available for preorder now. And preordering helps authors out tremendously, so please consider it. Thanks so much!

Hi, this is Joseph Fink. What you’re about to hear is the live Alice Isn’t Dead performance at the Largo in Los Angeles on April 5, 2018. This live episode was not any material from the podcast, but instead was a standalone show focused on the weird and interesting sites and places of LA. It was an incredible night, and thank you to those who came out to see it. Enjoy the show.

Oh. I’m sorry, I uh, I didn’t expect um, I-I didn’t know that anybody would be listening. [clears throat] OK. Um, when you tell a story, you should expect an audience but sometimes I don’t think about that. I just tell the story the same way I breathe, just move life in an out of my body. I suppose you could listen if you want.

My name is Keisha. I’m a truck driver. It’s weird isn’t it the-the way say our jobs as though they were an identity rather than a thing we do for money. I mean do you think that outside of capitalism we’d confuse our self image with what pays the bills? [chuckles] Sorry. I-I got away from myself. Story not polemic, right.

I became a truck driver because, well, that-that’s a long one. I thought my wife alice was dead. But she isn’t dead. And she’s out there somewhere on the highways and back roads, and I’m trying to find her. Just driving my truck around and around looking for her. That’s who I am really. I am the one that looks for Alice. And Alice is the one who isn’t dead, but isn’t here.

I was in Los Angeles. All downtowns are the same downtown, they are landscapes built for the facilitation of money and business without thought to he human experience. And we are tiny to these monuments and that we are allowed to pass among them is a privilege, not a right. Still each downtown bears some mark of its city. The LA downtown, despite surface similarities, could not be mistaken for New York or Chicago, it’s too eclectic. It’s too strange in its architecture. LA is, is much more than movies but – movies infuse everything because movies are the only history the city will acknowledge. The history of the indigenous people, the history of the Latino people, these are set aside. The city looked at all the people that had already come and thought, ah! A blank slate! And so they did not draw from the Gabrielino or the Chumash or even the Spanish in their missions, they drew from the movies. From the foundational idea that LA could and should be anywhere in the world. So the style of LA is every style, each house and each neighborhood built in wildly different ways. It’s art deco and Spanish stucco and mid-century modern.

In Brand Park, out in Glendale, there’s this enormous house turned public library that is less actual Middle Eastern and more movie Middle Eastern, built by the wealthy white man whose garden that park once was. There’s nowhere in LA that feels stylistically of one piece, and it is that incoherence that provides the coherence of the city.

You see, I’ve come to town on your word, Alice. Only it wasn’t your word direct of course just – whispers through a network of safe houses and gatekeepers, those living on the fringe of society who can be trusted with the kinds of messages we send back and forth. But who knows how the messages mutate mouth to mouth? But still, even through this mutilation of intent, I can hear your voice, like a heartbeat, your skin and bone.

It’s Tanya in Omaha, a friend of the cause, who reaches out to me on my radio to finally lay your words to rest. There’s a meeting in Los Angeles, you’ve heard. You don’t know the exact nature and purpose of this meeting, no one seems to, but the word is that it’s a meeting of those at the heart of it, the ones that are making the real choices, that shape every decision that we think we freely make. So I’ve come to town to find that meeting. I will find this meeting and then… shit, I don’t know. And then I will decide what to do next.

I’m faced with a mystery that’s so much bigger than myself that it sits like an uneven weight in my chest. I feel off balance, so I take comfort in smaller mysteries, ones that don’t matter at all. In Pico-Robertson, a five minute walk from six different synagogues, and a celebrity chef kosher Mexican restaurant called Mexikosher, is a strange synagogue with no windows. The architecture is unmistakable. Modern LA Jewish has a certain look and this place has it, right down to the arches designed to look like the two tablets of the Commandments. Except this synagogue is several stories tall, and with no visible entrance.

What does it mean to blend in? What-what does it mean to, to disguise, what does it mean to stick out? These are intrinsically Jewish questions. A people that has, throughout over a thousand years of oppression, variously done all three. And this way too the building is very Jewish. Of course it is not a synagogue. It is, in fact, 40 oil wells hidden inside a soundproofed structure designed to look like a synagogue. And it is not the only one, just five minutes down the road is an office building with no doors and no windows, that one is 50 wells.

The machinery of our system is not hidden below us, it is disguised among us. Rocks that are actually utility boxes, trees that are cell towers. That vacant house that we walk by day after day, the one with the opaque windows? Actually a maintenance entrance for the metro.

Which buildings are real and which ones are disguises? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. But that’s what makes me enjoy considering it.

Sylvia’s here too. She’s really come a long way from the teenage runaway I first discovered on the side of a highway. Did you tell her about the secret meeting, Alice? She is both more vulnerable and far braver than either of us, did you send her to this place? [sighs] We reunited on one of the vacant cul-de-sacs near LAX, where neighborhoods that had once been an airport’s buffer zone were now demolished.

“Heya,” Sylvia said, as though we were meeting at the continental breakfast at a hotel, not on a dark empty street after months of not seeing each other. “Hey yourself,” I said. “Why did you come?” She shrugged, performed nonchalance. “Same reason as you, I guess.”

Well then I guess neither of us knew. Because I had no idea why I was there, I didn’t even knew who was meeting in this town, let’s start with that. OK what what organization, what secret brotherhood, what ancient cabal that influences world events is now sitting around the table in some sterile backroom in this sunny, thirsty city?

I could have asked Sylvia what she knew about it, but I didn’t. I felt like I would be following a script you gave to me, Alice, and I am not interested in your dictating my actions. So instead I asked her: “How you been?” And she took a long slow breath that was more answer than words could ever be. “[sighs] I’ve been good,” she said. “You know, trying my best, finding places to sleep, finding a friendly face on the other side of a meal.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s the same struggle for everyone. But those of us who live on the road, everything is amplified, you know?” I do know. Goddammit, I know.

I wasn’t even sure where in the region this meeting might be held. So I drove out east to the desert where the mountains looked like set backdrops, unreal and perfect, taking up half the sky. Palm Springs, the town killed by cheap plane tickets. Why drive two hours from the city for the weekend, when it’s possible to weekend in Honolulu or Costa Rica instead? Then, having died, Palm Springs hung on just long enough for everything dated about it to become vintage cool. Now it’s back, a mid-century modern paradise of steel beams and rock walls and that style of beautiful, but featureless wooden security fence that only exists in Southern California. Old motels not updated since the heyday of the 50’s now are converted to hip resorts with (farmed) table food and upscale tiki bars. The city is an Instagram feed. Which is both snark and compliment, because it is a genuinely beautiful place.

I wondered the town, feeling that there was something worth finding there, but unsure where it would be hidden. I visited Elvis’ Honeymoon Hideaway, a garish airplane of a house with giant wings of a roof looming at the end of a cul-de-sac, providing kitsch to the dwindling population of Elvis enthusiasts.

That house was built on sale for 9 million a few years back and is now reduced to an easy 4, so make those owners an offer and you too could own a house that is listed as a historical site. A place where Elvis had sex a few times. It probably doesn’t have a dishwasher, though, so… Just south of Cathedral City, I saw a sign that looked familiar. It’s this huge neon pink elephant, mouth wide in mid-laugh, splashing herself. A pink elephant carwash. The sign has a twin sister in Seattle, that one is famous. It was weird running into her in the desert too. It was like driving through the suburbs and suddenly finding out that 150 years ago, they also built an Eiffel tower in Pomona.

I stopped the car and I just gawked up at her. It made me so happy. And then, looking down from the sign, the horror came to me. I saw someone walking towards me with a shuffle that I recognized. Like their legs had no muscle or bone but were heavy sacks of meat attached to their body. One dead leg thrust forward after another, and as the man came close, he looked up and I went from dread suspicion to horrible certainty.

He’s one of those creatures that I call Thistle men. Sagging human faces hung limply on skulls that are the wrong shape. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. They are serial murderers hunting the back roads of our highway systems, and one of them was here.

He made eye contact with me. He laughed, a sound like hanging knives clattering together. And then he was gone. The neon elephant’s face no longer seemed friendly. I mean it, too, seemed to be laughing.

Sylvia and I, we split up for the day. We just watched the traffic and people, looking for suspicious crowds, folks that don’t fit in with the tourists and the beautiful people working as baristas just for now. Of course we don’t know what those suspicious crowds would even look like. Grey men in grey suits going greyly about the tedious business of running the world? Or, like the Thistle men, monsters of hideous aspect?

I reached out to my friend Lynn who works as a dispatcher at my trucking company. She and I became friends soon after I started. She doesn’t take shit, I don’t give shit, we get along that way. “Any unusual moments in Los Angeles?” I said. “Strange shipments, unsual routings, anything?” “You know I can’t tell you that,” she said. “What if I said please?” I said. She snorted into the phone. [chuckles] “In that case, sure,” she said. “I always like you when I’m polite, let me see what I can find.”

Sylvia and I saw nothing of note that day. We ate together at a Korean barbeque place built into the dome of what had once been a restaurant shaped like a hat. “This is nice,” she said towards the end of the dinner. It was, it really was.

You know, a city is defined by its people but it’s haunted by its ruins. There are no cities without vacant lots, the skeletons of buildings, ample evidence of disaster and failure. Our eyes slide past them because they tell a different story about our city than the one we wanna hear. A story in which all of this could slip away in a moment. Even though we know this fact is true, even more for Los Angeles than most cities. This city will some day be shaken to the ground, or burned, or covered over with mud, or drowned by the rising sea or strangled by draught. The question is, as it is for each of us in our personal lives, not if it will die but how.

I like to go and look at these broken places where the refuse of recent history shows. It allows me to look at a region differently, maybe see what I was missing. And if a secret meeting was gonna be hidden here, where but in the cracks? So I peer in. I search.

Above the Pacific Coast highway in the hills of Malibu that are so beautiful when they aren’t falling or burning, is what remains of a house. That house was a mansion built in the 50’s and burned in the 80’s when its location finally caught up to it. There’s now a popular hike that goes right into the ruins, so any walker can go see this place where people lived as recently as 30 years ago. A ruin shouldn’t be so new. A Roman home destroyed by a volcano, well OK you know. A medieval castle, sure. Even an old stone settler’s hut, 100 years old, alright, OK that make sense. But a house that once held a television and a shower? It feels wrong to walk on the foundation, stepping over the bases of walls and around the chimney. It was a home not so long ago, and now it is transformed. Transformation is uncomfortable, and easily mistaken for an ending.

In Griffith Park, I met with Sylvia in the old zoo. All the animal enclosures are still there, and you can sit in them and look at where once caged animals lived, and now wild animals are free to come and go.

Sylvia and I sat in the artificial caves, trying to imagine what the purpose of this secret meeting was. Sure, generally the word was out that it was a meeting of those in control in order to further control us, but specifics were, as they often are, lacking. Sylvia asked me: “Do you feel like this story is too convenient?” And I had no way to respond but nodding. “But we still have to look for it, right?” she said. And I nodded again.

As the sun moved behind the hills, it got very cold. She said, “Yeah”. And I said, “Yeah.” And neither one of us meant it.

Gentrification comes for us all. Let’s leave aside for a moment the many issues of endangered communities and rocketing prices, and consider just two cases of what people will look past to get access to LA property. December 6, 1959, in the hills just below Griffith Park, a doctor lived with his wife in a mansion with an incredible view. The Christmas tree was up for the season, wrapped gifts underneath. At 4:30 in the morning, the doctor got out of bed, retrieved a ball-peen hammer and murdered his wife with it. Then he attacked his daughter, though she survived. And then he took a handful of pills and was dead by the time police arrived.

That house stood empty ever since, still filled with the family’s things: the furniture, the tree, wrapped gifts underneath. A prime house in a prime LA area, but who would live in a house where such horror had happened? For 60 years, no one. Well, the house sold for 2.2 million last year. A view of the city, just above those (-) [0:21:06]. Well at this point, who wouldn’t take some hauntings and a terrible bloody past for that?

Meanwhile the Cecil Hotel in Hollywood, site of an inordinate number of murders and suicides, where the Night Stalker lived in the 80’s while causing terror across the region, where just a few years back, a body floated in the water tank for days before being discovered, is now the boutique Stay on Main. A rebranding for this rebranded city. Even our murders are getting gentrified.

Maybe it’s me. I don’t know, maybe I just don’t like change. Change is often wonderful. But we should definitely think hard about what we are changing into, and what that change might mean. We should just spend a little time thinking about that.

[long break]

Still searching for this meeting. I went up the coast, over the Grade and down toward Axnard, not as cool as Ventura or as rich as Camarillo. Oxnard gets by. As I waited to hear from Lynn, I walked on Silver Strand, just watching the surfers. Many, even now in the winter. Nothing will keep them out of those frigid Alaskan currents. I headed south to Channel Island harbor. It was absolutely peaceful on its shore. The ocean is chattering and restless, the harbor sleeps. It does not stir except to send crumbling waves in the wake of the few boats in and out.

During my walk, I saw a rowboat. Old, practically falling apart. Something about the occupants of the rowboat made me look closer. Stooped figures in awkward postures that looked painful. One of them turned to face me, though the boat was 60 feet offshore, and even at that distance, I could see. Two Thistle men, floating in a rowboat in the (Sound).

“Ooooooooooooooooo,” one of them shouted at me in a gentle high-pitched voice. “Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.” There was something that looked a lot like a human arm poking out over the rim of the rowboat.

I returned to my truck. Not everything is my problem.

Worship is a feeling so all-encompassing that it can be easy to misunderstand from outside. Take the worship of Santa Muerte, a Mexican (folk) saint of death, likely a legacy of pre-Colombian devotion, dressed in the clothes of the colonizing religion. The church has spent a long time trying to suppress her worship, but of course the church has never been good at actually suppressing much, and devotion to Santa Muerte has only spread in recent times.

Like many figures of death, she represents healing and well-being. Religion often lies in embracing contradiction. Those on the outside, they see this as a weakness but those on the inside recognize it as strength. The temple of Santa Muerte in Los Angeles is just down on Melrose Avenue, sharing a building, as everything in LA does now, with a weed store. It is a one-room shrine established by a husband and wife, full of life-sized skeletons bearing (-) [0:25:04]. It would be easy as an outsider to default to one’s own associations with skeletons and come to one’s own emotional conclusions, but it is healthier to embrace the contradiction of these symbols of death. That, after all, physically hold us up for as long as we live. To deny Santa Muerte is to deny our own bodies.

Meanwhile on the other end of the spectrum, the Bob Baker Marionette Theater carries a different kind of worship: devotion to a performance style that time has left behind. And the outside of the building is – let’s face it, it’s creepy. Because, like skeletons, puppets have taken on a certain cultural connotation in the wider world. But we should try to see it from the inside, as the earnest expression of performance and joy.

Mm mm. No I can’t. Mm mm, I ju- not with puppets. Skeletons, fine. Loose-skinned monsters from whatever world, well I’ve deal with them, but puppets? Mm mm.

Lynn got back to me. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said. “That goes without saying,” I said. “No it doesn’t,” she responded, “because I just told you that. Now, there have been some shipments that don’t belong to any company. Or the company info is missing from them, I can’t understand what I’m looking that. They certainly don’t hold up to any scrutiny at all, so I don’t think that they were expecting scrutiny. These things stand out so bad that they might as well be big red arrows pointing at a location in Los Angeles.”

It was late afternoon. Sylvia was asleep in the back of the truck’s cab. I lowered my voice. “Where?” She told me. I looked at Sylvia, knowing she would want me to wake her up, to take her with me. But I didn’t. I let her sleep. I went alone. Better that one of us survive.

I went where Lynn told me: up La Cienega, past a mall and a hospital. I came to the address she gave me. An unassuming place. If it weren’t for the brightly lit shine, I might not have even spotted it from the street. I went through the gates. There was a courtyard there, deserted. The air was still and there was no sound, but the stillness felt temporary, like the pause after an act of violence before anyone can get over their shock and react. I continued through the doors to a dark room. Not the grand hall I might have expected for a meeting like this, but a cozy place. Rows of theater seats. A stage draped in red curtains, from which a speaker stood addressing the crowd. There was music. Was that music? Or was it the shifting and squirming of inhuman bodies? Because there was something inhuman in this place, I could feel it. Not the people in the seats, they seemed completely human. Looking up at the person speaking, following the narrative, and slowly having information dawn on them.

In fact, the people in the seats did not at all seem like the kind of people I would expect at a meeting like this. Were these the powerful, the wicked? Were these the unseen hands ushering us to disaster? Looks can be deceiving. Everything can be deceiving, up to and including the truth, but no. I did not think that these were monsters, I thought they were people like me. People lured to the spot for the same reason I had been, because the story of the meeting had been a very good story. It played exactly into how I had thought the world works. It fed my suspicions and it led me to this place. And I think the same is true for every person in that room. They were there, like I was there, looking for a good story. But why were they led there? Hmm? If the meeting itself was a decoy, then what was the true purpose of this moment?

And that’s when I saw them. Lingering in the shadows at the edges of the crowd. Men with faces that sagged. Flesh that peeled. Yellow teeth, yellow eyes. Thistle men ringed the crowd. (Wools to sheep, parks to bunnies). Hunters. Prey. Did the people in their seats notice? Did they look into the shadows and see the inhuman eyes peering back at them, did they smell the breath of the Thistle men, like mildew, like soil? A smell of rot from deep within, cold lungs, did they hear the occasional laugh coming from a gurgling broken throat? Did they look beside them at seats that were empty and think, wasn’t someone here just moments ago? Or was there? But surely there wasn’t, because where could they have gone? And then the shadows at the edges of the crowd, the people that had once sat in those seats, were led into a place from which they could never return.

I understood. A simple plan: tell an irresistible story. A story that is exactly what all of us fighting Thistle might want to hear. That we were right all along. That the world really is against us in so simple and easy a way that the culprits could all meet in one room. And we would come to hear that story, and then Thistle would take us. Why hunt when instead they could lure?

Standing in the door to that hall of horrors, I saw the faces of the Thistle men as they turned and noticed. One gave a yelp and started to lope towards me and I fled. Where the courtyard had been empty, it was now packed shoulder to shoulder full of men with loose faces and eyes that went yellow at the edges and wet lips hiding sharp teeth. They were waiting for the crowd inside. Hungry creatures preparing to feed on any person that stepped out of that theater. I pushed into and past them, using their momentary surprise to escape, and I ran until my throat was dry and ragged, through that courtyard and out to where the lights of the strip club across the way flashed back and forth, back and forth, and then into my car and then onto the maze of freeways where it is so easy to disappear.

I kept my eye glued on the mirrors, but no one was chasing me. Somewhere behind me, an audience of innocents remained in Thistle’s trap, and I wouldn’t help them. I couldn’t.

Instead, I went back to the truck. Sylvia was still asleep in the cot. I sat in the driver’s seat. I was exhausted. The sun had fully set, and I allowed my eyelids to drift downwards. “Hi,” said Sylvia. She was in the passenger’s seat turned sideways towards me. It was light again. I don’t know how long I’d slept, I know I didn’t dream. There are small mercies in life, I guess. “Did you find out anything?” Sylvia said. I looked in her eyes. She’s so young. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair that she was out here like me on this labyrinth of roads and rest stops. But that’s just what it was. For her and for me and for so many others.

And she looked at me with trust. And I looked right back and I said, “I didn’t find anything. I don’t think the meeting is even real. Let’s get out of here.” Sylvia yawned, she stretched, she nodded. “Yeah OK,” she said. “Might as well. Too bad this turned out to be nothin’.” “Too bad,” I said.

So now here I am telling the story from just outside of Ashland, Oregon. Los Angeles is hundreds of miles behind me now. It isn’t far enough.

I love you, Alice. I stayed alive another day. You do the same, OK? OK.

[applause]

Joseph Fink: Thank you to everyone who came out for our Largo show. We will be back in two weeks with chapter 1 of our third and final season. This show would not be possible without our Patreon supporters. Such as the incredible Ethel Morgan, the indomitable Lilith Newman, the victorious Chris Jensen, and the electrifying Melissa (Lumm).

If you would like to join these folks in helping us make this show, please check out patreon.com/aliceisntdead, where you can get rewards like director’s commentary on every episode, live video streams with the cast and crew, bonus episodes, and more.

Thanks for listening, and see you soon.

#alice isn't dead #alice isn't dead transcripts #live at the largo #live shows #los angeles california #they changed the name as soon as i had posted this #so i changed the name of the post too #long post

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write-on-my-wayward-author · 6 years

Text

Laid to Rest

Commission for @damekiatailios starring their original characters in the world of Eorzea from Final Fantasy 14.

Word count: 2,640

Summary: Taashiel and Damekia take a visit to her family’s farm to retrieve some grapes so they can go and meet up with a very old friend. A light-hearted story of family and letting go of the past to move on the future

It had been many years since Damekia had gone to her parent’s farm. This visit was a little bit more special, as she brought her husband along with her. The world of Eorzea had calmed lately and Damekia felt it was high time that Taa, his nickname, had met her parents and someone else very important to her. Plus, this was an ideal way to relax from the recent liberations of Doma and Ala Mhigo. The two countries now free from the Garlean Empire were working toward rebuilding and that was another reason for visiting her parents. Damekia, originally from Doma, grew up in the world of Eorzea but had long since returned to her home to free it along with her husband. With the recent success, it was time to tell her parents.

The scaled tail of the woman swayed behind them as they walked through the grassy green fields of Outer La Noscea. Not as green and lush as the forest of Girdania, but the sea-locked country was equally as vibrant and perfect for growing fruits of all kind in its nutrient-rich soils. The sun was as hot as ever, but considering they had been fighting in the scorching deserts of Ala Mhigo, they would take the sun of the beach country instead. Taa fidgeted with his large and boisterous feather hat as the sea breeze blustered and flustered his feather.

“Taa, just take it off,” Damekia said turning to look at the blonde cat man. His ears poked through his hat and the feather was tickling the insides of his curry ears.

“If I take off my hat then everyone is going to see my ears,” Taa had a different upbringing but that was a story for a different day. The short version was he originally hated being a Miqo’te but had grown used to it. Though, his instilled hatred of his ears was still a fight he was dealing with. With a huff, the Au Ra yanked his navy blue hat off his head and ran off through the vast open plains with a laugh.

“Damekia! Get your scaled arse back here!” Without hesitation, the man made chase, his large coat flapping in the wind and his tail flicking along behind him. Damekia didn’t care. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Her tail bounced up and down along with her skirt during the chase but she didn’t care. She was determined to get to the farm before he could catch her.

Success! She saw the small house appear in the distance. All the while her husband was still calling and shouting her name in protest. From the bushes outside, a small but rather busty woman with white scales stood from behind the shrubs. The shouting had caught her attention, worried it was some guards or ruffians that come to mess with her crops again. The sight before her though was one she hadn’t expected. When she rose above the green, she saw her daughter standing over the fallen body of a Miqo’te. A triumphant and shite eating grin was plastered on the young woman’s face as she twirled the hat while one foot rested on the back of her husband.

“See, Taa told you that you didn’t need the hat,” she said before laying back on his head just to spite him. A muffled complain came from where the man laid on the ground. But Damekia had no time for that, she turned to her mother and the two AuRa women embraced each other in a fond and long-awaited hug. Sure, Damekia did send letters to her parents, but nothing was as special as being together face to face. While Taa stood up and dusted himself off, the two women began to chatter about how each other had been, where they had been, how were the crops, and blah, blah, blah.

“I’ll get the grapes,” Taa said even though he knew his wife hadn’t heard him. She was too busy being with her mother. Taashiel, having lost his parents during the original war with Garlemald, grew up in an orphanage. Like a lot of other young adults, he had very little memories of his youth except for death. Damekia was lucky. She still had both of her parents and they were happily living a simple life, rather than fighting wars. Maybe someday, they would be that lucky to settle down and raise a family. But the world was in their fate. Literally. Gods and Primals were popping up left and right. Taashiel, help us! Taashiel, kill the primal! Taashiel, my shipment hasn’t arrived! It felt like the world wouldn’t be able to function without their help.

Taa, lost in thought, hadn’t realized he was already amongst the grape vines. With a small basket he pulled from his bag, he began to gently pick the grapes and place them in the holder. Damekia hadn’t mentioned what they were going to do with the grapes, just that she needed them. If she was going to make wine, then Taa would be all about that! He hummed along to a little tune, seeing he was a bard and all, songs were always playing inside of his head.

There was a slight shift within the vines followed by a low growl. The vine’s movement seemed to follow a pattern, a row even, headed straight for the unknowing man. His tail was too busy swishing and flicking to the tune he was happily humming. A shadow slowly formed and overcast the kneeling cat. Seeing the shift in light, Taa looked up at the sight before him. Was this a man or a dragon?! What he saw was a dark-skinned and scaled being with bright red eyes and a stern glare where there seemed to be no passion. The scales continued from patches on his face, to cover parts of his chest and arms. He was unmoving, a statue almost as he breathed steadily while he kept his glare on Taa. Taa, on the other hand, felt his heart racing and his instincts were to reach for the bow on his back, but Damekia made him leave that at the inn room. He regretted agreeing to it now. Who was this, or what was this? The formidable foe moved out from the vines, which he towered over, to move next to Taa. He knelt down at a slow pace. Although his actions were slow, Taa was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“Not ripe.” The man’s voice was deep but incredibly soft. Not the kind of voice a person would expect to come out of a man of his size. He moved his hand from the grapes that Taa was picking to another vine which held plump, ripe and bright grapes on its vines. The tension eased when he began to pick the grapes with such delicacy. His fingers barely pushed in the sides of the fruit when he plucked them off. A gentle giant. Wait, wasn’t Damekia’s dad like an ex-mercenary or something?!

“I see that you two are getting along fine,” Damekia walked with her mom toward the two men. Now with the two of them standing side by side, Taa’s mind was boggled. He looked at Damekia’s mom, a voluptuous woman with a sizeable bust. Then he looked to his wife. Flat as a board with small curves. He looked between the two for quite some time, wondering solely on how was this Damekia’s mother!? How did this woman, give birth to a board? Not that he minded. Flat justice and all, but still! The Genetics wasn’t adding up in his mind. Then-

WHACK

Taa felt a hard smack to the head from the leather-bound tome book Damekia always carried with her. She must have known what he was thinking and she wasn’t too happy with him silently pointing out what she was lacking. He groaned to himself, but Damekia switched from a scowl to smile in order to make introductions.

“Mom, dad, this is my husband Taashiel,” she moved to hug his arm, as though she didn’t just leave a lump on the back of his head, which he was working to rub away. She then let go and moved to stand between her parents. “Taa, these are my parents. Akihiro and Hina.” The small white scaled woman waved with a foreign greeting, and the large black scaled male nodded with a gruff. The strong silent type and the bubbly small one. Fitting.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Taa greeted with a small and humble bow to the both of them. “Damekia has told me much about you and it is an honor to finally meet the both of you.”

Hina nudged her daughter with a coy smile, “Nice manners, you could learn something from him, Damekia.”

Damekia rolled her red eyes, obviously from her father, with a scoff. “Don’t be so sure. He is only acting this way because he has mastered first impressions.”

“Something you still haven’t done,” Taa joked knowing full and well Damekia’s terrible times with first impressions. Whether friends, important political figures or even the enemies. She had the worst time with first meetings and embarrassing herself or them in some fashion. Damekia raised her book for another whack, but he shielded himself with a laugh.

“Anyway,” she lowered her book and turned to face her parents rather than stand next to them. “We can’t stay long, we have to catch an airship back to Girdania.”

“Leaving so soon?” Hina asked with a regret-filled tone. Her blue eyes softened from joy to sadden surprised when she heard the news from her daughter. “You just got here. Stay for a while.”

Damekia shook her head in response. “Sorry, Haha, but there is someone waiting for us in Girdania and we have to meet them today. That was another reason why we needed the grapes.”

Hina looked to Akihiro who, again, merely nodded. Hina let out an exaggerated sigh before forcing a smile on her lips. “Well then, tell us everything while we help you pick some grapes.”

They settled on that and while they picked the fruits, Damekia informed her parents of everything. The liberation of their home country, of Taa’s home country, their marriage, their journey across the world, even to the smallest of details about their friends they had made along the way. The glories of defeating the empire and the hardships of losing friends along the way. It was amazing how everything had happened in less than a year, it felt so long. The story Damekia wove to her parents made it seem just as long, if not longer than it felt. Hina and Akihiro were overjoyed to learn of the liberation and Akihiro actually laughed when Damekia told him that she won the fight in the Azim Steppe against the other AuRa clans of the Steppe. This small petit woman was able to defeat the Khan of the Steppe in a battle royale. It was amazing and unbelievable, but it was all true.

After the story, the group finished picking the basket of grapes and Akihiro gingerly wrapped them up in a small cloth with ice shards to preserve them in the basket for the long trip ahead of them.

“It seems like you have been through a lot,” Hina walked over and hugged her daughter tightly with a smile. “Next time you come over though, I expect our usual scrimmages.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Damekia said with a fond laugh, to which her mother joined in. She then moved to her father, who towered over the small AuRa woman. He picked her up in both arms and hugged her close to his chest. She did her best to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders, but there was no way in the seven hells that her hands would touch. He sat her down and went to Taa. The cat man wanted to back away, not so much that he didn’t like hugs, he just felt he was going to get crushed. He should’ve known better though with the way Akihiro treated the fruits. When he picked Taa up, it was a gentle embrace, one that filled Taa with a joy he didn’t know he had been missing in the past. When Akihiro sat the man back down, the blonde was smiling ear to ear. He gave a curt nod to the man and a bow of respect to them both.

“It has been wonderful to meet you, and don’t worry I will make sure Damekia comes back to see you again soon,” the married couple turned to leave from the small farm.

“Thank you, son,” Akihiro said with his calm and kind voice. Taa hadn’t expected that response and the feeling that he felt while being hugged, came back to hit him full force. A tear almost formed in the corner of his eye, but he held it back. There was no time for tears now, there was someone Damekia was desperate to meet in Girdania. When the two were far enough away, Taashiel’s curiosity got the best of him.

“So, who are we going to see exactly?” He asked with an arched brow as they made their way through the fields.

“An old friend. I’ve wanted you two to meet for a while, but I was afraid to take you there,” She said with eyes that lowered to look at the basket in her hands. The corners of her mouth drooped along with her tail that tucked between her legs.

Taa reached over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. If they are a friend of yours, then they are a friend of mine.”

A grateful smile danced on her features. How was she so lucky as to have him for a husband? She was never sure of that, but she was thankful each and every day. As was Taa. He felt he didn’t deserve Damekia, but she was exactly what he needed. The two boarded the airship for Girdania and rode through the clouds toward the forest city.

Instead of the salty sea air, they were greeted with the scent of heavy oak and maple as well as the smell of a multitude of animals who lived within the city limits and outside. Girdania was one with nature and it was obvious to see. The two made their way through the forest and toward a deeper part of the woods just outside the main city. In a grove of trees, there was a rather large one sitting in the center. Just beneath the tree sat a gravestone. Engraved in the stone read, “Emmalin”. Taa knew just then why Damekia had hesitated. Not because she was afraid because she didn’t want to let go.

“Taa,” she said through choked back tears. “Meet Emmalin.”

“Hello, Emmalin,” he said as he knelt down to the grave to talk with her. He went on and on about how amazing Damekia was, and how much he would’ve like to meet Emmalin. Damekia watched with a half-smile as her husband sat before the grave of her fallen lover. Talking as though she was actually there. What a dork. “We have one heck a girl don’t we Emmalin? She sure is amazing though. I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Thank you for protecting her.” He laid some grapes at the base of the grave. “Heard these were your favorites. I hope you enjoy them.”

With the past fully laid to rest, Damekia felt a sense of relief raise from her shoulders. Taashiel wasn’t a replacement for Emmalin like he had originally thought. He was just another page in Damekia’s life story. A story he would gladly tell over and over again.

#ffxiv #writing commissions #one down #who's next #taashiel tailios #damekia tailios #au ra #miqo'te #final fantasy #Final Fantasy 14

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years

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Food, It Turns Out, Has Little to Do With Why I Love to Travel

It’s the people that make a place — but these days, human interaction is hard to come by

I used to love to travel. I’d wander through new cities for days on end, eating and drinking (but mostly eating) in four-seat izakayas, farm-driven pizzerias, southern seafood halls, and boat noodle cafes, talking to locals and walking for miles. Restaurants have always been my joyous entry point to a place and its people. The food, I thought, was what made me love to explore the world.

That slowly fading memory — what it felt like to discover a new city, stomach first — is what excited me about going out on the road again, which I did a couple months ago, driving from Los Angeles to Corsicana, Texas and back, stopping to eat in places like Albuquerque, Amarillo, El Paso, and Phoenix.

Let me be clear: I absolutely would not and do not recommend frivolous travel. In my case, a looming publishing deadline on The Bludso Family Cookbook is what sent me on the long, not-so-winding road to Texas in the midst of a global pandemic, where I would be staying with my longtime friend, mentor, colleague, and big brother Kevin Bludso. Once there, we would be cooking, writing, recipe testing, interviewing, living together, and, in all likelihood, drinking a fair quantity of brown spirits at the end of each night (please, someone get that man a Hennessy sponsorship).

I’ve spent the better part of the last 15 years working in the food industry in one capacity or another. I’ve been a bartender, server, chef, culinary director, restaurant consultant, cookbook author, and food writer. My plan since last year had been to continue writing and consulting on the side, but also to finally open my own restaurant. Nothing extravagant. Something small and intimate. A humble, comforting place of my own — clean and well-lit, a true neighborhood restaurant where people can get to know each other, where the food and the service is unassuming and genuine, something with no desire for expansion or duplication. I consider myself unbelievably lucky that I didn’t open a restaurant right before the pandemic hit.

Instead, I’ve spent the last several months at home, making a quarantine cooking show with my wife called Don’t Panic Pantry. It’s been a good distraction, but I thought a work-related excuse to drive through the American Southwest and its expansive desert would be a cleansing, meditative, soul-resetting break from what I’d begun to think of as perpetual purgatory.

I took every precaution. A nasal-swab COVID test right before I departed. I also hopefully still had antibodies (my wife and I both had COVID-19 way back in March). It was, at the very least, the polite thing to do: Get tested before joining someone in their home for two weeks.

I had planned on driving straight through Arizona from LA, avoiding anything except gas stations until I made it to New Mexico, surviving on a sturdy mix of cold brew and air conditioning to keep me awake. I’d never been to New Mexico before. I’d pored over Instagram photos of chile-drenched Southwestern Mexican food, enchiladas oozing with melted cheese, their red and green chile sauces popping with Instagram photo-editing exposure. My usual pre-trip Google map was loaded with thoroughly researched restaurants along my route. In earlier times, I’d have peppered each map point with essential info like hours of operation and must-order dishes; now, I was looking up intel like outdoor seating, takeout quality, and, most crucially, whether or not a place had managed to stay open at all.

I had slowly but gradually heaped unreasonable expectations on a green chile cheeseburger.

I left with a bullish heart. But each stop to fuel up took away a notch of my optimism-fueled excitement and replaced it with caution. Each person in a mask made me a little more depressed; each person without, a little angrier.

Ten hours in and I had made it to New Laguna, New Mexico. I stopped at Laguna Burger, an iconic mini-chain inside of a gas station. It’s a fast-food place to be sure, but according to old photos online there used to be stools set up against the counter, and even a couple of tables and a few chairs. Those are, of course, gone now — pushed to the side of the room and leaving in their place a vacuous emptiness, even for a gas-station dining room. The staff was nice but appropriately wary. I did not partake in the self-serve Kool-Aid pickle jar. I got my food and then sat in my car, emotionally deflated and no longer very excited to eat my first-ever green chile burger — something I had wanted to try for years.

Ordering a burger at a place like this was supposed to be a tiny gateway into the culture and personality of the place, however small that sampling was going to be. There is an emotional atmosphere, a vibe, that’s specific to each and every restaurant, and I had perhaps never been so truly aware that such a thing existed until I noticed it had been zapped entirely from this one. In its place was a blanket of nervous, sad precaution — added to, I’m sure, by my own nervousness.

So I sat in my car with my sack of food, gloomily disappointed even before the first bite. They forgot to salt the fries and it felt oddly appropriate. In this moment, to no fault of the restaurant itself, the food didn’t matter. It couldn’t have. I had slowly but gradually heaped unreasonable expectations on a green chile cheeseburger, wanting it to justify a 12-hour drive and to somehow soothe an anxious mind. But the food, it occurred to me, wasn’t what I was after at all.

Later on, in Albuquerque, I picked up a four-pack of beer from Arrow Point Brewing and received the now familiar and appropriate treatment: measured, cautious polite gratitude. It was a transaction, appreciated by both sides, but with a higher degree of precondition from both sides as well. I followed it up with a takeout bag of enchiladas and a taco from the beloved and iconic Duran’s Pharmacy, taking them back to the motel room I checked myself into earlier. It was 5:30 p.m. The enchiladas had sloshed in the bag. I took a bite and understood: It was comforting, but not nearly enough. Like being single and reconnecting with an ex, only to both immediately discover that there’s nothing there anymore — two empty vessels with no connection beyond a memory.

I took a sip of beer and fell asleep for an hour. When I awoke the city had turned dark and I knew there was no point in going anywhere. The world felt dystopian and deflated. I’d left my redundant, loving, comfortable bubble to experience life alone on the road, and all I wished was that I was right back there with my wife and my dog.

When my wife and I had COVID-19, we lost our sense of smell and taste for a bit. It was, as my wife put it, “a joyless existence.” Now I had my taste back, but somehow the joy of eating was still gone.

The enchiladas, in a box, alone, on the floor of my motel, were just enchiladas. Because here’s a thing I’ve come to understand of late: context really does affect flavor. A place, its atmosphere, the people within it, their mood (and ours) genuinely change the way things taste. A restaurant lasagna has to be twice as good as your mother’s — or that one you had on that trip to Italy — for it to remind you of it even a little. A rack of smoked pork ribs will never taste as good on a ceramic plate atop a tablecloth as it does from within a styrofoam box on the hood of your car, downwind from a roadside smoker. I hope that I never find out what Waffle House tastes like while sober, eaten in broad daylight.

So as it turns out, when it comes to my lifelong love of food and travel, the food might not have mattered — not to the degree I thought it did, anyway. Not without everything that goes along with it. The surly bartender in the dark room who fries your chicken behind the bar at Reel M Inn in Portland while a guy two seats down makes fun of you for being from California is a huge part of why that might be my favorite fried chicken in the world. The friend of a friend who abandoned his family (thanks Marc!) to drive a stranger, me, around Toronto for two days and show off the city’s outstanding versions of goat roti (from Mona’s Roti) and bún riêu cua (from Bong Lua) makes me realize that yes, the food is outstanding, but that it’s the people — excited to show off their hometown, its restaurants, and their community — who make travel worthwhile.

Would Tokyo be my favorite eating city in the world if my now-wife and I hadn’t befriended two total strangers in a six-seat dive bar, knocking back cocktails until we both threw up, only to come through to the other side fully bonded over late-night grilled pork skewers with another stranger who gave me his business card and said that he had been eating in this stall for over a decade? What is a bar without a bartender? It’s just, well, being home.

The restaurant business can be both horrible and wonderful. It pays poorly, it requires incredibly long hours, and in many instances, you are going broke while making food for people who complain that it’s too expensive. But it is, as Anthony Bourdain often said, the Pleasure Business. It has always been a place for camaraderie, human connection, and community. Those were the things that made the nearly unbearable parts of our business worthwhile — and that connection, when you can have a genuine one between staff and customer, is what I think everyone really, truly wants out of the transaction. Those things still exist, I suppose, but all at arm’s length, or across an app.

I still eventually want to open my own restaurant. I think. But maybe I just want to open my memory of what it would have been in a different, earlier world. I don’t want to be a dinosaur, yearning for the good old days. But I also don’t want to live in a world where a third-party tech company stands between the restaurant and its customer. I don’t want someone to visit my city and think that a robot delivering them a sandwich is the best that we have to offer. I don’t want to have to download an app to order a cup of fucking coffee. Human connection, it turns out, is essential too, and we need to find a way to make it a part of our essential businesses again.

So what, in the midst of a health and humanitarian catastrophe, can we do? Well, we can decide where we spend our money. We support human connection and small businesses. We pick up takeout with our own hands from the places and the people that we love (safely, responsibly). We know that it is just gauze pressed against an open, oozing knife wound, but we try anyway.

So we travel because we have to, whether for work or as a needed break from monotony, and we reset our expectations, we open ourselves up to receiving that connection, we seek out the places that are adapting and we smile through our masks, and ask each other how we are doing, if only to show that somebody cares.

When I eventually made it to Corsicana, Texas, hoisting a large bag of dried red New Mexico chiles, I was greeted with an engulfing hug by Kevin Bludso; it was the first truly comforting thing that happened on the whole trip. I melted into the arms of my friend. I was back in a bubble, connected to something.

I spent two glorious weeks in that bubble, taking turns doing Peloton workouts and then drinking vegetable smoothies, before recipe-testing dishes like Fried Whole-Body Crappie and Ham Hock Pinto Beans; researching Kevin’s family history and then, true to form, sipping rye (me) and Hennessy (him) before I had to head home. Kevin’s food was outstanding, but it was made all the better by the time spent together cooking it. So when I readied myself to get out on the road again, my expectations had changed. I knew the food alone could only do so much.

This disease has been a reflection and amplifier of all of our weak points — and the restaurant business is certainly no different. This industry was already ripe with flaws. It has been teetering on the brink of a seismic shift for years — COVID-19 just accelerated it, and all the platitudes, Instagram stories, and false optimism won’t fix anything. But there have always been bad restaurants as well as good restaurants. I suppose it’s no different now. Yet it is maybe just a little bit harder to give and to be open to receiving the human connection that makes the whole experience worthwhile.

I hope that I never find out what Waffle House tastes like while sober, eaten in broad daylight.

I hit the road early, and after about 10 and a half hours, fueled by caffeine, Christopher Cross, and Bonnie Raitt — with one depressing pit stop in El Paso at the famed H&H Car Wash, where an old curmudgeon out front insisted I take off my mask before going inside — I arrived in Las Cruces, at La Nueva Casita Café. I called ahead, hoping not to have to wait so I could just grab my food and get back on the road. My guard was still up, but then the woman on the other end of the phone was so charming and kind that I was immediately disarmed. She graciously steered me toward the chile relleno burrito (“it’ll be the easiest one to eat in the car”). A few minutes later I came inside to pick up my food and the two women behind the counter were, frankly, a delight. I paid, and was promptly handed my food and thanked with genuine, casual appreciation for coming in. The burrito was excellent.

Bolstered by the kindness of strangers, I drove another five and a half hours into Phoenix. As a bit of an obsessive pizza maker (I had the tremendous fortune to train with Frank Pinello of Best Pizza in Williamsburg, and also had a hand in helping to open Prime Pizza in Los Angeles), I was here to try the new 18-inch New York-style fusion pie by the great Chris Bianco at their Pane Bianco outpost on Central.

Just as at La Nueva Casita Café, the staff was friendly, genuine, helpful, and kind. In retrospect, it took so little but it meant so much. When I expressed a need for caffeine, they sent me next door to Lux Central for a large iced coffee, where the barista talked to me from a responsible distance, wished me a safe drive, and gave me a free blueberry muffin. Even eaten in my car, Chris’s pizza was truly outstanding — crisp, thin, and pliable, successfully pulling off the New York-modern Neapolitan (ish) fusion that, in lesser hands, turns into an 18-inch bowl of soup.

I drove the last six hours home, finding myself encouraged by these final two restaurant experiences, excited by what the best in our industry are still somehow capable of in spite of everything. It was, frankly, inspirational to find genuine interaction, care, and kindness in this new reality.

It reminds me of my mother, actually. I remember when I was a kid, she would pick up the phone to call a restaurant, or Blockbuster Video, to ask them a question. I would always hear her say something like: “Hi Randy! How are you today?” and I would say, “Mom! Do you know him?” and she would shake her head no. Then she would say, “Oh that’s great to hear, Randy. Hey listen, what time do you close today?” My brother and I used to make fun of her for that — for forcing this connection with someone she had no real relationship with beyond an exchange of services. Now, I plan to do exactly that, whenever and wherever I can.

Noah Galuten is a chef, James Beard Award-nominated cookbook author, and the co-host of Don’t Panic Pantry. Nhung Le is a Vietnamese freelance illustrator based in Brooklyn, NY.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/34Oc66Q https://ift.tt/34RJ8TD

It’s the people that make a place — but these days, human interaction is hard to come by

I had slowly but gradually heaped unreasonable expectations on a green chile cheeseburger.

I hope that I never find out what Waffle House tastes like while sober, eaten in broad daylight.

Noah Galuten is a chef, James Beard Award-nominated cookbook author, and the co-host of Don’t Panic Pantry. Nhung Le is a Vietnamese freelance illustrator based in Brooklyn, NY.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/34Oc66Q via Blogger https://ift.tt/314xEef

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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anastpaul · 7 years

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Saint of the Day – 4 August – St Jean-Baptiste Marie Vianney T.O.S.F. – The Curé of Ars (Parish Priest of Ars) – Priest and Tertiary – (8 May 1786 at Dardilly, Lyons, France – 4 August 1859 at Ars, France of natural causes) His body is interred in the basilica of Ars. He was Canonised on 31 May 1925 by Pope Pius XI. Patronages – confessors, priests (proclaimed on 23 April 1929 by Pope Pius XI), Personal Apostolic Administration of Saint John Mary Vianney, Dubuque, Iowa, archdiocese of, Kamloops, British Columbia, diocese of, Kansas City, Kansas, archdiocese of, Lafayette, Louisiana, diocese of, Saint Paul and Minneapolis, Minnesota, archdiocese of. St John Vianney’s body is incorrupt.

Vianney was born on 8 May 1786, in the French town of Dardilly, France (near Lyon) and was baptised the same day. His parents, Matthieu Vianney and his wife Marie (Belize), had six children, of whom John was the fourth. The Vianneys were devout Catholics, who helped the poor and gave hospitality to St Benedict Joseph Labre, the patron saint of tramps, who passed through Dardilly on his pilgrimage to Rome.

By 1790, the anticlerical Terror phase of the French Revolution forced many loyal priests to hide from the regime in order to carry out the sacraments in their parish. Even though to do so had been declared illegal, the Vianneys traveled to distant farms to attend Masses celebrated by priests on the run. Realising that such priests risked their lives day by day, Vianney began to look upon them as heroes. He received his First Communion catechism instructions in a private home by two nuns whose communities had been dissolved during the Revolution. He made his first communion at the age of 13 (normal in those times). During the Mass, the windows were covered so that the light of the candles could not be seen from the outside. His practice of the Faith continued in secret, especially during his preparation for confirmation.

The Catholic Church was re-established in France in 1802 by Napoleon Bonaparte, resulting in religious peace throughout the country, culminating in a Concordat. By this time, Vianney was concerned about his future vocation and longed for an education. He was 20 when his father allowed him to leave the farm to be taught at a “presbytery-school” in the neighboring village of Écully, conducted by the Abbé Balley. The school taught arithmetic, history, geography and Latin. Vianney struggled with school, especially with Latin, since his past education had been interrupted by the French Revolution. Only because of Vianney’s deepest desire to be a priest—and Balley’s patience—did he persevere.

Vianney’s studies were interrupted in 1809 when he was drafted into Napoleon’s armies. He would have been exempt, as an ecclesiastical student but Napoleon had withdrawn the exemption in certain dioceses because of his need for soldiers in his fight against Spain. Two days after he had to report at Lyons, he became ill and was hospitalised, during which time his draft left without him. Once released from the hospital, on 5 January, he was sent to Roanne for another draft. He went into a church to pray and fell behind the group. He met a young man who volunteered to guide him back to his group but instead led him deep into the mountains of Le Forez, to the village of Les Noes, where deserters had gathered. Vianney lived there for fourteen months, hidden in the byre attached to a farmhouse and under the care of Claudine Fayot, a widow with four children. He assumed the name Jerome Vincent and under that name, he opened a school for village children. Since the harsh weather isolated the town during the winter, the deserters were safe from gendarmes. However, after the snow melted, gendarmes came to the town constantly, searching for deserters. During these searches, Vianney hid inside stacks of fermenting hay in Fayot’s barn.

An imperial decree proclaimed in March 1810 granted amnesty to all deserters, which enabled Vianney to go back legally to Ecully, where he resumed his studies. He was tonsured in 1811 and in 1812 he went to the minor seminary at Verrières-en-Forez. In autumn of 1813, he was sent to the major seminary at Lyons. Considered too slow, he was returned to Abbe Balley. However, Balley persuaded the Vicar general that Vianney’s piety was great enough to compensate for his ignorance and the seminarian received minor orders and the subdiaconate on 2 July 1814, was ordained a deacon in June 1815 and was ordained priest on 12 August 1815 in the Couvent des Minimes de Grenoble. He said his first Mass the next day and was appointed the assistant to Balley in Écully.

Curé of Ars In 1818, shortly after the death of Balley, Jean-Marie Vianney was appointed parish priest of the parish of Ars, a town of 230 inhabitants. As parish priest, Vianney realised that the Revolution’s aftermath had resulted in religious ignorance and indifference, due to the devastation wrought on the Catholic Church in France. At the time, Sundays in rural areas were spent working in the fields, or dancing and drinking in taverns. Vianney spent time in the confessional and gave homilies against blasphemy and paganic dancing. If his parishioners did not give up this dancing, he refused them absolution. Abbe Balley had been Vianney’s greatest inspiration, since he was a priest who remained loyal to his faith, despite the Revolution. Vianney felt compelled to fulfill the duties of a curé, just as did Balley, even when it was illegal. With Catherine Lassagne and Benedicta Lardet, he established La Providence, a home for girls. Only a man of vision could have such trust that God would provide for the spiritual and material needs of all those who came to make La Providence their home.

Later years Vianney came to be known internationally and people from distant places began traveling to consult him as early as 1827. “By 1855, the number of pilgrims had reached 20,000 a year. During the last ten years of his life, he spent 16 to 18 hours a day in the confessional. Even the bishop forbade him to attend the annual retreats of the diocesan clergy because of the souls awaiting him yonder”. His work as a confessor is John Vianney’s most remarkable accomplishment. In the winter months he was to spend 11 to 12 hours daily reconciling people with God. In the summer months this time was increased to 16 hours. Unless a man was dedicated to his vision of a priestly vocation, he could not have endured this giving of self day after day.

Many people look forward to retirement and taking it easy, doing the things they always wanted to do but never had the time. But John Vianney had no thoughts of retirement. As his fame spread, more hours were consumed in serving God’s people. Even the few hours he would allow himself for sleep were disturbed frequently by the devil, who physically attacked and tormented St John and kept him from sleeping.

Vianney had a great devotion to St. Philomena. He regarded her as his guardian and erected a chapel and shrine in honor of the saint. During May 1843, Vianney fell so ill he thought that his life was coming to its end. Vianney attributed his cure to her intercession.

Vianney yearned for the contemplative life of a monk and four times ran away from Ars, the last time in 1853. St John Vianney read much and often the lives of the saints, and became so impressed by their holy lives that he wanted for himself and others to follow their wonderful examples. The ideal of holiness enchanted him. This was the theme which underlay his sermons. “We must practice mortification. For this is the path which all the Saints have followed,” he said from the pulpit. He placed himself in that great tradition which leads the way to holiness through personal sacrifice. “If we are not now saints, it is a great misfortune for us: therefore we must be so. As long as we have no love in our hearts, we shall never be Saints.” The Saint, to him, was not an exceptional man before whom we should marvel but a possibility which was open to all Catholics. Unmistakably did he declare in his sermons that “to be a Christian and to live in sin is a monstrous contradiction. A Christian must be holy.” With his Christian simplicity he had clearly thought much on these things and understood them by divine inspiration, while they are usually denied to the understanding of educated men. He was a champion of the poor as a Franciscan tertiary and was a recipient of the coveted French Legion of Honour.

On 4 August 1859, Vianney died at the age of 73. The bishop presided over his funeral with 300 priests and more than 6,000 people in attendance. Before he was buried, Vianney’s body was fitted with a wax mask.

On 3 October 1874 Pope Pius IX proclaimed him “venerable”; on 8 January 1905, Pope Pius X declared him Blessed and proposed him as a model to the parochial clergy. In 1925 John Mary Vianney was canonized by Pope Pius XI, who in 1929 made him patron saint of parish priests.

In 1959, to commemorate the centenary of John Vianney’s death, Pope John XXIII issued the encyclical letter Sacerdotii nostri primordia. St Pope John Paul II visited Ars in person in 1986 in connection with the anniversary of Vianney’s birth and referred to the great saint as a “rare example of a pastor acutely aware of his responsibilities … and a sign of courage for those who today experience the grace of being called to the priesthood.”

In honour of the 150th anniversary of Vianney’s death, Pope Benedict XVI declared a Year of the Priest, running from the Feast of the Sacred Heart 2009–2010. The Vatican Postal Service issued a set of stamps to commemorate the 150th Anniversary. With the following words on 16 June 2009, Benedict XVI officially marked the beginning of the year dedicated to priests, “…On the forthcoming Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, Friday 19 June 2009 – a day traditionally devoted to prayer for the sanctification of the clergy –, I have decided to inaugurate a ‘Year of the Priest’ in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the dies natalis of John Mary Vianney, the Patron Saint of parish priests worldwide…” In the Holy Father’s words the Curé d’Ars is “a true example of a pastor at the service of Christ’s flock.”

There are statues and stained glass windows of St John Vianney in many French churches and in Catholic churches throughout the world. Also, many parishes founded in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries are named after him. Some relics are kept in the Church of Notre-Dame de la Salette in Paris.

(via AnaStpaul – Breathing Catholic)

#stjohnvianney #august4stjohnvianney #catholic #caholicism

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gyrlversion · 5 years

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British OAP who saved villagers from Nazi death squad when she was 17

Sitting in her elegant apartment on Brighton seafront this week, Gabriella Skittar, now 91

She had just seen her father rounded up at gunpoint, along with all the other men in the village of Cappella di Scorze, near Venice. Like everyone else, Gabriella Skittar knew what was coming next.

The Germans had already massacred dozens of innocent civilians in nearby Bassano del Grappa — the standard reprisal for any show of armed resistance.

And now, the Italian partisans had just attacked a German column outside Cappella di Scorze.

Soon, all 38 menfolk would be lined up in front of a deep ditch, waiting for the German commanding officer to finish his lunch and give the order. Their only last, lingering hope was that their journey to the grave would be a swift one.

Except Gabriella had other ideas. Though just a teenager, she went to remonstrate with the Germans. Her years at school in Austria suddenly proved to be a godsend.

Astonished to be addressed in fluent German by an Italian girl, the German troops took her to see their officer, who listened to her protestations that the men were innocent.

Eventually, he took her to see them all lined up. Ordering Gabriella to translate into Italian, he told them: ‘This young lady tells me that you had nothing to do with the attack on us. I would like to believe that.’

At which point, an anti-tank gun appeared. ‘I want you to look at this gun,’ he said, before giving the command. It fired a round into a nearby cherry tree, blowing it to pieces.

‘If I find she has been lying to me,’ the officer shouted at his petrified audience, ‘she will be the first of you to die.’ Whereupon the troops began a systematic search of the prisoners.

Putting on a brave face, Gabriella stood her ground. But there was one fatal flaw in her story. For, as she very well knew, she was lying. Some of these men really were partisans.

If the Germans unearthed so much as an Italian armband, she and her father would go the same way as the cherry tree. The next half an hour would be the longest of her life . . .

Sitting in her elegant apartment on Brighton seafront this week, Gabriella, now 91, remembers it all as if it were yesterday. Yet this extraordinary tale of heroism and sheer good luck was to remain unknown for almost 75 years.

Now, despite having spent most of her life in Britain, Gabriella finds herself feted as an Italian national hero, with one of the highest honours her mother country can bestow.

And I am captivated as I listen to her inspirational story.

It is one that takes us from war-torn Venice and the execution of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, to the stage of Glyndebourne Opera House.

But it all centres on the morning of April 28, 1945, as Allied forces moved northwards through Italy.

Gabriella and her family were relative newcomers to Cappella di Scorze. Before the war, they had lived near Venice, where her father, Luigi Skittar, was a senior figure in the management of Italy’s railway network.

For four years, he was posted to Innsbruck in Austria, where Gabriella attended an international school, becoming fluent in German and learning English.

This extraordinary tale of heroism and sheer good luck was to remain unknown for almost 75 years (pictured in Venice just after the war)

Gabriella was informed that the Italian President wished to elevate her to the rank of Officer of the Order of the Star of Italy, one of the country’s highest accolades, with the letters ‘OSI’ after her name

In 1943, the family returned to Italy, but Luigi feared exposing his family to Allied bombing raids on industrial targets around Venice. So he moved his wife and children to the countryside.

At first, they lived in Mogliano, until that, too, was bombed and he found them digs with a farming family in Cappella di Scorze.

Luigi would never have ended up facing a firing squad but for the fact that April 28 was his birthday. He decided to leave the city to spend a couple of days with his wife, Laura, and children, Gabriella, then 17, and son Lucio, seven.

By chance, his arrival coincided with that of a retreating German column which had just stopped in the village.

‘This was my father’s birthday, and we had looked forward to celebrating it, but, at 10am, a young man arrived on a bicycle,’ says Gabriella.

‘He told everyone to get indoors and close their shutters, since the partisans were about to attack the Germans.

‘We all pleaded for restraint. The Germans had executed 31 men in Bassano del Grappa, so we had no doubt of the German appetite for revenge.

‘But the attack went ahead, and several German soldiers were wounded.’

Not long afterwards, two German soldiers broke into the farmhouse with machine guns.

‘They just grabbed my father and every male over 14 years old and took them to some nearby stables,’ says Gabriella. ‘My mother wouldn’t let go of me, but I said: “I’m going to see where they are putting Daddy,” and I ran up the road.’

There, fearlessly, she demanded an explanation from the troops.

‘Confused by my perfect German, the soldiers took me to their commanding officer, who was having lunch,’ she says.

‘He made me stand and wait while he finished his meal. He was very tired, with the look of a defeated man.

‘For nearly two hours, I pleaded with him, insisting that the men were innocent bystanders — simple farmers who had nothing to do with the attack, which had been carried out by partisans from outside the village.’

But the officer was not so easily convinced. ‘Why did the villagers all go inside and close their shutters before we were attacked?’ he wanted to know.

Quick as a flash, Gabriella replied that it was merely the custom among Italian country dwellers to shut one’s shutters after the morning clean, in order to keep out the sun.

‘You are just a girl,’ he told her. ‘How can you know what’s in men’s hearts and souls?’

Gabriella was adamant: ‘They are innocent, not partisans.’

Finally, the commanding officer left the room for a few minutes. Then he returned and ordered her to follow him outside, where she found all the men in front of the ditch with machine guns trained on them.

She managed a brief word with her father, who fumbled in his pocket and gave her his watch, along with a hastily scribbled note to her mother.

She remembers the ‘terrific noise’ of the anti-tank gun pulverising the cherry tree before the troops began their search. ‘It was very, very tense,’ recalls Gabriella.

‘They were looking for any signs of partisan membership. Luckily, while in the cowshed, those who did have tricolour armbands, or the like, had had the sense to hide them in the dung on the floor. No incriminating evidence was found.’

Finally, the officer issued the order for the machine gunners to stand down and warned the villagers that if there was any further attack on his men, then he would have no hesitation in massacring the lot of them.

Finally, he said: ‘You have this young lady to thank for your lives.’

Gabriella remembers that most of the men still had their eyes screwed shut, waiting for a bullet.

‘Then my father put his arm around me and said: “Let’s go back to Mama.” ’

The villagers remained indoors as night fell and, in the early hours, the Germans moved off. Not long after, there was the sound of another engine and a light outside.

‘We were all still in shock. But one of the sons of the house got very nervous and said: “Those fools will get us all bombed with that light on.” He went outside, only to discover a British officer and his sergeant asking if anyone knew where they might find some breakfast.

‘I can’t tell you how astonished we were to hear English. We were being liberated!’ she says.

The entire village was only too happy to serve up its meagre rations as dawn broke.

‘It was very funny. As news spread, the whole village came out to watch these men just eating their breakfast. People were getting out the wine they had been hiding from the Germans. It was wonderful.’

Hours later, the news came through that Mussolini had been found strung up at a Milanese petrol station. ‘We were not sorry,’ laughs Gabriella.

Within days, the war was over and the Skittars moved back to Venice. Gabriella got a job with the British military authorities in Venice, where she met a British officer, Captain Peter Ezra, who had fought his way across the desert and up through Italy.

Romance ensued and, in 1949, they married and began a new life in Sussex.

Peter, who had represented Cambridge University in both cricket and boxing, taught at Sussex University while also playing and coaching at Sussex County Cricket Club.

Gabriella became a linguistics expert at Glyndebourne, teaching generations of opera singers how to sing properly in Italian and German. They had two children, Diana, who is now an entrepreneur, and Mark, the feature film producer. Finally, around 20 years ago, during a holiday in Italy, Gabriella decided ‘on a whim’ to pay a visit to Cappella di Scorze. No sooner had she walked into the place with her daughter, than a cry went up: ‘It’s Gabriella!’

‘Work stopped for the day as the whole village threw me an impromptu feast,’ she says.

Some years later, Mark read about an Italian woman receiving an award for something similar and decided that his mother deserved recognition, too.

Just over a year ago, he wrote to the Italian Embassy in London. Many months later, Gabriella was informed that the Italian President wished to elevate her to the rank of Officer of the Order of the Star of Italy, one of the country’s highest accolades, with the letters ‘OSI’ after her name.

Hence her appearance as guest of honour at the Italian Embassy, lauded for her bravery and quick-thinking as a teenager.

‘I never expected a reward,’ she says. ‘I was simply happy to have saved all those lives.’

Endearingly astonished by all the interest in her story, she says she has one bit of unfinished business. ‘I want to send some money to the people we lived with. They didn’t have much. But they were such good, honest people.’

The post British OAP who saved villagers from Nazi death squad when she was 17 appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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backcountryquotes · 5 years

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Earl Howell Reed, The Dune Country, 1916

Page 9: While many interesting volumes could be filled by pencil and pen, this story of the dunes and the “back country” has been condensed as much as seems consistent with the portrayal of their essential characteristics.

Page 69: One morning we missed Billy, and we possibly have never seen him since. He may have answered “the call of the wild” and joined the black company that goes over into the back country in the morning and returns to the bluffs at night, or he may have fallen a victim to indiscriminating overconfidence in mankind — a misfortune that is not confined to crows.

Page 71: They probably flew over into the back country, where food was more abundant and where they were subjected to less observation.

Page 89: It was Sipes’s custom to take the old shotgun over into the marshes of the back country, and shoot ducks in the fall and spring. His ideas of killing ducks were worthy of the Stone Age, for it was meat that he sought, and not sport. He always “killed ‘em settin’,” and would “lay fer ‘em ‘till fifteen er twenty got in a bunch, an’ then let ‘em ‘ave both bar’ls.

Page 103: “Swanson an’ Burke took my gun an’ went over in the back country an’ shot some tame ducks an’ brought ‘em back to the shanty an’ wanted me to fix ‘em up to cook. When I was picking’ ‘em on the beach the owners come over. They’d heard the shots an’ they found some tracks an’ seen where they was some feathers. I told ‘em I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, but as I was settin’ there undressin’ the fowls they seemed to think I had, an’ I had a lot o’ trouble fixin’ things up.

Page 108: Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog, that came from somewhere over in the back country; and in the final analysis — in which the two animals participated — Pete was left in a badly mangled condition.

Page 112: “The real facts is ‘e lived over in the back country fer twenty years, an’ ‘e was chased into the hills by ‘is wife an’ mother-in-law fer good an’ sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope oncet about some girl ‘e was stock on some ‘res down south. It’s all right fer an old cuss like ‘I’m to set ‘round an’ talk, but ‘e was just ‘avin’ dizzy dreams, an’ you fergit ‘em. If ‘e’d only tell the truth, the way I always do, ‘e wouldn’t never have no trouble, an’ folks would ‘ave some respect fer ‘I’m, like they do fer me.”

Page 118: John knew most of the outcasts along the beach for many miles. He occasionally visited some of them, particularly Sipes, to obtain extra supplies of fish, with an old gray horse and a dilapidated buggy frame — both of which were also rheumatic. On the wheels back of the seat he had mounted a big covered box for the fish, which he peddled over into the back country. Some of the fish were very dead, and the whole box was replete with mystery and suspicion.

Page 130: We proceeded about half a mile along the shore, and took the road that led through the sand hills into the back country. When we got to the marshy strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for quite a distance, but the road became better when we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived on firm soil, Napoleon stopped. A fat man with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a mile away, and the horse probably surmised that his coming was in some way connected with a rest.

Page 134: We approached a weather-beaten house standing near the road. A middle-aged woman in a gingham dress and brown shawl stood near the face. The nondescript rig had been seen coming. Travelers on the road in the back country are so rare that a passing vehicle is an event; it is always observed, and its mission thoroughly understood, if possible. In no case during the day were we compelled to announce our arrival.

Page 195: Among the most interesting of the marsh dwellers is the muskrat. This active little animal is an ever-present element in the life of the sloughs, and he is the most industrious live thing in the back country. His numerous families thrive and increase, in spite of vigilant enemies that besiege them. The larger owls, the foxes, minks, and steel traps are their principal foes.

Page 197: The muskrats are great travelers, and roam over the meadows, through the ravines, up and down the creeks, and around on the sand hills, in search of food and adventure. They run along the lake shore at night, and their tracks are found all over the beach. Their well-beaten paths radiate in all directions from their homes. They are not entirely lovable, but the back country would be desolate indeed without them.

Page 201: A man of perhaps forty, but who looks to be fifty, rather tall and spare, with bent shoulders and shambling step, appears after a few minutes. His shaved upper lip and long chin whiskers strictly conform to the established customs of the back country.

Page 203: Time slumbers in the back country. The weekly paper is the only printed source of news from the outside, and, with the addition of a monthly farm magazine, with its woman’s department, constitutes the literature of the home. These periodicals are read by the light of the big kerosene lamp on the table in the middle of the room, and the facts and opinions found in them become gospel.

Page 212: The stock of merchandise was varied, but there was very little of any one kind, except plug tobacco. Over a case containing several large boxes of this necessity of life in the back country was a strip of cardboard, on which was inscribed, “Don’t use the nasty stuff.” Under a wall lamp was another placard, “This flue don’t smoke, neither should you.” Other examples of the proprietor’s wit were scattered along the edges of the shelves, and on the walls, and helped to impart an individual character to the place. Among them were, “Don’t be bashful. You can have anything you can pay for.” “This store is not run by a trust.” “No setting on the counter — this means you!” “Credit gives only on Sundies, when the store is closed.” “Don’t talk about the war — it makes me sick.”

Page 215: It was indeed strange destiny that took the sardine, flashing his bright sides in the blue Mediterranean, and left him immured on a musty shelf in a store in the back country. It he, with the contents of the cans around him, could return to life, there would be a motley company.

Page 225: When the time comes to “git home to supper,” the dilapidated vehicles begin to crawl out into the fading light and disappear. They carry the pessimists and the few necessaries which they have bought at the store — some molasses, sugar, tea and coffee, possibly a new shovel, some nails, and always a plentiful supply of plug tobacco, a great deal of which is filtered into the soil of the back country. Some eggs, butter, vegetables, and other produce of the little farm has been left in payment.

Page 229: The road leading from the lake, through the sand hills, and the low stretches of the back country, over to the sleepy village, is broken — and badly broken — by numerous sections of corduroy reinforcements, which have been laid in the marshy places, across small creeks and quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake is seldom traveled. Occasionally, during the hot weather, a wagonload of people will come over from the sleepy village, and from the little farms along the road, and go into the lake to get cool. They will then spend the rest of the day sweltering on the hot sand to get warm, and return at night.

Page 232: In talking with Sipes, one afternoon, about some of the roads in the back country, he suggested that we take a walk over to the Judge’s house and see him. “The Jedge has got a map that’s got all them things on it. The ol’ feller deals in law, an’ land, an’ fire insurance, an’ everythin’ else.”

Page 256: The Winding River begins miles away and steals down through the back country. It curves and runs through devious channels and makes wide detours, before it finally flows out through the sand hills into the great lake.

Page 260: A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the river’s course, and the clumsy old-fashioned wheel is slowly and noisily churning away under the side of the mill. The structure was once painted a dull red, but time has blended it into a warm neutral gray. Some comparatively recent repairs on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance, and add picturesque quality. A few small houses are scattered along the road leading to the mill, and the general store is visible among the trees farther back, for the little boat has now come to the sleepy village in the back country. There are no railroad trains or trolley cars to desecrate its repose, for these are far away. Several slowly moving figures appear on the road. There is an event of some kind down near the mill, and the well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the store have been deserted. Whatever is going on must be carefully inspected and considered at once.

Page 263: The story of the eventful day percolates from the store off into the back country, and weeks later we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills. He unfortunately “wasn’t to town” at the time.

Page 280: Occasionally an imperfect or unfinished arrow or spearhead appears among the refuse, which the patient artificer discarded. Many perfect specimens are found, but these are seldom discovered near the sites of the rude workshops. They are uncovered by the shifting sands in the “blow outs,” where the winds eddy on the sides of hills that may have held their secrets for centuries, and turned up out of the fertile soil in the back country, by the plowshares of a race that carried the bitter cup of affliction to the aborigine.

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oselatra · 5 years

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Little Rock's Dos Rocas gives a nod to Paraguay

Arkansas Times readers named it the "Best New" restaurant in Central Arkansas.

The two couples sat at the kitchen table and agreed they'd start small. One of those couples, Jack Sundell and Corri Bristow Sundell, had been through it before. In 2011, they opened The Root Cafe, the popular eatery whose claim to fame is a championing of local farmers, producers and vendors. They'd watched over time as it grew into its buzz with lines out the door of the small former dairy bar. After several years in business, the couple expanded The Root with converted shipping containers and added nighttime service. Now, they believed, with cautious optimism and a little bit of pride, the business had reached the stage when it could stand on its own and thrive.

So, it was time for a new project: When the beast of entrepreneurship bites once, it often bites again. For the other couple, Cesar Bordón and Adelia Kittrell, it would be a new experience, though Bordón had worked with Sundell for years in The Root's kitchen, cultivating a mutual respect and a friendship that brought the couples to this kitchen table, where they, both with children under 5 at home, added another child to the mix: Dos Rocas, the new beer and tacos joint at 1220 S. Main St.

The idea was simple. Sundell and Bordón liked grabbing a beer together. They wanted a place to hang out, and Bordón missed food from Paraguay, particularly the street food, the kind that would go perfectly with a Modelo or a margarita after their shifts at The Root. The concept they developed was sort of an indoor food truck that served flavors from Bordón's native country with a respect for the integrity of ingredients. It would be a spot with the cool, easy comfort of Midtown Billiards and the culinary quality of South on Main. Meaning it would be a perfect fit on the vibrant South Main strip that just keeps growing.

As dreams do, the plan grew into much more than an indoor food truck. Dos Rocas is a restaurant with a full bar, and from the moment the doors opened, the place has been packed.

Their journey here: Sundell's epiphany came during a college trip to Missoula, Mont., when he found himself a repeat visitor to a cafe. He realized that many of his best times when traveling were centered on some sort of restaurant; restaurant as gathering place, restaurant as microcosm of a city, restaurant as memory-maker. It was one of those moments when a seed was planted, a seed that ultimately changed the course of his life. Because of that light-bulb moment, Sundell ended up in the restaurant business.

Corri Bristow-Sundell grew up around her grandparents' homestead in East Texas, where they grew much of what went on the table between their huge garden and a variety of fruit and nut trees. She and her cousins would sell potatoes by the roadside. She eventually met Jack, not through OkCupid or Tinder, but through the Arkansas Sustainability Network, now known as the Arkansas Local Food Network.

Kittrell works for Heifer International and has a passion for nonprofits. She grew up in the Ozarks on the family dairy farm. The Peace Corps took her to Paraguay, where she met Bordón. At the time, Bordón was working as a tomato harvester at his sister's farm in the semi-rural town of Itá. His family also grew beans and mandioca (cassava); they had chickens and a milk cow. When the work was done, they would sip vino con coca in the shade of mango trees and chase that shade as it moved later into nightfall. Vino con coca is something of a miracle of place: While Paraguay cultivates yerba mate, a delicious caffeinated tea you can find in many grocery stores, it's not exactly known for its wine. This 50/50 mixture of red wine and Coca-Cola over ice was dreamt up to elevate an ingredient, to make something exceptional out of something that was not.

At Dos Rocas, it comes mixed with Mexican Coke and is garnished with lemon. Its uniqueness lies in this unlikely marriage of flavors. If you imagine it syrupy and overly sweet or highly acidic, you'd be wrong. Instead, it's why you'll want to go back, especially as the weather warms. It's something like a sangria but more savory, more refreshing. It tastes like that first sip of something cold after a day of working up a sweat in the backyard.

What Bordón brings to the table at Dos Rocas is what makes the restaurant unique: pastel de mandioca. Like an empanada or pupusa, this is a meat pie. The difference is in the dough. Instead of flour or corn masa cakes, it is made of yucca and is all the better for it. Yucca is gluten-free, but rich in starch, which could easily make for a very dense crust. Instead, the handhelds have a thin top and bottom crust holding a cooked-down concoction of ground beef, green peppers, onion, egg and plenty of cumin. Dos Rocas also offers vegan chorizo and cheese pasteles. If you aren't vegan, order them regardless; the cheese stretches like a good Havarti and the flavor remains incredible. Pickled onions are on the side; layer them between bites of your pastel for a punch of brightness. Bordón says this food is a tradition for him. His family would go to the market on Sundays and always grab one or two.

No matter your order, whether you delve into the nopales (cactus) salad with avocado and a vinaigrette made from a beautiful chimichurri sauce or if you build a plate from the seven varieties of tacos offered with a side of simmering red beans, the food at Dos Rocas is classic street fare done remarkably well. And don't miss dessert. Churros explode with cinnamon and sugar in every bite; the tres leches cake comes topped with delicious maraschino cherries made by Loblolly Creamery and is fit for a wedding.

Bordón and Sundell were thinking cerveza when they came up with the Dos Rocas idea, and the restaurant comes through with 15 taps devoted to a rotation of local beers and a 16th tap devoted to Modelo Especial. There is also an array of Mexican and craft canned beers and a good selection of wines, predominantly from Chile and Argentina. The full bar maintains an impressive list of spirits and includes several types of rum, tequila, mezcal (made from oven-cooked agave), sotol (made from Desert Spoon, a cousin to agave prepared similarly to mezcal) and raicilla (a fermented agave spirit). Different flights are available for each. If cocktails are more your speed, try a caipirinha, a Brazilian classic. There's no sour mix to be found. Only fresh juices are used for their margaritas and mojitos.

The name Dos Rocas translates as "two rocks" and is an homage to Bordón because his life bridges two distinct places, Itá, Paraguay (which means "rock" in the native Guarani) and Little Rock. Cesar is still attached to his birthplace, and he takes his wife and daughters to visit, to reconcile with that land, and so that they know their history more intimately; one of six children, he's the only member of his family that no longer lives there.

But that's only part of the story of this place. The name tells another story, one about the two rocks that made this place a reality: two families connected through work and the foods that sustain all of us. This is the story of how food brings us all together, to the same table, and helps break apart those ideas that divide us.

There's a circular graphic at the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. Printed inside it is the word "E'a." In Paraguay, it can mean a lot of things depending on the context and the inflection of the speaker. The intention at Dos Rocas is "wow," and that's just what the owners hope you'll say when you walk out the door.

Little Rock's Dos Rocas gives a nod to Paraguay

#Little Rock's Dos Rocas gives a nod to Paraguay

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miamibeerscene · 6 years

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Thanksgiving in a Glass: 7 Sage Beers You Should Try

Credit: CraftBeer.com

November 20, 2017

Many a craft brewery T-shirt is adorned with a quote about beer by a celebrated or historical figure that, alas, was never uttered by said celebrity. Benjamin Franklin said nothing about beer being proof that God loves us and Plato didn’t proclaim, “He was a wise man who invented beer.” But I am going on record as saying this: He or she was a sagacious (i.e shrewd) person who invented sage-infused beer.

Hops, assuredly, are a brewer’s preferred bittering agent and have been for the past 500 years, but foraged herbs have performed that function for over 1,000 years. In this modern era of rediscovering that beer is the ideal accompaniment to a great meal, more small and independent craft brewers are turning to their spice cabinet and herb gardens to conjure up culinary beers with savory palates to complement various dishes.

During this autumn season when we’re quick to reach for a delectable Märzen or serve a pumpkin beer at the Thanksgiving table (because who can wait for dessert to enjoy some pie), perhaps seek out one of these small handful of sage-infused beers to match the flavors in the turkey brine and/or stuffing. It’s a wonder how well this herb, itself with its distinct varieties, plays well with various beer styles.

(READ: Awesomely Affordable Gifts for Craft Beer Fans)

Triple White Sage | Craftsman Brewing | Pasadena, CA

The oldest American craft beer to utilize sage that I could find is Craftsman, where owner/brewer Mark Jilg has been foraging for native white sage in Pasadena’s nearby San Gabriel foothills since the late ’97 or ‘98. “If you spend time in that environment,” says Jilg, “particularly in late August into October it’s the predominant aromatic plant. Just before sunset. That was the inspiration.” Jilg decided an esthery Belgian tripel made sense to build this beer on. “I really like using ingredients that I pick off of the plant because there’s a certain inherent genuineness of going into the wild. We only pick a basketful, a few pounds, usually the day before we brew. We then use the sage-like an aromatic hop addition at the end of boil.” The end result, is a big 9 percent beer built on pale malts that play up the herb and the fermentation. Yet it’s comparatively dry and while it presents a fragrant bouquet, it still leaves nuance for pairing with the rich dishes you’re likely to find in a Thanksgiving spread. Pick up a growler as it’s draft-only.

White Fuzz | Hollister Brewing | Goleta, CA

Some hundred miles up the coast from Pasadena, Hollister brewer Eric Rose has used Craftsman’s beer as an inspiration for a few different beers incorporating farm-fresh white sage, which Rose feels is the perfect and most interesting variety for Belgian-style beers. Because there’s a farm that maintains a single acre of this native white sage and clips the tips as maintenance, Rose gets those oily clippings and uses them in this hazy, golden beer as fragrant as a walk through Santa Barbara’s Rattlesnake Canyon.

(VISIT: Find a U.S. Brewery)

Sagefight Imperial IPA | Deschutes Brewing | Bend, OR

For such a rare ingredient in beer, as expected you don’t find it in many Great American Beer Festival winning beers. But Deschutes from the high desert of Central Oregon has earned two medals—silver in 2013 and bronze in 2014—in the Indigenous Beer category. Imperial IPAs are practically indigenous to the Bend brewing scene, and this one is packed with both sage and juniper berries creating a perfumey mélange botanicals. For the IPA lovers who are more interested in hops over other herbal notes, this is the happy medium hiking through a field of sagebrush with your favorite hoppy beverage in hand.

Utah Sage Saison | Epic Brewing | Salt Lake City, UT

Credit: Epic Brewing

Utah Sage Saison from Epic Brewing, incidentally, is the other GABF-winning sage beer (bronze in the Herb and Spice Beer category in 2012). Brewed in, and exclusively for, Utah, this bready and rustic saison imparts the aroma of Simon and Garfunkel’s hit since it also features rosemary and thyme, and the herbal quality of this farmhouse-style beer makes it a winning combo with lighter or vegetarian fare at the table.

(READ: 10 Crave-Worthy Peanut Butter Beers)

White Downs | Brasserie Saint James | Reno, NV

This artistic saison from Brasserie Saint James transitions away from the above’s autumnal roots into winter squash. This Nevada brewery elected to use roasted butternut squash in the mash to flesh out the body and mouthfeel letting the white sage—harvested at nearby Great Basin Co-Op—become the workhorse as it’s added to the boil for maximum pungency. After more than a year in red wine barrels, where it develops its tartness though the fermentation-derived spice and funk remains, making it an exceptional complement to turkey or just about any fowl or fauna for that matter.

Sweet Potato and Sage Saison | Ardent Craft Ales | Richmond, VA

Sweet Potato and Sage Saison from Ardent Craft Ales includes fistfuls of sage from nearby Victory Farms as well as sweet and earthy tubers found in Thanksgiving’s renowned casserole. The sage does the heavy lifting of this lighter, dry beer custom-made (and available by the growler) for thirsty pilgrims in the first American colony.

Saison Savoureuse | Tahoe Mountain Brewing | Truckee, CA

From their Récolte Du Bois series, Tahoe Mountain’s Bretted farmhouse ale began not in response to the current sour trend but as eventual owner and brewer Aaron Bigelow’s homebrewed love letter to wife back in 1995. Said wife, more of a wine-drinker than a beer-lover, discovered an affinity for vinous, oaked, wild ales. This saison incorporates hand-rubbed Dalmatian sage that’s steeped into a concentrated tea (befitting the Bigelow surname) that’s then poured in after 16 months of aging in French oak red wine casks. The result is a tinge funky, a tinge tart, and wholly ideal for a family meal (Thanksgiving or Independence Day as it’s available year-round).

(LEARN: Explore 75+ Craft Beer Styles)

Colorado Wild Sage Brett Saison | Crooked Stave Artisanal Ales | Denver, CO

Credit: Crooked Stave

Also available year-round, and now in cans no less, is Crooked Stave‘s prodigiously food-friendly wild saison, with a bright, Brettanomyces-led tartness complemented with lemongrass, is herbal and earthy. The herbs are sourced throughout Colorado’s Rockies. While there’s a pleasing hint of lemon pepper in the finish making it one you wish you could brine the whole bird in, it’s the sage that carries the day.

Dreamland Sage | Black Project Spontaneous and Wild Ales | Denver, CO

One of the most difficult to come by beers on this list since it’s released biannually, Black Project‘s Dreamland Sage’s rarity is due to being coolship-inoculated and blended solera-style. That also makes it twice as rewarding. It begins as a golden sour ale aged in wine barrels. The sage, harvested from a community garden a few blocks away, is added by the fistful and dry-saged in the keg.

Ovila Abbey Saison with Sage | Sierra Nevada | Chico, CA

Twenty miles away from Chico’s famous Sierra Nevada brewery redolent with hops you’ll find the reticent monks of the Abbey of New Clairvaux. Brewed in the monastic old-world-style, this saison features malty notes befitting our daily bread as the foundation for a vibrant bouquet of native white sage grown on the abbey’s grounds. Wild grass and citrus peel notes seep through. While monks are recognized for their pious wisdom, the idea to pluck the monastery’s fresh herbs took real sagacity.

Brian YaegerAuthor Website

Brian Yaeger is the author of “Red, White, and Brew” and “Oregon Breweries.” In addition to writing for most magazines with “beer” or a beer reference in the title, he has created several beer festivals playing off local character such as the all coffee-beer and doughnut festival in Portland, Oregon, and one exclusively for wild cherry beers produced among the Mt. Hood’s cherry orchards. He earned a Master in Professional Writing (with a thesis on beer) from the University of Southern California. He once again lives in the coastal paradise along with his wife Half Pint, son IPYae, and dogs Dunkelweiß and Taz. Read more by this author

The post Thanksgiving in a Glass: 7 Sage Beers You Should Try appeared first on Miami Beer Scene.

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#Thanksgiving in a Glass: 7 Sage Beers You Should Try

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keidas0 · 7 years

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A small trip to Rasca in Romania

Matis family home

Its been quite awhile since I last visited the Matis family in Rasca so this May I took the chance to spend seven days with them.

Traian

Their home is also the guesthouse and is situated in the Apuseni mountains and has a number of small meadows surrounding it for the production of milk, some potatoes, some mixed wheat/barley grains, a little vegetable garden and some fruit trees.

Jenney

Cristina and Adela aka Romana and Gina

Traian and granddad (now passed away) taught me how to use the kosa (scythe) over fifteen years ago. Spent most of the first week ploughing the meadow much to their amusement, however I did eventually

Grandma Sabina

cotton on to the technique and even passed as a Romanian on several occasions. People would pass me by and enquire to this or that but I had no idea what they were saying, guess I must have been mowing rather than ploughing for who’d guess an Englishman would mow a meadow in Transylvania!

Special mention must go to the Jenny and the girls who cooked some wonderful Romanian dishes and supplied the working men (and

Pudding

tourists) with nourishment all day long, grandma Sabina is the most excellent baker I know and this was one of many of her jobs including feeding the homestead recycling system, the pigs and chickens. As in the old days in England, swill is made from the household waste food and heated up to sterilise it, nothing is ever wasted and even the chickens get the final scraps. Oh to have this system back home again.

Johan and Florine who help

The homesteads in the Apuseni mountains have tended to be small, about five hectares each but some are slightly larger, some smaller. The reason for this is because they have been traditionally farmed by the family unit, grandparents, parents and young adults/children and in most cases without horses, so all the work was untaken by human muscle power alone. This would have limited how much land any one family unit could actually manage. Interestingly when researching Wimpole’s past most family units up until the industrial revolution and after were about ten acres or a yard land which again is as about as much as any family homestead can manage without horses or the new fangled iron horses of today.

Mowing the hay meadow

Hired help is also an alternative although wages have to be paid and with Traian and Jenny’s daughters now working and living in Cluj, Traian and Jenny rely on Florine and Johan for the muscle power although Traian has now brought one of those iron horses.

I must mention Johan who at 75 jumps about like a spring chicken and has a wealth of knowledge and spends quite a bit of the winter cross country skiing something he has persuaded me to do with him this coming winter, no slacking here you know.

Abandoned

So after fifteen years away from Rasca it was very noticeable that changes were occurring, places where I once passed through and saw men hard at work mowing the meadows, women and children bringing out the food and drying the mown grass to make hay and hay ricks springing from the ground I saw none but abandoned homes.

Silver birch where meadows once bloomed

Mowed, dried and stacked but forgotten

Meadows were slowly losing their grip to the ever advancing forests and old ricks were withering away unused. All the humdrum of a small farm, dogs barking, cockerels crowing, chickens scratching around are long gone in these abandoned places. However in its stead the stealthy fox stalks this changing landscape, deer venturing forth and wild boar seemingly beginning to roamed more confidently. As one way of life style ebbed away so another comes forth.

A changing life style, how long will this last?

So what can the rural change in England over the last few hundred years predict? At the time of the industrial revolution in England in the 17th and 18th century things began to change, young people left the land sometimes because of changing climatic conditions but mostly to find better paid work in the blossoming cities and new industrial heartlands.

Only ghosts walk here now

This in itself made life harsh for those left behind, the parents and grandparents because the raw power from the young vibrant adults had gone. Without this power, land became harder to manage and more so as the older generations passed away. The only way forward was either to give up and find work elsewhere or find other sources of power. The power then was the horse but these were expensive and only those with money could afford to make the change.

Once a vibrant homestead now a place for cows to pasture

One major result of the demographic change was the abandonment of the homesteads resulting in a change to the English landscape, some benign some not. Those that could afford to finance alternative power could also purchase the abandoned land for a small price and thus engross their own land, five acres here five acres there. With more meadows and fewer people it bacome easier to graze livestock and turn the rich manmade biodiverse meadows into pastures or arable land. Time eroded memories until most never knew how some large farms managed to acquired such large tracts of land.

Wimpole Estate once a vibrant village

In fact Wimpole is an excellent example of land abandonment in the 17th century with the Chicheley family engrossing such land but also purchasing from those that wished to leave like Robert Finch who lost nearly all his family including his wife and second born child; Chicheley brought eight acres of free land and the right to common for a princely sum of£400, not a small amount in the 1640’s. Climate, pestilence, war and the industrial revolution all had a hand in shaping Wimpole during this period but it has resulted in a fine landscape full of wildlife. Some changes are benign and move slowly others change whole landscapes for the worse, in some cases in less than a decade, worse still the advent of inorganic fertilisers and chemicals have wreaked havoc upon the once beautiful English landscape. Whole farms are now just green deserts where not a sound can be heard except for the roar of the combustion engine. One can only hope that Romania manages to subdue the worst consequences of western global farming practices with imagination and forethought so that their childrens children can wonder through meadows full of flowers and sound.

Milk products

Waiting expectantly

Traditionally an Apuseni homestead in Transylvania would have a few milking cows (Traian has two) which are normally kept inside, there’s a good reason, if you have limited land you need hay for the winter, the longer the winter the more hay you need so Traian needs four ‘farcituri’ (a hay rick) and one very good one too, this should last until the new hay is made. I guess thats going to be about a ton, ton and a half for each rick and as he only has two cows now that’s about 15 ton of hay per year as a rough rule of thumb which means about 4/5 hectares of meadow.

Farcituri aka hay-rick

That’s a lot of work to make all this hay by hand and one can understand that when labour is short you have to find other ways to feed the cows, that usually means more fertiliser, chemicals and a tractor eventually and possibly aquiring land close by to out pasture them during the summer but not to far away.

Hay and fresh-cut grass

Carrot supplements

Interestingly when Traian feeds the cows he adds fresh grass to the hay which in fact stretches the hay out and adds more taste and moisture to the hay making it more palatable for the cows. Another advantage of adding fresh grass is the fact you don’t have to turn it into hay thus saving labour, a real advantage when you actually make it by hand. I am reliable informed that in Sussex England this was also the norm and it was called ‘sweetmeat’.

Milking

Another important note to mention as some people may think keeping cows inside is unkind is that when you graze a grassland/pasture it becomes heavily infected with intestinal worm eggs which in turn reinfect the grazing animal and until recently there wasn’t an effective way to treat chronic worm infestations. Once cows have a heavy worm burden milk yields are drastically cut and when you depend on the milk to live that is not a small consideration. Feeding cows inside keeps the grassland/meadow free of intestinal worm eggs.

Milking

Every day, twice a day the cows have to be milked, each one producing about 20/25 litres a day. All of this is also done by hand, my effort in helping to milk the cows was soon curtailed as I was ushered out with kind words of you “you should go and explore the valley” to be truthful I was pretty slow!!!!! it’s not so easy actually.

Milk

One asked as to the value of the milk as some was sold, however quite a bit was used for home consumption, cheese, milk and butter, the wey being fed to the pigs and what was left was sold at the global market price of a princely sum of 25c/litre. Bearing in mind that for six weeks the cows go dry until they have another calf, one can work out the maximum value of the two cows to the homestead. Depending on the amount milked per day the income would amount to approximately €3000-€4000 per annum. Not a lot and without other income you can now see why small farm homesteads are becoming abandoned in the Romanian countryside in favour of much better paid jobs in the city.

The dung door

The work doesn’t stop there either, the dung has to be mucked out and later spread on the meadows to provide fertility for next year grass. Some will also be spread on the land earmarked for potatoes and of course the vegetable patch.

The barn door to the cow shed

The recycling bin

Then there are the pigs, these need feeding. Swill, potatoes and of course a ration of fresh grass.

Heating the swill

When fat they will be slaughtered and nothing but the squeak will be wasted, my favourite part of a pig now is the smoked fat with some fresh peppers. Funny how the western world now shuns fat because of its link to heart disease, odd thing is I see a lot of very fit older people and they eat a lot the fat, drink palinka (another favourite plum brandy of mine) but work hard.

The guard dog

The chickens

Others who benefit from those that don’t clean the plate and are actually very glad is the guard dog who remains anonymous ( I called him ‘dog’) and the chickens whose job it is is to lay eggs for the table and fine ones they lay too. Lovely deep yellow yolks because they have an abundant supply of nutritious insects to feast on. When mowing they dart hither and tither snatching the escaping crickets and grasshoppers.

One man went to mow a meadow (note the word MOW)

Mowing the hay meadow

Farcituri aka hay rick

Of potatoes

The new cash crop

One very obvious change I also noted was the increased cultivation of potatoes. A change in land use now that tractors have become more widely available. For the small farm homestead this provides the new power and a new source of cash. Inevitably there will be an increase in potato production as more land becomes available for those that can afford to buy the land that others no longer want.

Even potatoes

Some of the smaller potatoes that can’t be sold are used by the families but some are also fed to the pigs and cattle although they do need cooking, “waste not want not” is my motto. Of course with more potato production comes the disease potato blight which needs agrichemicals to keep it at bay but also various other herbicides. Unfortunately both chemicals and the containers are sometimes unwisely used and discarded a problem in a developing modern agricultural system and one the west still needs to address itself.

Chemcals

Plastic

Unfortunately the same applies to plastic bottles, discarded as the recycling systems aren’t in place. This will come as a young developing country learns to deal with it. Even now England still can’t cope with the increasing use of plastic.

However there are still many traditional meadows adorning the Apuseni mountains and long may it last. One can only hope that the agricultural changes are more benign and plans are put in place to make global farming more friendly. The gallery below are some of the flowers seen in the Matis family’s meadows surrounding their house.

Any one wishing to visit Rasca which I thoroughly recommend can contact them through Romana +40743567782 or email

A gallery of some of the views in and around Rasca

Of potatoes

Romanian traditional rural life ebbing away Its been quite awhile since I last visited the Matis family in Rasca so this May I took the chance to spend seven days with them.

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