View allAll Photos Tagged ,Retching
Bebe is not a morning dog. Wake her up in the morning and this is the grumpy response you get. Those constipated, retching sounds are her attempts at working her way up to barking. It comes out sounding like a puking cat. She's not good for much until she's had breakfast and a walk.
It's rare that I get the opportunity to wake her up. It's usually the other way around.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
inspired by natalie kucken
straight out of camera
WELL I'M GLAD WE DIDN'T EAT THIS
The eating of limited quantities of poke, perhaps of the shoots, may cause retching or vomiting after two hours or more. These signs may be followed by dyspnea, perspiration, spasms, severe purging, prostration, tremors, watery diarrhea and vomiting (sometimes bloody) and, sometimes, convulsions. In severe poisonings, symptoms are weakness, excessive yawning, slowed breathing, fast heartbeat, dizziness, and possibly seizures, coma and death.
I don't remember the exact circumstances for my college friend and fellow college engineering magazine staffer to pretend to retch into a waste basket, but here it is. I think it was to accompany one of his regular articles in the 49er Engineer Magazine, the column he entitled Ad Nauseam.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
We were told of the history of the Arcade before walking to the indoor market and then down the wide street past the Theatre Royal.
In the market is the site of the first ever Marks and Spencer store, or market stall, which is still going, selling end of line items.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
It all started with a knot in my stomach this morning. Not from drinking too much last night while watching Appalachian State win the national championship in 1AA football again. Of course, that along with other factors like staying up to late certainly did not help. No, this knot came from a deeper dread. Today I had to do it.
I procrastinate as long as I can. I shower, eat, read the paper, walk the dog, throw things at the cat and finally get ready to go. The drive is short. As I weave through the turns trying to avoid potholes and dead deer carcasses, the rock in my stomach gets bigger and starts to shift around. I contemplate pulling over so I can throw up, but force myself to think happy thoughts about my kids. It calms me enough to keep moving forward.
Upon parking, I take a deep breath and begin to walk. Soon, there he is. His long scraggly beard and paints that are too short seem fitting. He is at least 100 years old The light blue vest sends chills down my spine. I try to avoid eye contact, but he does it anyway. The bastard smiles and says with a retched New York accent, ‘Welcome to Walmart’. Dear God, I am in the bowels of Hell!
I walk fast skipping on the buggy. Trying to navigate one of those would only slow me down and prolong this dreadful experience. I go straight for the bikes and am happy to see row after row of them. Great I thought. I may be able to get in and out without injury to some poor old person who is unfortunate enough to bump into me with a buggy. Then I noticed, all the bikes were for boys. I’m hearing music from horror movies in my head. I began to panic and headed for the door. As I pass the 347 cash registers in the front, I see one long line. Only one damn register is running the Saturday before Christmas. What was I thinking? Why had I come to this shrine of everything unholy? I felt used and manipulated by the corporate world.
Upon leaving, my nerves were shattered. My hands were shaking. After going through about 12 extreme yoga poses in the parking lot to calm my nerves, the police kindly told me to leave. I drove over to Dick’s sporting goods where I was not greeted. It was so nice. They had two perfect bicycles. One for a boy, one for a girl. I ran them over to Santa’s storage depot and now have one more thing scratched off my list.
It’s been a rough day already.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
We were told of the history of the Arcade before walking to the indoor market and then down the wide street past the Theatre Royal.
In the market is the site of the first ever Marks and Spencer store, or market stall, which is still going, selling end of line items.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
Day 232 (3/17) After our late night we had something of a lie-in but once up we enjoyed another mega-breakfast. Today was mildly cloudy for first time though still feeling very warm and humid. Son whinging about wanting to go swimming but the stuff was all packed (he had said he didn't want to) so they all went paddling just to shut him up (which is why he does it of course). Loaded the car over two trips and moved it into a disabled space just so we had some room to do so (and so we could get it out of the car park!). Then got checked out and paid for car park. Very gingerly got the car out of the car park then carefully climbed up the tight spiral ramp to the final exit barrier. Put the ticket in and still had to call for help as it wouldn't let me out (underground French car parks seem to have a thing against me). Tried to follow satnav but the road we wanted seemed to be not accessible (like an on ramp at the big roundabout which was all fenced off as if they hadn't quite finished it). So we went for miles into northern Barcelona before finally getting onto road to France (frustrating as we were driving parallel to the road we wanted for miles and Jane thought we were on it so her instructions made no sense at all!). Hot-hot-hot at services a few miles out of Barcelona for loo stop. As we were leaving I had a near miss as some nutter whizzed past my offside doing 3 times my speed which got my heart going if nothing else. We enjoyed some pretty crummy sarnies at that service station so hoping we get something better tonight. The toll roads were nice and free flowing with little queues so we made good progress. Son jabbered away about wildfires as we approached the border as miles around had obviously recently burned (if all at once this was a major event!). Then into France through a massive Border-station that looked pretty deserted; the wildfire damage ended here, obviously the fire didn't have its passport. We missed the satnav instruction and ended up on the not recommended route into town so (remember I've not done much driving in this car!) ended up in the town centre on very narrow roads with lots of cars and pedestrians and tight corners. Up a steep hill we found the place but Wife went ape at my suggestion if driving into their private courtyard (to be fair it was steep) so parked in a reserved space at the top and quickly unloaded. I then took the car round again and cheekily parked on slip road just a minutes' walk away. In the flat itself I was worried I lost my small camera bag but fortunately I found bag tucked into a corner of the boot. I wasn't panicking really. We walk to town which really doesn't take long and the tourist info told us where to buy groceries. Found the shop which was quite good for something so small. We bought food and trogged back up the road to the flat. Then we realised we had failed to buy pasta so Son and i went back to the shop and got more food. I decided to time our walk back and discovered I had set the timer on the iPod running some 17 weeks ago and it was still going, which Son found hilarious. It took us just under 10 minutes to get back and we took a different route, two minutes of which was climbing billions of stairs at the end, which of course Son did easily. Wife didn't enjoy the cooking as the pans were too small and electric rings means everything kept boiling over which meant the washing up wasn't great either (though the meal itself was pretty good and the children ate a tomato sauce without retching or death so we can do this at home too!). So as is normal on our first day the kids were late to bed. A little alarming that as the sun went down it looked a bit cloudy in the hills...
Today's photo reflects that mostly we were not sightseeing today, and the fact I didn't take my camera into town because I just wanted to travel light until we had gotten our bearings (and groceries!). This is the view from the balcony, you can just see the sea half-way up the left edge. The big sea-fort is in the centre right. This is one of many forts in Collioure (would you believe we never went in any of them?).
Old, crappy car I painted for a friends brother who is participating in the Mongol Rally.
There the car will be auctioned and the money will be given to the local people.
For Gustave, almost ran face first into this big gal.... Somewhere in the depths of all my photos which ended up scattered all over every storage app and cloud I have is a front view of this beauty...once I manage to find it...
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
We were told of the history of the Arcade before walking to the indoor market and then down the wide street past the Theatre Royal.
In the market is the site of the first ever Marks and Spencer store, or market stall, which is still going, selling end of line items.
David's Mark was a town with a secret. Not one of those way back when secrets the whole town was involved in a present day affair. Smuggling drugs: cocaine in wheels of cheese, stinky cheese. Some cheese went to the market but some went to the mafia. The whole town was on the payroll.
Some are born with a calling others a purpose. This one little girl was born with a goddess well a personified being of humankind's belief in too much is too much and somethings gotta give. Not a blindfolded warrior in a toga but a little girl with an extremely accurate albeit dangerous moral compass. David's Mark got a visit.
She walked into to town and started preaching... not about change, but about doom, not you'll reap what you sow, or living and dying by the sword, more like you're going to die horribly. At first they all tried to look stupid as if they didn't know they were poisoners, but Abagail was able to get her point across. Her words carried the pending doom casually like a clutch. Chocking on your own puke she said in her child's voice.
She left on her bike. Rode through the town till she reached the fountain, then she dabbed her throat with the spring water like a perfume. It sounded like cawing crows: the retching, tearing sound could be heard for miles and in less than 10 minutes everyone was dead in David's mark.
The Universe Hates Me
The last few weeks, as you all know the universe hates me, and has just stuck the boot in again today for good measure.
Unwelcome house guests
For at least 10 days I have suspected a new house mate ,...a mouse or possibly more than 1. They are attracted by Fanta's bird seed, which is normal. It is important to have your bird cages, perches etc as clean as possible which I do, however from time to time you will get a wee rodent issue.
I have had traps and baits out now for the best part of a week and the little buggars wont even touch them. Sometimes I feel i have no floor, just traps like a bad cartoon, that I find my self tip toeing through...ok its not THAT bad, but you get the picture.
A rude awakening and 2 a.m. nekkid chase
I heard something at 2 a.m. this morning when I was asleep in bed. I turned on the light, got up and buggar me, there was a mouse in Fantas bed cage (he sleeps next to me). I have NO idea how it got through those narrow bars ffs! Anyway a mad starkers mouse chase ensued at 2am, with me throwing myself at it several times, one of which resulted in my sliding under the be! The mouse was the victor.
Dry Retch Material
At 6.30 a.m. this morning I came into my study and almost passed out from the smell. Dead mouse. Nothing else like it. Had to get my 80 yo neighbour in. Said I would pay him any amount of money he wanted if he would find and remove it for me.
What I DON'T do
I have swum with great white sharks, in and out of cages. I have worked in the crocodile infested rivers of Far North Queensland, literally up to my armpits in cyclone flooded rivers. Snakes, sharks, spiders, lizars, any form of rodent or creepy crawly I am fine with (except cockroaches. I DON'T do cockroaches EVER), OR heights, however, bad smells will bring me to my knees.
I have a highly acute sense of smell. I can smell milk or food going off in a fridge at least 24h before anyone else. I can smell a gas leak where no one else can , but equipment will validate me. Trust me I have a good nose.
So an hour later after destroying the study, no mouse dammit. I came home to work from home for the day after a morning at work, and had to find the smell first. Luckily I had the presence of mind to leave windows etc open so its wasn't totally retch worthy.
...and where did I get this picture from then?
So, to the point of the picture up there. I asked my dear neighbour to see if he could find the mouse carcass up there for me. Would have gone myself, but the insulation is that shitty sprayed in stuff and my cough is bad enough as it is.
Of course, never one to lose an opportunity, I shoved my head up through the hole to take a few shots for posterity, oh and todays challenge picture of course. I had a torch in my mouth (that bright circle at the bottom) as for that other green light thing? pfft no idea...suspect torch light is reflecting on lens or something.
Out takes
www.flickr.com/photos/fishgirl7/3520843849
www.flickr.com/photos/fishgirl7/3520840541
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
normally i'm not one to criticise the press (...), but this story (the text above is a direct quotation) just popped into a newsfeed i come across every day and made me retch. dear media: this is not news. it is a press release. until you learn to tell the difference between those two creatures, which are as alike as whales and microscopic theoretical crystalline alien colonies, you may not publish anything further.
to add more misery to the situation, i saw it upon refreshing the page i'd been reading, and this bullshit had replaced a story about a career politician caught breaking the law. the original picture, when i saved it, was titled 'stop the presses'. indeed.
he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut. he was sitting at his desk when he heard shrieks coming from his co-workers. they'd just learned that bieber had changed his trademark haircut.
repeating these lines shows them to be a hypersexualised yet genital-less sūtra composed by an angry, fearful and ultimately insane god. it is absolutely of minimal syllabary, unambiguous, pithy, comprehensive, continuous, and without flaw: who knows the sūtra knows it to be thus.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
*** Chapter 5 - παραμένω ***
There is no ferryman. Over the infamous River Styx, four carriers cross with neither toll nor care. It is, in no uncertain terms, a trespass, and Diana of Themyscira is well aware that Charon's disappearance is not a blessing in disguise to the expedition. If there is any grace for her only two friends in this place, Diana knows, it will need to be salvaged.
The princess sinks to one knee, and whispers to the magic water babbling beneath them all. An unsettled Baroness von Gunther demands she be restored to her feet. Her men practically march over Barbara——resolving to go around Epimetheus——and aim their weaponry at Diana's skull to motivate her; she stands, in her own time. She nervously wrings one of her bracers, and spots Barbara's discerning gaze: Indicative of the professor's forte having helped her, in part, to work out Diana's action.
"… It is the way of my kin, to take oaths on the body of Styx. To consecrate our resolution to the eldest of beings, and some believe, to better one's fortune in their trials."
Epimetheus' nods quicken. "That's right. Perhaps, I too might..?"
Diana holds up her hands tightly, to allay him. "No. I have tried the baroness' patience enough as it is. And in truth… it is a superstition more than anything."
"Really. That's the superstition," Barbara comments, eyeballing their present state of affairs. Her derision dries up in no time, in the face of the inescapably staggering kingdom they have fallen into.
"Would you look at this place?" she inhales.
Every facet of the domain, from the alarmingly base aspect of its watchtower, to its air, should shun a prudent being, but Hades flouts these worldly principles. It beckons, like the sirens in many a chronicled voyage, and it holds Barbara and the rest in cold arms. For a time. The railing under Barbara's elbows begins to sting, from an updraft coming off of the second river they have chosen to weather. The Pyriphlegethon arches its back, spewing magma in a near miss on the skiff's belly. If only to keep their minds off of the heat——as she may well have excused herself, if pressed——Barbara takes this moment to know her companions' thoughts.
"Diana?"
Before now, the Amazon has not heard the woman's voice without defenses in place.
"If any of us even live through this, who is this apple going to? How can we know ‘the fairest’ must be a woman?"
"I cannot believe that Eris could bring herself to devise a challenge suggesting otherwise," Diana grimly advises. "Even for her to delight in our preconceptions."
Epimetheus sits down, grabbing his legs. A few grunts later, an inspired look washes over him.
"The Golden Maidens. Of Hephaestus' forge? I have heard they are, flawless."
"Which one?" Barbara logically follows up with.
"Physical beauty led to ruin once already," Diana breaks it to him, tolerantly.
Epimetheus shrinks. "I—"
"Should've thought of that," Barbara intonates. "You'll get the next one, big man."
Crossing her arms, Diana elects to clue Barbara in. "Epimetheus making the choice is mandatory. He is Eris' champion."
"… I'm not laughing," Barbara warns.
"Everyone must be considered," Diana gives her cousin counsel, "immortal or not. Remember there are many faces of attraction, qualities that make one 'fair.'"
"It could be any one of the goddesses of justice," Barbara despairs. "How can there possibly be one answer?"
Diana steps aside, for Barbara alone to hear her. "I've long thought the puzzle a paradox. Would the one chosen, worthy to judge, not be ‘the fairest’ themselves?"
Barbara glances over the princess' shoulder. "Oh surely not."
"Marilyn Monroe," Epimetheus puts forth, to Barbara's pique.
"Physical beau—"
"She is a philanthropist," he frowns.
No sooner has the trio washed their hands of the conundrum, for now, than one mercenary shouts for the party to listen with him. The third river approaches. The thrumming, which is imminently to act as a dirge, is heard by all.
Reason has it that the contaminant over the water is too evocative to be fog; instead of being dispersed by the transports, it takes to them magnetically, scaling their hulls and worming over their rails. The ghostly residue sings a dreadful tune, like an ever-present chamber fraught with plague, just low enough and with such discontinuity that Barbara and the rest cannot hope to put it out of mind. Diana exchanges looks with Von Gunther, affirming her earlier directions, and with that, their trajectory slopes ever closer to the Cocytus' slick banks.
The hollow moan of the river is not what the adventurers have primarily been tracking, as they come to find. Further inland towards the dwelling of Hades, from across the flattest tract they have yet encountered, the most pervasive chorus of wails drifts to their sore ears. Cyber, whose augmented senses stand to be ravaged by this environment, roughly takes the controls from their pilot and propels the caravan into a maddening flight over the plains. The wild sobs, of course, only worsen. Her head set to burst from input, Cyber doubles over the throttle in a stupor, cranking it almost to its breaking point. When from out of the dark, a tall, bent shape whooshes past the port side and overhead, nearly decapitating the men on the bow, Von Gunther barks for Cyber to be removed. No one volunteers, until Diana bolts to the deranged woman, wrapping hands around her enemy's and throwing back the lever about to doom the transport. The line of skiffs lurches to a halt.
Cyber regains her bearings, instinctively fighting Diana's control, but neither one has the fortitude for this dance. They keep one another in a lock, finding their breath while slowly deescalating. Diana looks away, ahead of them; Cyber continues staring at the ship's savior, until the cacophony catches back up with her. It forces her to stoop in full surrender, and without pretense or posture, without thinking much at all, decently, Diana takes her shoulder.
Von Gunther and most others have white-knuckle holds any part of the sled convenient to them. Same as her guards, Barbara had dropped to the deck at the close call. She twists her head to see Epimetheus stood straight, looking prepared for incoming danger and, notably, not as if some had recently grazed his hair.
"You might've been… oh never mind," Barbara relents, dusting herself off.
Epimetheus, bewildered by this concern, pats her arm, doubling the bewilderment aboard. He trots off to where he last saw Diana.
The Amazon warrior has lighted on Hades' land officially, leaping the last meters from their lead transport. Aberrantly, at this depth in the planet, the ground here is a rich loam, though this has not helped the scant trees——yews, quite dead——dotting the shallow, bluish hills. The particularly large trunk that would have caused a wreck, now behind them, is something of a marker for this "orchard".
It seems the crying cannot feasibly be any nearer, echoing between the decomposed wood, but still, no source betrays itself. Diana preemptively motions for silence from the others, and not a moment before Von Gunther makes her rival's jump, moving to reestablish dominance over their course. The heroine cares not; she looks back to Barbara and Epimetheus, eyes wide at the beacon which the skiffs are making for. The Red Panzer takes a hint.
"Mach diese Lichter aus," his order seeps harshly from his lips.
With haste, the headlamps down the string of transports clunk off, prompting winces from all except the resident Titan. The crying is unwavering, which could somehow be taken as a relief.
Diana's eyes make a cursory sweep of the land, then another. She detects a scattering of the dried-out saplings defined by cloven trunks at their bases, and every one of them, bearing a mere two branches. Furthermore, when one of these putative trees spasms, and clambers deeper into the gnarled grove, Diana's heart skips. A terrible fixation returns to her psyche: An old tale, from days when her mother would put her to bed, and when it was fact that the evening was the only time in which there could exist monsters.
"Hera," Diana blasphemes, in shock. "Not… Maenads."
"You see them…" Von Gunther flinches, experiencing a sighting for herself. Her spear is tucked in at her hip. Some crew members point out and gasp at another receding, gangling blur.
From the bow, Cyber chokes "What are they," with precious little spirit left, ready to collapse all over again.
"The muses of Dionysus," Barbara murmurs, with Diana picking up the rest.
"Mad, from indulgences in life. In death, in the Fields of Mourning, they will have lost more than their sanity. Here, they are not flesh, or souls. Impressions. Of annihilation."
…
"We go no further with these carriers. They will see that we are invaders."
Von Gunther is taken aback at this conclusion. "You think we will leave behind our best fortifications t—"
"Your fortifications are nothing here," Diana's voice roils. "I have told you time and again, we did not come here as we should have. We earned no shield from the shades of death. I assure you, they can harm us. And the maenads… they wish to."
The skiffs touch down, allowing to disembark: Cyber, limping to the lead; Barbara, who trips the last step off the telescopic gangway, with Panzer ever her escort; and Epimetheus, who has two dozen soldiers overtly keeping him between themselves and the heart of the dead forest. Their parade approaching, Diana finds it all too easy to picture eyes going grey, skin paling and sinking into bone. All of them, wandering to their ends. Unless.
"If I walk, they will think me one more lost soul…"
"You're not going alone," Epimetheus and Von Gunther shoot her down, as one. This offends them both.
"With each person allowed in its presence, you feed them to the apple's suggestions. We would destroy ourselves before we remembered what we were fighting over. I swear, I will bring you back the apple."
Diana knows appealing to her friends will gain her no ground with the baroness. "… Let your men stay."
"We will take whomsoever we wish. Panzer!"
Her lieutenant calls for half the men to secure their landing, and the other, to form a wide semicircle behind Diana's guidance. Panzer takes this time as they form up to boast at the princess, Barbara in hand.
"You will feel better, keeping an eye on her yourself, I think. … Safer, this way, yes? Doctor?" he corroborates with his shield. Barbara's eyes tell Diana everything on the woman's mind: The terror, the anger, and the uncanny readiness binding them.
Diana catches Cyber still walking, apart from any of her purported allies. She balks the masked woman with a hand into her shoulder; be it defensively or trustingly, Cyber mirrors the action. They again pause like this. Diana looks at the clenched fist on her, at the infinitesimal smile of courage Epimetheus has, and all the hateful and fearful men around them.
“… We must not let them realize we are of the living. … Do not answer them. Do not be afraid.”
Onwards into the ambiguous den, the band trickles. Panzer's formation disintegrates in seconds. No step taken is remiss. Every tree is intensely studied, though this care is soon made unnecessary: Diana stalks the maenads' coarser vocalizations in as straight a path possible, and instead of the ambush on everyone's minds, their first proper encounter with Hades' inhabitants is a gradual and horrible exhibition.
They are sallow. Their only coverage is mange-riddled hair and tattered pelts, rusty in color, hooked around their gaunt silhouettes. Some, in small rabbles——and others lost all to themselves——simulate a raucous soirée by throwing their bodies to phantom tones, only to come to standstills, perhaps trying to remember. Some tussle and strangle one another in the loose soil. In the spindly branches, still more of them laze and stretch. They all cry, unbearably.
Diana and her shaky company play through, and largely, the maenads ignore them in their hectic fashion. In the way of their weapons and attentions, the men selected by Von Gunther represent commendable restraint, but not to perfection: Aimlessly, one maenad scuttles from out the dry brush and into the shin of a soldier just to Diana's right, and the Amazon stays his sidearm before it can be pointed.
The maenad blenches and unduly staggers back and forth from the collision, but the amber eyes behind its tangled mane lock onto the soldier, Diana, and Cyber beside her, one at a time. It asks them each,
“Have you drink?”
It asks, with the glistening white smile of every maenad, tortured into their lips for centuries. Diana moves forward with the other two, like they are children, who would otherwise have kept gawking. Epimetheus and his cousin are the only ones to comprehend the maenad's words, spoken in too archaic a form of Greek for Barbara. Out of habit, the professor might have asked for Epimetheus to translate, but she has in mind Diana's last words; instead of comprehending, Barbara does what she can to not be afraid.
Panzer has been rapt ever since the denizens of the orchard appeared. Stably he treads, hardly containing his intoxication by the suspense. The maenads' pleas to the unknowing men come and go as a tide, when the next huddle of ragged semblances catches on to their "sisters'" newest fascination. Darting past and between legs, then skulking, slinking in their dolor, they ask.
"Have you drink?"
They cry.
"Have you drink?"
Busied with enforcing abstinence from any upheavals, Diana is caught unaware by the nauseous hike taking them almost to the fourth river, the Lethe, whose waters are as calm as silk being pulled. The trees here open into something of a small, dried-up atoll, maenads sprinkled about its rim… and down the deceiving grade: A nest of detritus, five feet high and across, cradling what they all sought.
Diana had not given thought to how the apple might appear; accurate to Eris' forecast, it is deteriorating. Of regular proportions, it bares abnormal dappling from what could——in a less abnormal place——be called oxidation. This tinges its gold with unappealing umber, but set within the suffocating blue tint of the maenads' place of unrest, it emanates a color still so lurid as to effectively sting the eyes. On its skin, the treacherous scrawl survives: "to the most fair"
It has dawned on Barbara that like most every abominable attraction in Hades, the Golden Apple has a voice all its own. But this voice is pitiable, in need. Yes, like a lost child. Telling the woman that only she would do for its protector.
"We have to… get it back to England. We need it studied, in my… I need it."
Diana knows better than to contradict her, now. If Barbara is still making excuses to have it, then she has not succumbed to it. The princess can hear it; Von Gunther and Cyber will have too, by now, as Eris of Discourse so invidiously contrived. A timer is running, more certainly than ever. Even so, Diana impedes Epimetheus from stepping right over the ledge to the fell treasure.
From the cusp of the cavity, the women and men evaluate an extraction. The maenads' patrolling is ubiquitous, but without intent. They flail about the articulated corners of the mound on which the apple is perched, which owes its composition to entwined bodies: Hands invading ribcages, jaws around throats, all mashed into a pedestal under their own power, or whatever power they had in their afterlife. These were truly the maenads, their souls. Epimetheus' inquisitive face darkens.
"Zeus must have thought the apple would offer them rest, and so vindicate Eris' wiles," Diana relates. She turns for a moment from the graphic jigsaw. "… Even their spirits perished."
She feels Cyber tugging away from her. Diana actually unhands the woman, but walks backward with her to negotiate.
"There is no need for us all to risk a trap. Take everyone back to the ships. You have my word that I will give to you the apple."
Cyber doggedly refuses. "Out of my way."
In the blink of an eye that Diana idles to tell Epimetheus not to leave Barbara's side, Panzer has offloaded Barbara onto his nearest man, breezed around the heroine, and rammed his robotic arm into Cyber's hip. There is a strum of energy felt in all their chests, and with it, Cyber pitches forward, to be stabilized by her saboteur. Patches of her sentient armor drip away.
Diana's vengeance is alone deferred by the guns that have Barbara covered. Von Gunther notes, with an incredulous eye, the Amazon's hampered response. "Spare us. Cyber would never shame your end with remorse."
"She isn't breathing as she should," Epimetheus says, redundantly, but genuinely.
"Low-bred," the baroness derogates Cyber with, passing her up. "Presumptuous. As if you were here for any reason but your weapons and your rage."
The doomed villainess has no vision. She cannot appreciate her ears' long-awaited freedom from the maenads' crying, for the enduring organic portions of her now being smothered in their cast prison. She can wriggle, like larvae, and that is all. The wispy, green light in Panzer's forearm winks out.
"Centralized, conductivity-neutralizing radiation. We call it the 'Anti-Elektrisch'," he triumphs, lowly, at her collar.
He eases Diana's lasso off his former accomplice's belt, and once delivering a pithy "Auf wiedersehen," with his enhanced strength he hauls her from the armpit, sending the paralyzed Cyber in a furious arc to the Lethe's passive body: A game, to him, although the splash has the utility of distracting a few maenads from the circle. Their overthrow assured, Von Gunther and her enforcer begin the final stretch to their ultimate desire, with Panzer theoretically awarding the apple.
Barbara, whether from the apple carving away her discretion, or from her legitimate revulsion, is having none of it.
“Illiterates,” she mocks their backs. “Neither one of you has asked yourself if Troy was always the outcome in mind. If you take that apple back to the world—”
For Barbara still to not be entertaining “the fairest”, even for herself, Diana is sure the professor has retained her wits. There is a hope to buy time with them. Her eyes swivel onto Panzer, to the Lethe, to Panzer again.
The indent in the earth carries Von Gunther's voice well, as she does not raise it or turn for the Englishwoman's nettling. “It is very simple equation, why the apple led to devastation all that time ago, little girl. It was crafted too early for me to accept it.”
"Barmy…" Barbara's diagnosis dies on the vine.
Von Gunther is five strides from the apple's altar. “I will have favor with the gods. A seat at the council that can sculpt this planet’s population with a mere thought. The divine adoration of those reprieved, and worthy to behold me. In a fair world.”
"Kill me, before I have to see it."
"Hmm… 'after.' In higher society," Von Gunther schools Barbara, "there will be demand for laborers. And bloodsport."
Panzer's unseating of the Golden Apple is perfunctory, immature. Once possessed, though, he shudders with servile gravity at it. For him, his helmet's likeness is lost in the trinket's dim reflection. It is the baroness he sees, premier, surpassing all else.
"Through the will of Odin, meine Herrscherin, I give to you—"
"Minerva is wrong," Diana rebuts: First, projecting down to the villains, then carefully taking the incline to the apple herself. The soldiers' resolve to keep Diana and her friends in line survives as little more than show. Weapons are on standby, but none of Von Gunther's men feel they have an enemy in the Amazon, not with the peripheral song and dance of the maenads, and the face of Hades' house leaning in.
"There is one who may accept the apple, who will not bring about disaster. I was shown what will follow, should you claim it, Baroness. Yours will be an ephemeral reign."
"You were shown," mimics Von Gunther, not at all listening. The apple whimpers. It needs her.
"Eris forewarned you would beat us to it," Diana declares, moderating her persistence so as not to be transparent, "and so you have. I tell you now, in your faction's subjugation of the Earth, you do not live to lord over it. The apple trades hands over and over, sowing the desolation of all you love and hate, indiscriminately."
Diana leaves them space——only a second or two——to deliberate, before she imposes completely on their ritual.
"If you cannot believe my words," she indicates her plundered lasso on Panzer's person, "see my mind. The truth."
"I've no use for your gods' omens," Von Gunther shelters herself. With the curl of the baroness' mouth, one pulse in her temple, Diana knows she has struck it. The lurking insecurity.
"But," comes the rationalization, "to glimpse our finest hours, and how I might thwart this, untimely end… I accept."
The woman sanctions Panzer to move in on Diana, who turns her back to signal concordance, with her arms behind, to be bound. Panzer privately smiles behind his mask of Death, insignificantly swapping the apple to his left hand to utilize the lasso with his stronger, favored right. Diana's thoughts are not of the surface degradation. They are entirely of Barbara and Epimetheus, both of whom watch their ally doubtingly, blind to the princess' ends, to her fear for them should she fail.
Timed with Panzer taking her arm, and not before, Diana gives what she suspects to be her penultimate words to her cousin, and to the daring woman she has only begun to know. They are the same words she last gave them: Not comforting, as before, but commanding.
"Do not be afraid."
The lasso slips around her hands. As it has forever operated, not with magic and not with guile can any one or thing in its bind cheat their nature; their truth is revealed for all to see. Diana's truth is that she has seen no explicit, future catastrophe to share with Von Gunther. The truth is that she is very much afraid herself.
The truth is, Diana is alive.
The foxes' crying stops.
Everyone stops.
It all unfolds in a flash. At her back, Diana ripples the lasso with just her wrists; her proficiency manipulates the middle of the rope to funnel as with a mind of its own into a slipknot around the apple in Panzer's left, human hand. As downplayed as her first movement, she flicks a shoulder forward. The apple slingshots from a stupefied Panzer's fingers, by her ear and, without arcing, into Epimetheus' chest. The item bounces disappointingly onto the compost of Hades' playing field, back over the lip of the crater. Epimetheus flops down in a panic, and axes his arm over the apple to pin it before it can again find Panzer.
The Titan laughs, once, at his debatable foresight, but remembering himself, he and Barbara as well catch on to what Diana means to happen.
One maenad hanging off its claimed tree bristles with new ardor, having arrived at a conclusion about this positively glowing figure sharing its home.
"Driiink"
The champion of the Amazons performs an athletic spring and backbend over Panzer, unworried that she remains leashed to him as she lands and thunders up the ridge: Not to regroup, but further on still than the rest of their party, off to the Lethe. She wails like a great wind to her friends. "BACK TO THE SHIPS!"
Then the eruption.
Every maenad catapults ravenously after their departing sustenance, whooping and salivating as they go. Barbara narrowly avoids being bowled over by two of them in the pandemonium of Von Gunther's men likewise hopping about in the stampede. It is only for Diana's distraction, masking the scent of fear that hangs sickly-sweet over them, that they all survive. Von Gunther and Panzer are beet-red, agape, torn between the apple's retrieval, punishment for Diana, and the thirsting horde streaming down the dish they find themselves served in.
A maenad, clever enough to head Diana off from its fortuitous starting position, flings from the crest above Diana to behead her with one stroke by its cursed claws. Cutting it so close that she sees the tears dried in dirty striping on the predator's taut face, Diana limbos and pummels it in the gut. It spirals over her, spraying soil when it impacts the downhill. It never stops. Disoriented, livid, it keeps on its careless warpath. To Panzer.
Nigh-exceeding his rein on Diana, he grudgingly gives her up to convert the arm into a cannon and opens fire, ranging on the maenad unwisely late. It bucks its head into his hipbone, and pairing with the series of blasts he releases under their feet, they are carried——like a skipping-stone over a lake——back up the pitch he had traversed to be here. With jets of earth in tow they violently carousel by Epimetheus, chipping the ridge which he has not yet vacated. Barbara is pulling on his baldric to encourage his legs to take him someplace else. She strives not to fixate on the gold peeking through the bend of his arm.
"Come on!"
"TAKE MY APPLE," Von Gunther retches with unbridled malice at her pawns, eyes aflame, "FROM HIS DEAD HANDS!"
But none in Hades now answer her. The flame in her eyes is snuffed by the oncoming charge. Erroneously, she takes up her polearm and wartime handgun, and twenty maenads immediately peel off for the easier meal.
Summiting the pit, lasso at long last held, Diana catches sight. She swings her wrapped arm up. "No Paula! They see only me! DON'—"
Von Gunther is swarmed by the maenads, their throng tightening like a noose. The spear of the valkyries is bitten in half, through her knuckles. They wrangle her neck; hips and shoulders are dislocated by the beggars' cluster. Then, the last maenad to join in forces an entire arm into their warm cask.
The baroness is thrown down in a fountain of viscera. Slice after psychotic slice rends muscles into grisly confetti, raining over the centuries-parched serfs of Dionysus. When the meat is picked over, they inhale the soaked earth itself, and clean the spatter off each other, not sated but refreshed; aroused, even. In all of four seconds, the baptismal episode crescendos, and stops with the efficiency of clockwork. There is more drink, and no longer could it ever be concealed from the maenads' ignited perceptions. Their pinprick eyes peruse the options above. Glistening white smiles have turned a runny red. It could be said that the maenads were alive again. Alive, and raving mad.
Diana has not lingered, knowing that observance or guilt over the drawback is pointless now. The pack which had never faltered in its pursuit matches her own dead sprint for the Lethe. Barbara and Epimetheus take inspiration, in the opposite direction, ahead of most but not all of the soldiers.
Barbara does not censure Diana's detour, though compelled. Every molecule of air in the woman's body and the others' is issued to the run, and only the run. When the maenads' blaring gekkering fires up their spines and rattles in their jaws, this purges any fledgling stratagems that the individuals of the rout have naively shaping in their minds. Their flight turns primitive in nature, brought back to cave dwellers fleeing disembodied teeth in the night.
Frantically scanning for their skiffs, Barbara is instead treated to, on either side, a flurry of ashen limbs blending with those of the trees. To no one's surprise, the maenads are gaining. Barbara's heels tear up the ground. The irregular drumming extending all through her body makes each footfall seem inferior to the one before, like the one that won't be enough. Just then, Epimetheus——not lagging in the slightest, arms working like train pistons——obscures the demonic tide for her.
"They'll get me first," he decides for the two of them. He does not look at her. He scarcely has a smile contained, and she scarcely understands.
To their left, a soldier fissures under the weight of one maenad dropping out of its arboreal hideaway. Barbara somehow makes her legs pump faster, while the creatures' rote carnage occupies Epimetheus to such a degree that his companion has to alert him of an obstacle.
"Tree!"
Barbara has a shock when the giant of a man counterintuitively rounds it nearer to an inbound maenad. Taking the professor's word a much different way than intended, Epimetheus rocks too far forward on his step past the tree which is only just taller than him, but hooks his free hand upwards on its trunk to equalize. For the Titan, the husk uproots as cleanly as a pen from a well. He brings it overhead, almost in the maenad's arms, and swats the monster into the spongy soil, underneath his jump. The extempore weapon is rendered smithereens; Epimetheus, while keeping pace, brushes away the shavings, the Golden Apple acting as his broom.
"… Worked," is all the breath Barbara can spare for his feat.
"Yes," he chirps.
~~
Diana takes her last possible moment to circumvent a tackle. She twists out of the way to let a maenad scream by, and as it swings around, she kicks its chin upside-down. It is downed for three seconds, shaking crazily before taking off into the riot again.
Three minutes, Cyber has been under.
Another twenty seconds to get her out, if she has not drifted. Four minutes, at a stretch, to have her on a transport.
For resuscitation, no math could be done.
Diana needs the maenads to catch up a little more.
~~
Barbara almost misses the next soldier taken in the rush, for how quickly it is over. A maenad boosts him by the seat of his pants, striking him twice mid-air, and he lands in two wrenched halves. Only one other hunter stops to fight for the scraps; the rest rather like their odds of a body all to themselves.
Another soldier thinks he can get off a shot, but he snags a strap on his bandolier. His boot doesn't clear the other. His consequent seconds are filled with his squeals for help, with a maenad backing him into a snapped-off trunk. It impales him over it, but slowly, as an infant would be laid in a crib. Barbara zooms by it. What she had sworn to Diana was no empty motto. Not one tear.
~~
Through Diana's parries, her group of maenads has been evened, and now they race neck-and-neck for the first taste.
Eight paces from the Lethe, her blood on fire, Diana brings her arms out from her sides.
~~
The men who were left minding the airships have reactivated their floodlights, to witness the encroaching nightmare. Their comrades and the maenads are equally blinded, but no one stalls. The men on the ground yell for assistance, with Barbara even joining them, and then the first shot punches the dirt between them and the skiffs. And another. It is unclear if they were poor attempts on the frightful, bloodied shapes further back, or if it mattered at all to those who fired. The men on the ground yell louder. A few unadvisable shots are returned to the skiff's grille, and with them, a new line is drawn.
Epimetheus points at the ships. They are rotating left, as one.
"Oh no they do not," Barbara snarls.
~~
Diana hurls herself headfirst at the Lethe's textureless surface, and whets one silver bracer off the other. Reverberating mightily enough for a steeple, a fan of sparks wraps around the focused typhoon the Amazon has produced, and the Lethe, almost voluntarily, parts twenty meters in either direction. Diana falls, and the maenads flow in, a second behind her.
Cynthia Cyber's mutilated body——caked in silt, at the very bottom of the temporary passageway——rocks minimally away from the gale of Diana's making, too heavy to be pried up by the awesome force. But not by Diana herself.
The riverbed is so soft that, in a squat, Diana is embedded all the way to her shoulders, on which she has counted. This situates her to scoop Cyber up on her neck. With next to nothing solid beneath her to work against, Diana achieves a push-off that could compact diamonds, which is only just enough to send the two in a reversed vault, surfing over and against the downpour of maenads.
Vile breath and claws tag the heroine's back, and she, with her dead weight cargo, is slowed. Diana screams, hefting Cyber out of reach. She defies the cuts, the very air obstructing her, to rise. The Lethe is returning to engulf them all.
The fifth river is not destined to be crossed this day, yet in the Acheron's darkest trench, the knell of Diana's resilience is heard. Someone there slumbering, dreaming ever-new miseries for the world high above, slumbers no more.
~~
Dodging under the hail of laser-fire, Barbara cannot believe she and Epimetheus seem to maintain their distance from the retreating convoy, before becoming aware of a separate feud aboard: The command ship that Barbara and the other abductees had come here in is presently bringing up the rear of its autopilot's own heading, as all four transports retrace their exact slide into the Underworld. The deserters had all piled into the command ship, in error, as close to the danger as they could be, and now, all those not unloading their guns' dark energy on the ground are grappling over the console. Half of them try to disengage the predetermined route to foolishly find their own, faster way out of this living hell. The rest are having second thoughts and wanting to delay for their stragglers down below, and for once, Barbara has a reason to wish some of them their lives a while longer.
The unlikely pair is practically out of the orchard, running a half-minute behind their only chance for deliverance, when Barbara and Epimetheus' paths are forced to diverge. A tree before them explodes from a blast at their backs, credited to a maenad sideswiping one fatigued soldier's Cyber-cannon. Barbara's heart sinks when one, then two of the creatures fully outdistance her. She nearly stops altogether, to accept what must follow, but none of the feral specters double back. They spring to dig their fingers into the steel of the command ship's underside, and begin to creep up and around, ducking away from the men at the rails, biding their time to let the greatest feast of all commence.
It is worse, Barbara realizes, to see them like this——processing, patient——than at their most manic. She and the current survivors on foot are being saved for later. This in mind, and their lead on the maenads lost forever, they decide it will be now, or never, that they push back.
The handful of ground troops pepper the maenads' numbers with their firearms, and the mystic weapons prove effective, to a point; the pallid beasts drop off like insects, crisped and smoldering as an occult virus grips their bony forms, though they right themselves in a matter of seconds after hitting dirt. At the back of the chase, and a problem once again, they are but a fraction slower than earlier.
Pressured into defense, some maenads still hanging on give up the skiff, and an unexpectedly coordinated maneuver of their own rains down to thresh four soldiers instantly. Barbara is spritzed by the blender of crimson, whipping her head away to see Epimetheus with one of their otherworldly enemies in a chokehold, and two wrists in one hand, to hinder it from taking his face off.
With its victorious howl, the first maenad to swing itself onto the deck clears the two parties waring over the master control panel, leaving the ships at a less-than-ideal but workable speed to overtake, and board. There will not be another chance to make it, before their train passes the Cocytus, and transcends Hades for all time. Thus, what once was "full-tilt" for Barbara is brutally redefined, where her bones may as well be blades within her muscles. She hastens all the way ahead of the besieged command ship, and when she can no longer, she launches herself onto one of the gravitational pontoons of the transport third-in-line.
The Englishwoman looks up, into the barrel of a gun. Another soldier has had the same idea to abandon the rear skiff, and is not liable to share his sanctuary. He spits some obscenity to her, where she can do nothing except cling like a rat. He goes to take his shot; he takes another, straight through his eye, from one of the last men still up and running. Barbara screams shortly, in perplexed relief. Her savior is young just like the Panzer was, charging with a limp, and for his terror, his actions cannot be read into. Had he killed his brother-in-arms with the conscience to save another, or only for his own prospects, the indeterminate gesture will remain so in Barbara's mind, to her dying day, when a maenad blitzes him to bits. Barbara gets climbing.
She gropes up the rungs running around the hull to the transom, so far as to have an arm over the topmost bar at the time that the maenad, slithering around the command ship's bow above her, sniffs her out. The thing shuffles about on the outside of the vehicle, nose down, and tenses its haunches to take Barbara: Mortal woman, facing the undeath of its amber eyes, is petrified as only she can be. Right as it is clutching its way between the skiffs, with claws aloft, a booming voice sounds out:
"Dr. Minerva!"
Epimetheus lopes desperately for the impending scene. With all his might he casts his maenad into the aft command ship, curling it around the fuselage as if it were a damp towel. Underfoot, he fetches a far-flung spike from a shattered tree, which still burns at one end with Cyber's arcane fire.
"Tree!" he recommends.
His toss spins up to Barbara. Her only opportunity being to capture it underhand, the professor takes her end of the torch back into herself, and by a hair's width she fends off the embrace of her abhorrent hunter. Like oil, the maenad's chest sizzles against Barbara's deterrent, and before it plummets from the gunwale in a fetal bundle it shreds the sleeve off of her secured arm. First, skeptical of even taking in air, the woman shivers along with her prevailing light, but then between the torch's flickering, she sees. She sees, and her own fire is rejuvenated.
She observes in wonderment: Diana of Themyscira, Cynthia Cyber over her back, pounding closer, faster than Barbara could ever dream. Epimetheus gives a cheer——prematurely, he fears——as his cousin accelerates to the maenads both hounding him and walling her off, but the pack has not the time to formulate a takedown of this new quarry presenting itself. Pulling up next to them, Diana contorts over her shoulder at one's lunge to bat it off her and into a backspin; the Amazon whirls back to her feet without missing her stride.
Mesmerized, Barbara is not braced for an increase in altitude, almost biting her tongue in the shift. She catches herself on the railing and recalls their journey here: When they had made this descent before. Layered under the gunfire and mayhem of the command ship, the dread melody of the Cocytus again infects her ears.
"Diana! Epimetheus, the river!"
The third ship is already passing over the crevice, spurring Diana on to swoop under Epimetheus' arm and hurry him along; he untucks the apple in his care, to her elation. Her yell galvanizes them both.
"Do not let go of me!"
The princess draws the disabled arm of Cyber over her front like a javelin and points around at the final two maenads scraping at their heels. Fingertips latched under the manual triggers for the inventor's wrist-mounted missiles, Diana skips the three of them a foot off the ground, then ejects the full arsenal.
They ride a radiant shockwave far over the Cocytus' murky, wanting hands, and without need of her lasso to surmount the distance, Diana and company conserve momentum in such excess that their armored legs bust through a low wall on the stern, face-planting them to general safety. Barbara takes and then comes out of unpunctual cover, amazed but unsure if this is a time to celebrate. As fast as Barbara can scurry to look them over, Diana is upright and whisking Cyber to the skiff's wheelhouse. She lays the comatose woman down, setting to digging a hand through the control console's housing, easily as with paper. Barbara watches while offering Epimetheus an unneeded hand, which he takes anyway; it is for their escape he is stifling a giggle.
"What are you doing?" Barbara pants to Diana.
"Pardon me," says Epimetheus.
Diana's lasso soars from her hand again and cinches, strung onward to the skiff which is second from the lead.
"Her organs are machine," she worries over the body. "Siphoning this ship's power into her, I might make her to breathe again. I have seen her heal similarly. … But you must both take the next ship, before I try. She may need this one, all."
Barbara's aggravation is not duly expressed in an off-color remark before Epimetheus keeps her moving for their glowing lifeline. When they stop a moment to estimate the dismaying gap they have still to brave, and as Diana prepares the cables, the list of the transport diverts all their eyes to a figure far below, which skims beyond the Cocytus, though she is not slowing at the barrier. Even over the expanse, they can discern her as feminine.
Knotted joints end with large hands folded like bats' wings, and a dusty aura of dead skin hangs as a foul halo. The matted hair spun thoroughly around an elongated skull spares them her face. After everything, the heroes nonetheless stare, unbelieving, at a view nothing short of a curse in and of itself. Her hands uncouple from the cocoon and reach. Diana now also sees that she has used the river and penned two maenads in a frenzy, as well as one last soldier, chased so fair afield that he lost his chance at the ships long ago.
This exile of Hades, awoken from the Acheron, consumes them without hesitation. Her dress' chthonic train kisses their heads, and from the inside out spreads a mist clouding their eyes, to drag them into dreary acedia. They fold and fall, colorless even by the maenads' measure: Refuse, never to think or to move again.
"Relative of yours," Barbara shakily associates for Epimetheus, shimmying the lasso without being told. The Titan takes her lead.
"I've never had the displeasure."
"We know her only too well," Diana scowls. "She is sorrow, as old as Chaos itself. Perhaps older."
Weaving, robes cracking like whips, the devil Achlys takes flight after the ships extricating the souls she so covets. How she does cry. She humbles the maenads on the command vessel, coercing them to cringe and spit at her sight. Their flock endeavors to leave their depleted cornucopia, in exchange for the third skiff, but Diana——once convinced that her friends are at the point of no return to take the second——jams her cables against a discreet terminal in the ribbing of what armor Cyber has left.
The body starved for air jolts, and water flushes from the mask's vents, while the ship beneath the women convulses at the vampiric conduit. As all its lights dim, Cyber is swept up again by Diana and launched to their next safe haven. The third transport gives out before the maenads make contact, sending the last of the shadowy facsimiles tumbling with the sapped hull back to their purgatory, to cry, to hunger through a hundred more eras.
Barbara spills onto the second vehicle's transom, tracking Diana's landing further ahead: A sight more sure-footed than her last. The professor's exhausted arms then lug her back to the edge to check on Epimetheus' progress. He has more than enough strength but not the coordination for the activity, twirling right and left because he fails to use his legs to the fullest. Not helping the predicament is the apple, taking up one hand. Epimetheus spies his companion, and thrusts up the artifact, still eight feet short.
"Take it, for if I fall!"
Barbara is stunned, as though shot. At his words the world for her contracts around the Golden Apple, highlighted in splendorous warmth on its own plane of existence. That devout whisper, again insisting that it belong to the woman. And why should it not?
"You're… you give it, to me?"
Epimetheus ceases his struggle up the rope, retracting the apple an inch. The future does, this once, vividly paint a warning in his mind, for mingled in Barbara's aspect is another's. Fair. Innocent as she was dangerous, not knowing what she seeks, and seeking all the same. Even Epimetheus can think twice, to look upon Pandora, reincarnate.
"I—"
Barbara's hypnosis is intruded upon, when her leg nudges something that crunches.
~~
Diana yearns to break away to her cousin, to secure both him and the apple. The rescued body at her feet detains her from that wiser course.
~~
The something is a maenad's carcass, scorched and deformed. Much of its body appears caved in with scads of dints the right size and shape for knuckles. Now Barbara wakes.
~~
Diana waits, palm gingerly placed over the copper chin of Cyber; after endless seconds lapse, she feels life. The princess snaps back to the scene on the stern and is on her way, before Barbara's holler.
"DIANA! HE'S NOT—"
"Nicht so schnell!"
The Red Panzer trucks into Diana's lower back, with her shield in his bionic grasp. His blindside crams her into the cabinets under the seating at the ship's rails, and at once, he turns from her bruised heap, zeroing in on Barbara. Claw and shield flip aside on his prosthetic to make way for the cannon within. Barbara dives. The shot reshapes the stern down to the rudder; immense heat bends the rail tethering Epimetheus out and up, dangling the large man like bait on a fishing rod. He slips one arm's length back, to the pursuing Achlys.
Barbara turns over at Panzer's weighty footsteps, and is startled to make out that in the ferocious clash with his maenad, the soldier's only human arm must have been ripped from his body: Its dearth poorly cauterized, presumably by his own weapon. She finds him just about laughable, to picture him limbless, terrified, retreating all the way back to this ship for the ill-gotten hoard he had there. For a shield, of all things.
"You coward," the woman coughs.
Wordless as the Reaper, and gentle, Panzer holds the shield down on Barbara's chest. One boot powers into her wrist. The other kicks her in the ear, hard. Epimetheus, looking on as he must, tosses and yells, close to the end of his gold thread.
Diana is back in action to shunt Panzer with a bracer, saving her cousin from the offhanded attempt the villain makes to blast the moving target. Ducking out of a headlock, Panzer repels the Amazon volleying punches for his stomach. They dance and pirouette, Diana leading, skirting the melty edge of the transom. Her attacks, all glancing off the broad shield in a fireworks display, knock the mortal man to a knee, and Diana seizes the opening. She forks a hand under her poached shield and constricts the nerveless appendage's carapace. It stays impressively intact. Panzer keeps pushing and kicks at her leg, with no leverage, and to no effect.
Epimetheus takes one hand over the other, and clings. Barbara is up on an arm, then down again, leaking black from her ear. Trying to veil her worry, Diana threatens the aspiring assassin in a voice deeper than Hades. "You may still bleed out. Yield."
Panzer slumps enough to satisfy her, to then fire the grappling cord behind his hand. The shield hammers her nose and resets their match. Panzer waits for no retaliation; he takes her hip into his shoulder——and his shield, a tray——full-force, pivoting on his inside foot to shot-put Diana through the wheelhouse and bridge. She belts him once in the top of the helmet before she goes, her body trashing circuitry and subsequently frying for a nanosecond on the bed of newly-shaped blades, which bite into her preexisting lacerations. Dazed and with no counterweight for his move, her opponent sprawls too, a wreck.
Their right, rear gravitational generator dies. At the ship being jostled by the electrical upset, Barbara chases away the dark from her vision yet again. Panzer somehow stands, the picture of a weather-beaten shack, watching Diana sway semi-conscious in the toothy floorboards: Her run, and slashes suffered, having taken their toll. Head swimming, Barbara's only functioning ear transmits Panzer's haggard phrase.
"Those… were my oldest friends you killed," it grinds like metal. He lets go the shield.
Epimetheus is still two meters from the rail.
The hatch from whence Diana's shield had been acquired, concave on its hinge, takes some more turbulence and frees the remainder of Panzer's stowed trophies. Out skitters the Amazon sword, some jewelry whose owner cannot miss it, a partial raptor's wing riding atop… and one profound oddity, staring at Barbara without eyes: The head of Dr. Andonis Bal.
Realizing what it is expends the same time it does for Barbara to realize she is not stone. Her faculties sharpen on her anger, and to a crouch she rises with the temperature; beneath, the volcanic Pyriphlegethon roars at their departure. Panzer is too consumed to feel anything outside of himself.
Through the warped visor of his helmet, one, wild eye is visible. It does not soften, but rather slides, into a supremely unfeeling laser, affixed to the fallen sword. The Red Panzer recoups his regimental posture; he gathers his bleeding pride, contemplating Diana's transgressions, and a suitable reprisal, like it is arithmetic. He nods.
"I am going to flay you," he apprises the impaired princess, and as an automaton would, he trudges for her weapon, in range of the other, quite-forgotten woman.
Barbara fumbles for the head, nabbing just one of its snakes behind its mandibles right before the monstrosity rolls off into the firestorm leaping up at the hurtling sled. She presses a thumb on the scaly brow of her acquisition, and pounces——as best she can, on the askew bed of the transport——at Panzer.
She crashes a foot short of his boots, scrambling for a breathless moment, then crudely drives the fangs she has exposed from the dead serpent’s maw down his thigh and calf. Panzer shrieks.
Though its Gorgonian gaze is bygone, the venom of the head's many mouths has been lying in wait, no less potent than when produced. The vicious man's blood curdles in the leg, stopping him in his tracks. In this unthinkable heartbeat, Barbara bear hugs his waist and runs them both over the starboard railing.
His top half pops and sags back unnaturally on the bar, and he gasps, not at the severing of bone but in feeling himself fall. His claw lunges, for anything. It finds Barbara's left wrist. The Englishwoman's shoulder and ribs are towed tightly over the wall, to share his fate. As she screams, Diana and Epimetheus together, on their knees from last-ditch exertions, clasp her legs and belly from behind. More bones are splintered, now in Barbara's hand. The pincer strips her skin, but her friends guarantee: It cannot have her.
Stealing his final pound of flesh, Panzer's ruined, fragmental body spins away to the fiery seam perfectly, hauntingly aligned to take him. Sheathed in his ankle, his very own victims and their pledge shall act the part of his eternal ball and chain. Diana holds Barbara away, both of them pale, both examining the price paid. The professor's shuddering, wet hand features a nasty groove running up the palm's base between the middle and ring fingers. Her pains, manifold, do not outweigh her gratitude to be drinking even the dense, bitter air here. She lives.
Still, no reprieve can be enjoyed. A hideous screech reminds them of the unremitting scourge of Achlys, just now sharking onto their command ship, encumbering it with her splaying hands. The heroes can hear her smelling, caressing its surface, for color to blot, voices to hush. Making sure Barbara will manage keeping pressure on her arm, Diana rises to the challenge, to see that Epimetheus has outdone her by retrieving her armaments. He is studying the dark deity, fitting and refitting the sword in an agitated fist.
"I think she has enough of a hold on the world already, from down here, don't you?" he poses his cousin.
When Achlys' prowling yields nothing to corrupt, a tantrum builds in her perpetual bones, and unleashes. She takes apart the previously-overrun ship like cotton, clawing higher for the last two like it. A truly baleful noise blasts through the hair webbing her face, aimed at the Titan centered on his vessel, yet he behaves no differently than if a summer breeze had passed. His eyebrows lift.
"Let us see she does not come any closer."
He props one sandal on the slag that is left of the skiff's rear guardrail. To jump. Diana is on his arm in a wink to stop the foolhardy deed. Epimetheus acknowledges her, but only to convey:
"What I wanted to tell you, before, when we arrived… I would not recognize forgiveness if ever I found it. But with your hope, I feel I could disappoint the world a thousand times and still have it in me to fight."
"We can outrun her, before she is led back. Epimetheus, look at me. We can outrun her."
Epimetheus breathes in another of Achlys' bellows, but they are no drug to him. He does not act on impulse now. His mind is clear. "We can't."
Barbara is sensing the mood from across the deck. She sits higher, only slightly, on a leg. "No. No, we… we can collapse the entrance!"
"Yes, that will do very well too!" the big man sings his endorsement. First making use of his scabbard, he takes Diana's arm the way she has his, and allows her his vast eyes. "… But she will not be stopped with rocks. Someone to keep her busy. For a long time. Someone who can take hits…"
Epimetheus turns the shield. The Golden Apple is there in its saucer, to change hands. His Amazon kin plays the game formerly his, refusing to look.
"No one else may bestow the apple! You cannot stay behind!" Diana contends. "If someone is to do this—"
Epimetheus does not try to shrug her away, reverting to keeping an eye on Achlys' movements. "Eris was too good to put this to me. Wrong to. Don't you see? The grandest disaster will come with my consent. No. It never should have been me, choosing 'the fairest'. I choose this."
Gusts have blown his hair a rascally shape, and so oblige Epimetheus to take on a grin to go with. He tries to cheer Diana up: For once, feeling like the older of the two. "And at that: A simple demigoddess, doing a Titan's task?"
Scooting another foot before giving in, Barbara needs far more persuading. "The manuscript. What it says might be coming, if…"
The professor's qualms are in harmony with Diana's. "How can we take this chance, that Eris lies?" she restricts Epimetheus' undertaking.
His neck wavers, more than understanding her plea, to which he argues with no delight: "How can we let that go free, up there?"
Neither warrior feels they have won. The only indication of such comes with Diana's half-step back.
In confusion, Barbara mumbles "Stop him," though she intends it to be a yell.
Epimetheus hears. "Dr. Minerva, I would appreciate, before I go, a definition of that word 'barmy.'"
Off her guard, Barbara is too choked to answer.
"Some other day," he resolves, foisting levity.
Achlys has made back half the distance to them, after her setback, and the Styx, already vanishing from the three's sights, gets them keen to their speed. Destruction of their bridge sent Cyber's technological wayfinder into overdrive, now causing them to rear-end the last, individually-operable ship ahead, on the same invisible track. The wedge will capsize both, if nothing is done.
Epimetheus sets himself up for the plunge again. Not for lack of trying, Diana is not finding her words.
“This time, Lady Diana… this time I am not overlooking anything. This is plain enough for even me. I have outlived so much of my family," his chin quakes.
"… Please, give me the privilege of not seeing the end of your days also… and trust me with this. I think, what I need, is to be trusted. Surely I can’t forget or betray this duty, if it’s all I will ever know.”
The companions feel their weights, at the most dramatic escalation of the ships so far, on to the deciding segment jetting them back to Greece. Epimetheus reattempts his donation. Diana does put her hand over the apple immediately, but holds it there between them a spell.
"I will find the one fairest."
"You needn't convince me."
A new keeper is appointed to the costly creation, and the liberated Titan hunches on the precipice, only, one last order of business halts him. Epimetheus remembers something. The sword and shield are also offered, with a sorry expression: The last of its kind, from him.
"Keep them," Diana acquits, without regret.
Steps can be seen, like——what felt——so long ago, whizzing underneath in a glinting pattern to catch Epimetheus.
"Bury us," he suggests, soft as a feather.
"Stop… him."
From the transom, Epimetheus alights. Professionally, without looking down to memorialize the exploit for herself, Diana retakes her lasso from the overhanging rail, and leaves the rest behind.
"Why. Didn't," Barbara recoils at her approach.
Diana hops her up while also collecting Cyber, then sails them all over the drawbridge being made by the two skiffs, before it becomes too trying a peak. Laid down with care, Barbara unappreciatively thrashes over, doing her hand no good, to watch a rapidly-shrinking Epimetheus impact the steps. A stolid cypress of a man, his legs take and cancel his velocity, and right away he has to swing up and stab at the living shroud rippling toward him.
Achlys is on and around him like a parasite, for one crushing second. Heavenly shafts blaze through her great, desirous hands, unwrapping her to reveal her antithesis. Epimetheus has her solidly nailed in her missing heart. His blade is miraculously the light source, pouring the warmth of a star into his screaming sorrow. Here, the deadlock for many lifetimes begins. If on the steps herself, Barbara could have seen there is a sign of strain in his back, a pull to the skin around his eyes; ultimately, however, that Epimetheus is, to the credit of Diana's gifts alone, far indeed from being outmatched.
The cave's mouth dead ahead, Diana bumps their throttle with an elbow, simultaneously and with impeccable control roping the rear ship, in a graceful curve through the port railing. One yank on this fulcrum displaces the obsolete craft, sending it groaning off to the side. There is a brief, stupendous period of it serenely verging on stone somewhere in the tunnel's void. Contact is made with tectonic force, splitting walls and threatening the same to the escapees' heads. The splashed fuel of Cyber's sorcerous design climbs through strata fast as wildfire, destabilizing sediment from time immemorial, and Barbara Minerva catches a farewell flare from the last, and unfailing life in the Underworld. Then the curtain of earth draws.
The skiff breaks free into a nighttime, natural and brisk, that is to be rejoiced by the women. They are swerved around, given seats to the spectacular sight of a swath of the hillside deflating, exhaling from the opening. It all fills itself in with brush and boulders, to be both an astounding and unassuming landscape again. The land of Dirou falls back asleep.
No rejoicing comes. Tonight, the beauty and silence breeds only melancholy in one soul, and resentment in another. Barbara turns her head to her: The champion. What had Cyber said?
"Righteous colors."
The attack comes to Diana more pitiless than any other that day. Barbara looks at her like one looks at disease.
"It's that easy, is it?" is the next knife through her. It is unbelievable to Barbara the way she remains standing there, appearing to do nothing besides fiddle with the lasso.
"Are you going to say. ANYthing?!"
Barbara rushes her to flip her around by the left shoulder. Its arm is bandaged in the lasso as when the baroness was tricked. The other hand closes the resistant professor's on a loose end of the bind, to commune. It is not Diana's voice, precisely. Barbara does not hear sentences. She feels everything Diana feels in each second, and knows what the princess knows to be true.
~Barbara, I pled for the mistress of the river Styx to accord us victory. Exchanged for her blessings and mastery over her land, I swore these gifts would be enough for me to deliver you, and my cousin, from that place. I have not made good.~
Barbara shakes herself, and blinks.
~For this, Styx decrees that I shall walk for a time without the capacity to go back on my word. I am mute.~
"You're going to tell me what you lost?" the whole of Barbara trembles.
~I saw no other way. Had she obtained the apple, Von Gunther might have killed you in the next breath. I never meant for the maenads—~
"You think this is about you going back for THAT?" Barbara flails at the body of Cynthia littering the deck and breathing huskily. "Or my hand? I want to know how you cou—"
~He made the choice himself.~
"He would have done anything for you! He would have stayed for you! You LET him do that!" Barbara accuses, tearing away in a cold sweat. She knows Diana knows this. "He doesn't deserve to be left there!"
She knows Diana knows.
"It's not…"
The word to complete the thought enrages her more. She circles nothing in particular, batting away moisture. "We could've led that thing back in, if it came to that! W-we would've worked something out. The apple…"
…
"He was going to give it to me," she says dejectedly. "It could have been me. You weren't fast enough. You stopped him. You didn't stop him."
Diana is watching a woman being torn apart. The delusion is partially the apple's, whispering away behind her own back. The other components, Diana finds hard to pass off on a tangible evil.
Barbara digs and begs and pretends a smile. "Let me have it. I can, study it. It, it doesn't have to be mine! We'll get it right. And besides I've earned it."
She gulps. Her statuesque counterpart is unstirred, sadly winding the lariat up higher on her arm. Diana will not make her enter the rapport again, for she had soon realized in their first that she had minimal sovereignty over her utmost sentiments, and did not know exactly what the woman heard from her mind. The terror, of transparency, is now hers like no other's, and years hence it will be.
"… I have nothing."
Nothing, no one, and no sway, and the reason for it, Barbara supposes, is that the Amazon's mind was made prior to her outpouring of sensibilities, her sound logic. Diana knows whose apple it is.
Barbara relaxes. Her mouth creases. Diana takes no actions to recover her, as she spends a minute fishing one-handed through their ship's compartments, at last coming up with a kit of gauze and ointment, which was the only left thing to keep her from setting off. Wrapping her hand on her way, her boots plunk into sand, headed north. She can tell the heroine watches, with concern. It makes her see red.
"Go, take it. I know where I am."
Diana questions if she does. A new grasp on empathy, spoiled by blame and losses unmerited: It was developing into a scar which Diana knows nothing of how to mend, with or without her words. She is less than proud to wish——more than she would ever want to erase all of Barbara's experiences this day——that the scar stays, and that she never find out all of who the woman becomes.
The old garage building stands alone at the intersection of the York, Pocklington and Driffield roads in the Vale of York. The For Sale notice says " Garage and Development Land: Planning for extension and residential, (other potential uses STPP) ". (STPP = "subject to planning permission")
Who will remember it's modest grace? Brick-bulit with a concrete beam supporting the lovely arched gable itself topped with stone; and the sheer utility of the curved corrugated iron roof - an industrial classic. And the flat spaces around that it defines; will they continue to reflect the sounds and smells caught within its dank interior after seventy (?) years grappling with the internal combustion engines of croaking cars and retching coaches taxed by the 1:6 steepness of nearby Garaby's ice age scarp?
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
See album description - On the surface, one might see this tin can as a nod off to nostalgia. After all who makes tin cans for their bacon bits anymore? When did they stop doing that? And when in the world did Oscar Mayer even make bacon bits? While the canister is old, that is not the story behind this canister.
I once lived in my Grandmother’s house after she passed away. I was still trying to get back on my feet from my retched divorce, it was a means for me to have a place on my own, and it allowed my family to delay dealing with the personal possessions of my grandmother. For five years I sat in her memories while my family refused to deal with them…
I found this canister one day when I was cleaning out her things. It was in a period of my life that was very scary for me to say the very least. I was going through so many things that I wouldn’t know where to begin with them. I was being taken back to court for past due Child Support from my ex. I had every single intention of paying it, but my business was slowly dying and so I had gotten behind. I had a new bride who was a Canadian Citizen and could not work until paperwork was submitted. I was the only income, which happened to be $500 a month to cover food, electricity, gas, insurance, rent, etc. I basically had nothing except stacking bills and a lot of fear for the future.
I wanted to make sure that my new bride had something to eat in the house, so there were several days that I went without eating (she didn’t know this until later on down the road!). On top of everything else I was going through counseling. I was an emotional, physical, and financial mess.
When I found this canister I thought I struck it rich. Inside was several dollars worth of coins from Bicentennial quarters up to Silver Dollars. But could I really trade those in? These were after all my grandmother and grandfather’s collection, and as much as I didn’t want to trade them in I knew I had to survive. I told myself that I would never dip into these unless it was an absolute emergency. I carried this canister in my truck for a few years- in the console, ready to save the day. Every time I almost had to use the coins, intuition and creativity kicked in and I found a different solution. Necessity is the mother of invention and resolution.
I am proud that I made it through those days. I am proud that I never once had to use any of these coins. It was close some days- between gas, food and lawyers. But I made it through. Now, money is not so tight even in a bad economy… and every time I see this canister I am reminded again of all I went through, how I held onto my determination and never gave up!
Sunderland was first (as always) and Labour was quickly on three. Things then slowed to a crawl for hours as high turnout delayed results in many areas (rendering my PA list useless). Thankfully there was plenty of gin.
Biggest cheers of the night were for Sadiq Khan in Tooting and Andy Slaughter in Hammersmith.
Other high points include Caroline Lucas winning for the Greens in Brighton Pavilion, Naomi Long becoming the first Alliance MP in Northern Ireland and Gisela Stuart holding on in Birmingham Edgbaston.
The wise Scots actually swung to Labour in this election, though no seats actually changed hands there. That Tories still have only one Scottish MP.
Biggest disappointment was the failure of the Lib Dems to make gains. For all the debates, media coverage and optimism it seems the voters didn't actually agree with Nick after all.
Second biggest dissapointment was the BBC coverage, especially the retched boat with Andrew Neil. Do we really want to know what Joan Collins thinks? There was a relief from it for a short while when its power failed. Sky News seemed more businesslike and less keen on gimmicks.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
See album description - On the surface, one might see this tin can as a nod off to nostalgia. After all who makes tin cans for their bacon bits anymore? When did they stop doing that? And when in the world did Oscar Mayer even make bacon bits? While the canister is old, that is not the story behind this canister.
I once lived in my Grandmother’s house after she passed away. I was still trying to get back on my feet from my retched divorce, it was a means for me to have a place on my own, and it allowed my family to delay dealing with the personal possessions of my grandmother. For five years I sat in her memories while my family refused to deal with them…
I found this canister one day when I was cleaning out her things. It was in a period of my life that was very scary for me to say the very least. I was going through so many things that I wouldn’t know where to begin with them. I was being taken back to court for past due Child Support from my ex. I had every single intention of paying it, but my business was slowly dying and so I had gotten behind. I had a new bride who was a Canadian Citizen and could not work until paperwork was submitted. I was the only income, which happened to be $500 a month to cover food, electricity, gas, insurance, rent, etc. I basically had nothing except stacking bills and a lot of fear for the future.
I wanted to make sure that my new bride had something to eat in the house, so there were several days that I went without eating (she didn’t know this until later on down the road!). On top of everything else I was going through counseling. I was an emotional, physical, and financial mess.
When I found this canister I thought I struck it rich. Inside was several dollars worth of coins from Bicentennial quarters up to Silver Dollars. But could I really trade those in? These were after all my grandmother and grandfather’s collection, and as much as I didn’t want to trade them in I knew I had to survive. I told myself that I would never dip into these unless it was an absolute emergency. I carried this canister in my truck for a few years- in the console, ready to save the day. Every time I almost had to use the coins, intuition and creativity kicked in and I found a different solution. Necessity is the mother of invention and resolution.
I am proud that I made it through those days. I am proud that I never once had to use any of these coins. It was close some days- between gas, food and lawyers. But I made it through. Now, money is not so tight even in a bad economy… and every time I see this canister I am reminded again of all I went through, how I held onto my determination and never gave up!