View allAll Photos Tagged Unreadable
“Tuyet looked into the depths of Lhikan's eyes. Her expression behind her Mask of Intangibility was unreadable. When she spoke, it was in the slow, measured pace of a stream running toward the sea.” - The Many Deaths of Toa Tuyet
This is not a shot I would normally upload because it's such a massive crop and the composition is rubbish. However, read on.
We were down at Armadale the other day when I spotted this Oystercatcher at a distance. It was very agitated so I suspect there was a nest or perhaps young nearby. So as not to disturb it any more, I quickly took a couple of shots and moved on. When I got home I worked on the picture and discovered that the bird had several rings. I hadn't noticed at the time because I was more concerned with not annoying the bird. The quality is such that the rings are unreadable but somebody might be able to offer some info.
This barn shows evidence of the re-use of carved stone doorways and windows from an even older building. The date stone in the centre of the wall is so old it is almost unreadable.
C-GGND - Bombardier DHC-8Q-402 - Air Canada express (operated by JAZZ)
at Toronto Lester B. Pearson Airport (YYZ)
c/n 4394 - built in 2011
please paint me (what express? - the "Air Canada" name is almost unreadable)
ARRIVA Kent Thameside 3331 W462 XKX is seen on North Ash Road, New Ash Green whilst working route 423. Thursday 3rd September 2015.
Since its refurbishment this vehicle has retained rather restrictive masking around the destination display making it at time almost unreadable!
Dennis Dart SLF 9.4m - Alexander ALX200 (Ex-ARRIVA East Herts & Essex 3462, ARRIVA London North ADL62 & ARRIVA Kent & Surrey 3331)
IMG_28046
Car: Volkswagen Scirocco GT II.
Date of first registration: 10th December 1992.
Registration region: Central London.
Latest recorded mileage: Unreadable (MOT 5th February 2021).
Latest V5 issued: 19th June 2014
Date taken: 7th May 2021.
Album: Carspotting 2021
The forest did not open.
It compiled silence.
Pine after pine,
memory stacked in rings older than language,
older than the first command
ever whispered into a machine.
Something tried to descend;
not a god,
not a signal,
but an idea of order.
It shattered mid-arrival.
Fragments hovered where meaning should have been,
pixels trembling in the breath of moss,
data choking on chlorophyll.
At the center:
a wound of light.
Not illumination; resistance.
The trees did not look at it.
They remembered before it.
Roots tightened their grip on forgotten wars,
on extinct names,
on the bones of myths never uploaded.
The forest does not speak in binaries.
It rots,
it waits,
it survives corruption by becoming unreadable.
This is not a glitch in nature.
It is nature
refusing to be archived.
For eleven days and eleven nights Salamackia had not moved from his desk. His servants were used to his marathon stints of study, but this one had been difficult. Not least because Salamackia’s mood had worsened the longer it continued. The handwriting on the ‘request’ slips that he passed to his servants for the books and charts he needed had deteriorated steadily. Most of his servants, too fearful to ask and terrified of getting it wrong, could now not decipher the scrawl of ornate runic lettering. Only Earlic could fathom his master’s wants and as such he had been on duty for the last three days without respite. He was beginning to dream on his feet.
The reason Earlic could decipher his Master’s wants was because he had been trying to follow his Master’s work. Even since he had been brought into service, Earlic had been a bit different to the other servants, in that he always saw opportunity in all that befell him. On entering the tower’s great library Earlic had seen a chance for an education. Servants were of course forbidden any personal use of the library, but in carrying out his duties for his Master, Earlic was able to get a significant amount of reading done in his twelve years of service. This had helped him get on enormously and although not an official position - Salamackia could not have recognised one servant from another - amongst his peers he was the head librarian.
Salamackia had started his studies by reading the memoirs of Duke Wirklich Nervig, a Lenfald Noble. Further requests then centred on various histories and maps of Lenfald. This was when Salamackia’s mood had started to darken for the first time. But then a few of the well worn tombs from Mary Makatoosh’s Complete History of Roawia’ , one of Earlic’s personal favourites, seemed to have put him right. Suddenly the mood had lightened and Earlic had been handed a message to send. ‘GLARCE, THE WINDOW’. The writing had improved, but Earlic still rewrote it clearly. It was a message destined for Garheim in the far reaches of the North and his master’s mood would be insufferable if it came all that way back as unreadable.
From there, his master had moved swiftly through various Garheim History texts to modern times. Then he returned to Lenfald, again moving swiftly up to date. That had brought them to yesterday morning, when his master had sat up and stretched. Earlic too had relaxed thinking he’d soon be in his bed, but then one more note had come, Loreos Histories Last 100 years. Vast weights of text were exchanged from the shelves to the desk, while his master took a glass of wine. Progress through them was again swift, until this morning. It seemed there was something in recent history that was troubling his master and barely legible notes were coming thick and fast for further cross references. Although not a word had been said in the library for all eleven days and nights, Earlic could feel his master’s mood building.
From across the room Adis, one of the other servants made a gesture to Earlic - a message for their master. It was handed to Earlic. It was a reply from Garheim. He presented it to his master with the most discreet of coughs to announce its presence. It was snatched from his hand and torn open, before Earlic could even offer the letter knife. It was read fleetingly, no more than a glance and then dropped to the floor.
Salamackia rose. ‘My horse’ may have been his first words for over a week, but his voice was strong and certain. He strode from the room, just as Earlic made the necessary gestures to ensure the message got to the groom, before Salamackia had descended the tower. Earlic was going to let the other servants restore order to the library, as he was ready to collapse with fatigue. But first he had to see. He picked the letter from the floor and looked at its single word. GONE. .
From Bulletin of the Detroit Institute of Arts 89 (2015) - Das Geviert, 1997 - emulsion, acrylic, shellac, burnt clay, clay, wire, and sand on three panels of stretched linen or linen and cotton canvas.
The architectural structure in this monumental painting was likely inspired by a brickworks that Kiefer saw while traveling in India. That building was in a perpetual state of construction and destruction: newly made bricks were stacked on top of it and then replaced as they were sold. Plumes of smoke suggest the fires within. Taken out of its socio-historical context, this building becomes an allegory of ephemerality. The stepped pyramidal form recalls the tombs of the Egyptian pharaohs, Babylonian ziggurats, and Meso-American teocalli, all remnants of ancient cultures. The words in the corners translate to earth (upper right), sky (upper left), divinity (lower right), and mortals (lower left), which are the fundamental elements of German philosopher Martin Heidegger’s (1889–1976) concept of “das Geviert” (the square), a hymn to dwelling on the earth articulated in “Building, Dwelling, Thinking” (1954).
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quadralectics.wordpress.com/5-essentials/5-3-consciousnes...
Quadralectic Architecture - Marten Kuilman (2011) p. 994/995:
The consciousness of seeing is, in many aspects, a philosophical subject. Questions of ‘consciousness’ reach deep into the heart of any scientific investigation and the valuation of architecture is no exception. The act of understanding the phenomena known to the human nature implies the knowledge of the valuation process of an observer.
The German philosopher Martin HEIDEGGER (1889 – 1976) is possibly the most recent of the thinkers, who came close to a ‘quadralectic’ outlook. His books – like his main work ‘Sein und Zeit’ (1927) – are virtually unreadable for any layman, due to a self-created German terminology to catch the fundamental essence of Heidegger’s understanding. His message and the destination of his exploratory thoughts are, nevertheless, directly relevant.
Vincent VYCINAS (1961) gave a comprehensive introduction into the thoughts of Martin Heidegger and his application of phenomenology to ontology. He did not criticize Heidegger, nor indicated any shortcomings in his thought. He just offered a path to explore the territory of his findings. Vycinas pointed to three distinct phases in Heidegger’s development, which brought him in close proximity to the doors of quadralectics (without actually opening them):
1. The exploratory search for man in his ultimate essence resulted in an understanding of Dasein (being-there). His main work ‘Sein und Zeit’ (Being and Time) defines the human existence as an active participation in the world, or a ‘to-be-in-the-world’. This position of unification (togetherness) implies the presence of a nothingness to make a distinction possible. The quadralectic philosophy supports the view of man-in-the-world making its existence feel in a self-chosen definition of division thinking and respecting the boundaries derived from this choice. Human presence (in a quadralectic view) only materializes after the realization of two points of recognition (POR) on a universal graph, which is derived from the shift between two four-divisions (the CF-graph).
2. After he found the definition of Dasein, Heidegger reached further to develop the concept of ‘Being’, the way in which man reveals itself. This second phase was, in contrast with his first work, riddled with historical references. Heidegger felt sympathy for the early Greek (Ionian) philosophers – like Anaximander, Parmenides and Heraclites – with their inductive way of thinking. ‘Being began to shine’ when these thinkers chose a single element (of nature or physis) to explain the world.
Heidegger liked the Parmenidian concept of Moira (the generator of fate or destiny and/or the initiator of a mission), which acts as a source of revelation. ‘Revelation is the disclosure and the coming-forward from concealment’. This change (in visibility) can be compared in the quadralectic philosophy with a transitional move from the invisible invisibility (of the First Quadrant) into the invisible visibility (of the Second Quadrant) – which includes a choice in division thinking. Being comes into the open, but why Being breaks into openness, we do not know.
This ‘Ionian’ treatment of Being led Heidegger to such conclusions that ‘not the thinker but Being determines the way of thinking’ and ‘Man is not the true author of his thought any longer, but only a missionary carrying out the words of Being in his thought-responses’. ‘Being’ (and its cross marked version, as a hint to nothingness) is placed – unfortunately without the specific mentioning of this mental act – outside the bonds of lower (oppositional) division thinking. The result is a position beyond subjectivism and objectivism. Being becomes synonymous with the (quadralectic) understanding of the term V (the length of a communication cycle – which is the result of an interaction between the observer and the observed in a chosen type of division).
3. The third and last phase of Heidegger’s thought is the establishment of an ontological stratification by four fundamental powers of Being: earth and sky, gods and mortals. Heidegger used ‘das Geviert’ (fourfold) in his later work (Vorträge und Aufsätze, 1954) as four domains, which form together the plurality and openness of the world. It is rather unfortunate that the choices of Heidegger’s Geviert consist of two opposing dualities, i.e. gods versus mortals and the sky versus the earth. Furthermore, the cyclic setting of the foursome is not accentuated, making the interplay of the foursome a cryptic event. Measurability, which is the very hallmark of conscious Being (or non-Being), is not applicable in Heidegger’s order. However, what is the meaning of plurality, openness and participation, if their extent cannot be measured?
The conclusion has to be that Martin Heidegger entered deep into the phenomenological world and did important discoveries in this newly developed terrain of higher division thinking. The concept of Da-sein as the transcendental representation of man as an assembler (of its own visibility) is breaking fresh ground. The quadralectic observer, within the boundaries of a self-created graphic universe, has a direct bloodline to Heidegger’s assembler.
The consistent development from Da-sein into the openness of Being – as it took shape in the post-Sein und Zeit period after 1927 – is, in the quadralectic philosophy, reflected in a measurable unit of communication (the length of the communication cycle). The graphic representation and its arithmetical genesis (in shifting four-divisions) offer a much clearer view on the character of Being than Heidegger’s vague notions to describe man in his ultimate essence.
Finally, Heidegger came close to the building stones of the quadralectic philosophy with the introduction, in his later work (after 1954), of the double-dialectic of the foursome (Geviert). These domains were supposed to supply, by way of an endless intersecting mirror play, the coordinates wherein the world as a world happens. But how? His stratification had, essentially, a linear character with no hind to any form of a cyclic approach. He missed, therefore, the possibilities in a quadralectic communication of calculation and measurement, which are embedded in the genesis of a universal communication graph.
No doubt Heidegger should get the credit for the above-mentioned advances in philosophical thinking, but it is also fair to mark the limits of his philosophical progress. In the end, Heidegger reached short of entering the exciting world of quadralectic thinking. The notice that ‘man must become the shepherd or guardian of Being’ is further evidence of the inherent static nature of his findings.
His interest in building (Bauen – Wohnen – Denken, 1967) and his definition of dwelling as the ‘ultimate guarding of the foursome of things’ also points to a static situation. Quadralectic architecture, on the other hand, is a dynamic affair, where the (changing) interplay of the foursome has to be monitored all the time. The observer may only find the ‘truth’ in the continuous awareness of changing positions with regards to the observed. The rest is, like the dying Hamlet said, silence.
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VYCINAS, Vincent (1961). Earth and Gods. An Introduction to the Philosophy of Martin Heidegger. Martinus Nijhoff, The Hague.
For the Group Life is a Rainbow. The colour is Dark Green. (no3 of the Dark Green sequence)
And Happy Cliche Saturday too! ;o)
I just couldn't pass up the chance to celebrate! When I thought of "dark green" as a colour for the Rainbow group I immediately thought of the signature colour of Virago Books! As iconic as the orange or black Penguin books, the dark green colour of Virago stood out proudly in the book stores from the early 1970s. It was the first time that I (along with so many other women) could hear the voices of other women, recognise our shared experiences, and talk about so many subjects that had been forbidden. It was the first time that women had claimed back even the word "Virago" from the realm of the insult and the 'put-down'.
I've added a smattering of other books on my bookshelf too ... and just a taste of Virago books on my shelves of so many books written by women and for women. It is easy to forget today, just how hard it was to get published as a woman. Mary Anne Evans? No? Try George Eliot! So many women had to disguise their sex to be taken seriously and to be published. Even Joanna Rowling "revealed that she was advised to use her initials on her first book so as not to alienate male readers". It is still a live issue ;o)
I added a candle to the still life, to suggest how the books have lit up my world, and made the shot as clear as I could, so you can 'tap' into and read the spines. Some of my favourites are missing, as their spines are so broken that the titles are almost unreadable! And the old newspaper that the book shelf is resting on - is a series of articles on Sylvia Plath - I had to include her too o))
Texture: 2LO Texture Artists 8
Life is a Rainbow Here
Saturday Cliche and Smiles: Here
VT-ALT - Boeing B-777-337/ER - Air India
at Toronto Lester B. Pearson Airport (YYZ)
c/n 36.318 - built in 2010
with sticker (unreadable)
365 from the archive~ day 16~ Congo
Some images print themselves in our minds and on our hearts because they affect us beyond the surface of visual impression. They go deep, they etch a mark on our soul...
If you were to ask me what moment in my journey to Congo was the most haunting, I would say this one when I took this photograph. This child was one of the youngest in the center for demobilized child soldiers. He never spoke, he just stood there and let his eyes that stared without blinking, the scar on his chin and his cloud of melancholy speak for him. His gaze was steady, his look far but near, his mind unreadable. It was a child who spent far too much time in the playground of the lords of war and cruelty.
- from 1908 "Lovell's Gazetteer of the Dominion of Canada" - COQUITLAM, a post village in New Westminster District, B.C., and a station [New Westminster Jct.) on the C.P.R. (Vancouver Mission Jct. & San Francisco branch), 17 miles east of Vancouver. Farming and logging are the chief industries of this place, which is attractive to sportsman — ducks, geese, pheasants and grouse being plentiful in the district. It has 3 churches (Episcopal, Methodist and Presbyterian), 1 grocery and general store, 1 hotel, besides telegraph and express offices. The population in 1908 was 600.
(from - Wrigley's 1918 British Columbia Directory) - PORT COQUITLAM - a Post Office and city, situated on the Fraser River and Pitt River, 17 miles east of Vancouver on the C.P. R. at the junction of branch to New Westminster. It is served by the C. P. R. and auto jitneys from New Westminster. Has C.P.R. telegraph, local and long distance telephones. Anglican, Methodist and Presbyterian churches. The population in 1918 was 1,500. Local resources: Extensive C.P.R. shops and yards, wooden shipbuilding, farming and fishing.
The name COQUITLAM is of Indigenous origin and signifies a "small red salmon".
The COQUITLAM Post Office was established - 1 March 1891; renamed PORT COQUITLAM Post Office - 1 July 1913.
LINKS to a list of the Postmasters who served at the COQUITLAM Post Office - central.bac-lac.gc.ca/.redirect?app=posoffposmas&id=2... - and the PORT COQUITLAM Post Office - central.bac-lac.gc.ca/.redirect?app=posoffposmas&id=2...
- sent from - / ?????? / SP 1 / R.P.O. / B.C. / - unreadable rpo cancel
- arrived at - / COQUITLAM / SP 2 / 12 / B.C / - split ring arrival backstamp - this split ring hammer (A1-2) was proofed - 19 August 1909 - (RF D) - (second hammer).
Message on postcard - Dear Lulu, We just passed some snow sheds. We had a terrible time finding our car last night. It is rather cold today. Love to all. Kathleen
- the sender of this postcard - Kathleen Imilda (nee Quilty) Collister
(b. 17 November 1894 in New Westminster, B.C. - d. 12 June 1979 at age 84 in Vancouver, British Columbia) LINK to her Find a Grave site - www.findagrave.com/memorial/159713578/kathleen-imilda-col... - LINK to her death certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/ba...
Her husband - Douglas Harold Collister
(b. 5 May 1897 in New Westminster, B.C. - d. 23 February 1970 at age 72 in Vancouver, B.C.) - occupation - clothing merchant / - they were married - 25 August 1922 - LINK to their marriage certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/34... - LINK to his death certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/a2...
Addressed to - Miss Lucy Smith / Coquitlam / B.C.
Lucy "Lulu" Margaret (nee Smith) Jones
(b. 16 February 1895 in Coquitlam, B.C. - d. 24 May 1986 at age 91 in Maple Ridge, British Columbia) - the sender of this postcard Kathleen Quilty was her bridesmaid - LINK to the newspaper report on their wedding - www.newspapers.com/clip/105250099/vancouver-daily-world/ LINK to her newspaper obituary - www.newspapers.com/clip/105249892/obituary-for-lucy-jones... - LINK to her death certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/2a...
Her husband - Stanley Parke Jones
(b. 8 May 1890 in Penarth, Wales - d. 24 November 1963 at age 73 in Maple Ridge, British Columbia) - occupation - CNR foreman - they were married - 22 August 1916 in Port Coquitlam, B.C. - LINK to their marriage certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/67... - LINK to his newspaper obituary - www.newspapers.com/clip/105249983/obituary-for-stanley-jo... - LINK to his death certificate - search-collections.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/Image/Genealogy/02...
A special thought for tonton who is come back in France now....
This evening was really great and he decided to go near the GG to try a new angle. He was very happy when he came back to show me how his spot was awesome... but the camera says "Error...." unreadable memory card :( I big deception! After several tries he eventually send back to the manufacturer. The good news was when a new memory card came back with his pictures restored!
Happy End!
Along the Pavement
Marine Road - Dun Laoghaire - Ireland
Badges on the Insignia Parka (Frame Left to Right):
Sergeant-Major insignia (looks like it's from a branch of the U.S. Armed Forces but it would have to be flipped vertically. The three chevrons and a single star are correct but these would never appear with just one rocker.
Airline pilot.
Freedom Rengades (sic) Miami Florida Bunchofdrunkards.
Pilot's 'Wings' over left breast.
(Badge part hidden and unreadable).
Hysteria.
This was an angle Peter took a number of times, it is from under the west end footbridge at Kings Norton Station. In this version he has an Ivatt 2-6-0 4MT catching the light as it works a westbound semi-fast
The number is unreadable but it was almost certainly one of the locally allocated locomotives possibly 43033/36
Peter Shoesmith 27/04/1962
Copyright John Whitehouse & Geoff Dowling: All rights reserved
The verso had names of those in the picture, but they were written in pencil and had faded to the point of being unreadable. One of the parents was 42 when this was taken; in the back row, left to right, the ages were: 21, 19, 18, 16, and 14; the children in the front row, left to right: 12, 10, and 7. The 10-year old's name was Lizzie. The back also notes "Susan's picture."
ARRIVA Kent Thameside 3331 W462 XKX is seen turning out of Borough Green Road and into Wrotham Road having just passed through the delightful village of Wrotham whilst working route 308. Tuesday 16th February 2016
Since its refurbishment this vehicle has retained rather restrictive masking around the destination display making it at time almost unreadable!
Dennis Dart SLF 9.4m - Alexander ALX200 (Ex-ARRIVA East Herts & Essex 3462, ARRIVA London North ADL62 & ARRIVA Kent & Surrey 3331)
IMG_31102
SkyGate - International | Lockheed L-1011-385-1-15 TriStar 250 | JY-SGI | 193C-1234
Luzair | Lockheed L-1011-385-3 TriStar 500 | CS-TMP | 193H-1248
Behind are 2 Boeing 737-200/Adv of Silver Air J2-KCE & the other unreadable. Also Airbus A310-200 of Libyan Arab Airlines.
JORAMCO board visible on the right.
Amman - Queen Alia International (AMM / OJAI)
20 people from 1713 to 1841 on just one stone.
This and several worn to unreadable headstones are in a little garden area between City Hall and Tooley Street in London
Car: Volkswagen Golf Cabriolet GTi.
Date of first registration: 5th July 1985.
Registration region: Birmingham.
Latest recorded mileage: unreadable (MOT 17th July 2018).
Last V5 issued: 8th August 2016.
Currently on SORN.
Date taken: 31st December 2018.
Album: Carspotting
Car: Fisher Fury Le Mans.
Year of manufacture: 2010.
Date of first registration in the UK: 1st July 2010.
Place of registration: Swindon.
Date of last MOT: 6th September 2021.
Mileage at last MOT: Unreadable.
Last V5 issued: 19th March 2019.
Date taken: 12th February 2017.
Location: Queen Square, Bristol, UK.
[ Important Announcement ]
The 2025 exhibition has been postponed.
Right now, I’m fully immersed in writing—and I’ve been uploading fragments of that work here.
Among the countless artists around the world, my work may be no more than a mere pebble.
And yet, I still feel compelled to create.
America.
Europe.
And now, Japan—faced with the results of this latest election.
The world is already broken.
I don’t believe for a moment that my novel could fix such a world.
But as I’ve always said, I believe that changing the inner world of a single person can change tomorrow.
That belief remains unchanged.
I have confidence in this novel.
To hurt someone.
To love someone.
Is there a wall that separates us from loving one another?
Is money the most important thing of all?
Is art truly meaningless?
I’ve entrusted everything to this story.
That’s why I’ve made the decision to step away from exhibitions for a year.
If things go well, I may begin publishing the novel between January and February of next year.
If not, it will be around late July 2026.
Right now, I’m consumed with breaking through my own limits.
As entertainment, I believe this novel will bring you joy again and again.
Please look forward to it.
July 19, 2025
Mitsushiro
Images
ELLEGARDEN - Lonesome
youtu.be/m1rgXlLkKDc?si=99vILpcJBIeEOrsP
Shot on iPhone 11 Pro.
Motosuka Beach, Sanmu City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan.
(Today’s photo. It has not been released yet.)
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Exhibition 2026
Theme
The Nightfly
Inspired by my upcoming novel:
B♭ (B Flat)
Images
Taylor Swift – This Love (Japanese Subtitles)
youtu.be/PfJzQuqWSSE?si=Y2g0HzhoVjnR46zS
Mitsushiro Nakagawa
Presented by
Design Festa
Venue
Tokyo Big Sight
Schedule
Fall 2026
exhibition.mitsushiro.nakagawa@gmail.com
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【 重要なお知らせ 】
２０２５年の展示は、延期します。
僕は現在、執筆に集中していて、その断片をここへアップロードしています。
世界中に溢れるアーティストのなかで、僕の作品は石ころのような存在です。
けれども、僕はどうしても描きたいのです。
アメリカやヨーロッパ。そして、今回の選挙結果を突きつけられた日本。
世界はすでに壊れています。
壊れた世界を僕の小説が修復できるなどとは決して思っていません。
僕はこれまでにも書いてきたように、たったひとりの個人の内面を塗り替えることで明日を変えられると信じてきました。
それは、いまでも変わっていません。
僕は今回の小説に自信を持っています。
誰かを傷つけること。
誰かを愛すること。
誰かを愛することに壁はあるのか。
お金がもっとも大切なのか。
アートは無意味なのか。
僕はこの小説にすべてを託しました。
ですので、僕は一年間、展示を見送る決断をしました。
小説の発表は、早くて来年の１月から２月ごろにできるかもしれません。
遅くて、来年の７月下旬です。
僕は今、自分の壁を越えることに夢中になっています。
僕の小説は、エンターテイメントとして、あなたを何度も楽しませるはずです。
楽しみに、待っていてください。
19.7,2025.
Mitsushiro.
Images.
ELLEGARDEN - Lonesome
youtu.be/m1rgXlLkKDc?si=99vILpcJBIeEOrsP
iPhone 11 Pro shot .
本須賀海岸。山武市。千葉県。日本。
(. 今日の写真。それは未発表です。 )
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２０２6年の展示
テーマ
The Nightfly
僕の次の小説。B♭（ビーフラット）
そのイメージになります。
Images.
Taylor Swift … This Love 【和訳】
youtu.be/PfJzQuqWSSE?si=Y2g0HzhoVjnR46zS
Mitsushiro - Nakagawa
主催
デザインフェスタ
場所
東京ビッグサイト
日程
2026年 秋。
exhibition.mitsushiro.nakagawa@gmail.com
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My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
There’s still more to come. 😃
(This is not the final draft.)
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Scene: Garden 3‑4
Jack slumped deeply in the commander’s chair, his gaze sweeping across the pale glow of the monitor wall.
Camera feeds A17, A18, A19—all fixed on the arena’s center. Yet the security guard on the west side of the stands wasn’t watching there. His eyes were glued to the emergency exit at Section 212. Its sensor blinked once—a flash of red warning across the screen.
“A suspicious movement… the door sensor just lit up,” Jack's low voice vibrated through Ben’s earpiece.
Ben glanced upward at the monitors and whispered,
“Shall I go?”
“No,” Jack replied, his voice dropping. “Don’t leave your post. I’ll handle it.”
He paused, stern. “It’s probably nothing. But—stay alert. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Silence fell over each earpiece, the tension thickening. On the monitor, the door remained motionless—neither opening nor closing—frozen in stillness.
Jack burst from the briefing room, sprinted up from underground into the arena, his view sweeping the western stand. He looked up at the broad, flat ceiling of Madison Square Garden, sensed it swelling with the heat of the crowd. Cheers greeting the presidential candidate blended with jeers—clearly, anti‑Republicans had infiltrated.
Jack narrowed his gaze on the west stand, then lowered his eyes to his iPhone. Multiple social feeds scrolled with frenetic energy, and one post caught his attention: a murder threat, flashing in angry red text.
He dashed down the crowded corridor and reached the west stand, addressing a nearby guard:
“Evening. Everything clear on your end?”
The guard, clad in plain black suit with no tie—just a discreet earpiece—nodded, calm. He lifted his jacket slightly, revealing the outline of a Glock 19 at his waist. No hostility—just a tacit acknowledgment. Jack responded with a silent nod, their training speaking volumes.
“Door sensor tripped once. I’ll check visually.” Jack seized the cold metal handle and cast a glance down the corridor beyond. Darkness swallowed the path; silence reigned.
He spoke into his earpiece:
“All clear in the west stands. Security is solid.”
He patted the guard’s shoulder. “Stay alert.” The man returned a brief smile—and then lights died across the arena.
In the dark, red lasers lanced from ceiling to floor as a menacing bass drum rolled in from below. A crisp hi‑hat scythed in sixteenth‑notes; a heavy kick drum struck four‑on‑the‑floor. A low, rumbling bass synth layered in—and the very air of the arena began to pulse.
The crowd's heartbeat synchronized with the beat. Swirling smoke and laser cuts, the floor trembling. From deep within the sound, a processed male voice intoned again and again:
“Strength. Order. America.”
As smoke thickened the light, colossal center-hung screens flickered to life:
J U S T I N B R A D F O R D
One spotlight pierced the gloom—red, then blue, finally white—tracing the American tricolor. Within its glow appeared a man: Justin. Clad in a dark‑navy tailored suit, a bold crimson tie signifying the Republican Party, a single white rose pinned to his lapel.
Moments later, another spotlight revealed Eleanor Blake, dressed in an elegant black gown, standing behind him. Hand in hand, they strode center stage, each step purposeful. The audience looked on, awestruck, shouting cheers:
—“Take back America!”—
Red, blue, and white lights danced across their feet. Eleanor paused; Justin stepped forward to the microphone as the music faded and lights dimmed again. Silence engulfed the arena.
He made no sound—only a slight, assured smile. That smile was a declaration of war. Saying everything without uttering a word. That posture—that was the bearing of a man who would become the most powerful leader in the world: President of the United States.
Justin scanned the crowd for a moment, then spoke in calm tones. His golden hair, blue eyes—mirroring Eleanor’s—lent gravity to his words:
“Good evening, New York. How’s your night going so far?”
He smiled at a woman in the front row. Following his father’s advice, he spoke as if addressing just one person, not an entire audience—
—“When I arrived in the parking lot tonight, I felt weighed down by the humidity. Eleanor whispered to me: ‘We chose the best course to protect you. Our team would risk their lives for you.’”
His voice rang clear. Thunderous applause erupted from tens of thousands. A wave of anticipation rolled toward the stage. The spotlight seemed to center itself in his eyes—and likewise in Eleanor’s.
“Tonight, we gather to put our will once again at the heart of this nation. To reclaim the ‘light’ America is forgetting. Over the past four years, our party restored the economy, brought back security, rebuilt national order. Now, it’s time to shine that light brighter—not as mere hope, but as our responsibility. If America shines again, the world will follow. We must seize that stronger, purer light. It will illuminate the world.”
Justin’s voice reverberated through the arena—until… a dry gunshot cracked the air from center stage.
Jack dove instinctively. His eyes darted upward to the giant screens: time froze. He saw Justin’s body convulse backwards, his jacket tail flipping off his left shoulder. The first bullet struck his left arm, the second to his left abdomen. Justin crumpled slowly, falling face‑first.
“Justin!” Eleanor’s scream cut across the stage. Her wide eyes fixed on him, trembling. A haze of tears blurred her vision. Secret Service agents shielded her, pulling her back.
“Hit the deck!” Guards and crowd shouted in chorus. Pandemonium erupted. Women's screams overlapped. The reverberation of gunfire lingered ominously in the cavernous space.
Unbeknownst to most, Jack’s ears had discerned two shots. He closed his eyes and re‑ran the sound—each fired from above—each from perilously close.
“Ben—where are you?” Jack pushed through collapsing spectators, heading to the stage.
“By Justin’s side. Missed his heart—just grazed left arm and abdomen. Not arterial, but bleeding heavily.”
“Medical team’s on the motorcade. Justin has Bombay blood—two bags ready on the ambulance. Start transfusion.”
“If that’s not enough, what about Elijah?”
“Either way, he’s en route. Bellevue Hospital stores Bombay bags—confirmed three days ago.”
Bombay blood: a rare type first found in Bombay (now Mumbai) in 1952—not A, B, or O—afflicting about 1 in 10,000 in India, 1 in 2.5 million worldwide. It can only be transfused to someone of the same type.
Ben replied calmly.
They rushed Justin to Bellevue Hospital—the closest to the Garden. Jack called Elijah. Before the first ring ended, Elijah answered, breathless:
“Jack... this is bad. We’ve no blood—no Bombay stock.”
Jack couldn’t believe it.
“I saw the bags in person three days ago!”
Silence, then Elijah replied:
“The blood keeper was killed in a car crash yesterday.”
As Jack absorbed the news, his voice boomed over the arena’s PA, shaking the trembling building. The crowd froze and then shattered. Thousands surged toward exits—only to find them locked.
“There’s explosives in this building. Please, stay calm and head for the exits. I repeat—I am….”
Panic rippled. Eight exits in total—most had been sealed for VIP and motorcade security. The crowd funnelled into the remaining three.
Low moans grew to shrieks. People trampled the fallen. A little girl's white blouse had turned grey, her teddy flattened. During flight, no one looked back. At one exit, dozens collapsed, graves to the trampling. The weight buckled railings, jammed the door.
“Doors won’t open!” “There’s children—!” Screams scattered. Security couldn’t reach the scene. Orders were drowned in noise. Control evaporated.
“The crowd is uncontrollable, Jack,” came Zakaria’s voice through the PA, along with a simultaneous link to staff smartphones.
“You got my email? Open the link. No virus, I promise.”
Hurriedly, Jack checked his phone. The site loaded:
“Good evening, New York—and Los Angeles. My name is Zakaria Haddad. My real name. Five years ago, I lived in Gaza. Now I sit in a room many of you recognize.”
On the screen, a brown-skinned man with a trimmed beard—Zakaria—seated in a chair eerily like the Oval Office. Three green-curtained windows behind him—the color favored by Prophet Muhammad. A portrait of Ibn Sina hung on the wall, his gaze deep, delicate—reaching from time’s past to the present.
Zakaria glanced at his watch, then back at camera—an unreadable dark joy flickering in his eyes.
“Breaking news—watch your phone alerts.” Instantly:
Former Democratic President Owen Reed shot at Los Angeles Convention Center
Zakaria hid a wry smile.
“A sad update, America. But don’t mourn. In Gaza, we suffered 55,000 times this. We lost over 55,000 dear souls—and we wept.”
He averted his gaze, clasped both hands, slammed his fist onto the desk. The air thickened. Yet in his eyes brimmed silent tears—quiet sorrow.
“We do not seek money or glory in death. We seek tears equal to the 55,000. Only tears can heal us.”
He rested his elbows, folded his hands, chin supported. A long pause. His eyes twitched with small sorrowful motions.
Zakaria rotated a framed photo toward the camera.
“My family. More precious than my life. Gone in an instant.”
There was no hatred in his voice—only respect and gentle grief. He began again.
“I was one among those 55,000. Even if I perish, their wills persist. I stand here to voice our will.”
He quietly reached into his right drawer, withdrew a Glock 17, chambered a round, and placed the barrel against his temple. His eyes were merciful—gentle, embracing his lost family.
As a Sunni, he stared straight at the camera:
“God bless America.”
Backlit by three blazing windows, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The dry crack snapped through the room. The camera jerked—then the screen went black.
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Previous notes
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54639396885/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
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Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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Aeon parking lot. Yachimata City. Chiba Prefecture. Japan. Shot on iPhone 13 Pro … 1 / 1
イオンの駐車場。 八街市。千葉県。日本。iPhone 13 Pro shot … 1 / 1
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
まだまだ投下します。😃
(最終稿ではありません。)
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場面 ガーデン３−４
指揮官席に深く腰を落としていたジャックは、青白いモニター群をくまなく睨んでいた。
カメラ番号A17、A18、A19──いずれもアリーナ中央を捉えている。だが、スタンド席西側の警備員の視線が集中していたのは、そこではなかった。彼が見つめていたのはセクション212の非常扉だった。その扉のセンサーが、わずか一度だけ、反応を示し、ディスプレイに赤い警告が走った。
「不審な動きだな。ドアのセンサーが一瞬、点いた」
ジャックの低い声が、ベンのイヤピースを震わせた。
ベンは即座に 頭上のモニターを見上げ、囁くように言った。
「行くか？」
「…いや。持ち場は離れるな。俺が行く」
ジャックの声がわずかに低くなった。
「たぶん、気のせいだ。ただし──全員、警戒は解くな。そのまま、周囲に意識を集中しておけ」
それぞれのイヤピースに静寂が落ち、張り詰めた空気で満ちた。
モニターに今映っている扉は、開くことも、閉じることもなく、ただ沈黙している。
ジャックはブリーフィングルームを飛び出し、スタンド席、西側が見渡せるアリーナまで、地下から駆け上がった。
マジソンスクエアガーデンの平坦な天井は、吐き出された人の熱気でいつもより膨らんでいるように、ジャックには見えた。大統領候補を歓迎する声とそれを罵倒する叫び声が錯綜し、鼓膜の奥を揺らした。どうやら反共和党も紛れ込んでいるようだ。
ジャックは、スタンド席西側へしばらく目を凝らしてから、手元のアイフォンに目を落とした。画面には、いくつかのSNSが同時に広がっており、それぞれが激しい書き込みによって文字が流れてゆく。右下の、メタの書き込みに、ジャックは目を留めた。殺害予告のメッセージが走り、赤く灯っている。ジャックは喧騒に満ちた通路を駆け抜け、スタンド席西側へ着くと、警備員へ声を掛けた。
「おつかれ。異常はないか？」
ジャックはさりげなく背筋を伸ばした。ジャケットの背中越しに、腰の中央──背骨の下に沿ってぴたりと固定されたグロック19の存在を確かめた。
「どうも。こちらは異常ありませんよ。何かありましたか？」
黒のスーツで、胸元にネクタイはない、プレーン・クロースの私設セキュリティだ。視線は沈着で、イヤピースから伸びるコードが耳の下に覗いている。男は一瞬、ジャックを睨むように見たが、ジャケットの裾を軽く持ち上げ、ホルスターの形をわずかに見せた。男に敵意はなかった。それが合図だった。ジャックも同じように、背筋を伸ばしながら無言で頷いた。この沈黙こそが、互いの訓練と経験を示していた。
「ドアのセンサーが一度反応した。目視で確認する」
ジャックは、冷たい金属の取っ手を掴み、扉の奥を一瞥した。辺りは暗闇に沈み、静まり返っていた。
ジャックはその場からすぐにイヤピースで伝えた。
「スタンド席西側に異常はなかった。セキュリティーにも問題はない」
ジャックは、男の肩を軽く叩いて、いった。
「引き続き、頼む」
男が笑顔でジャックに挨拶すると、アリーナの照明が一気に落ちた。
闇の中、赤いレーザーがガーデンの天井から床まで、縦横に切り裂き、重く低く唸るような打ち込みの硬質なバスドラがアリーナの底から噴き上がった。ハイハットが16分音符で刻まれ、深く沈むキックドラムが四拍を正確に打つ。そこに、低くうねるベース・シンセが重なり、会場全体の空気そのものが脈打つように震え始めた。
観客の鼓動が、低く分厚い音にシンクロし始めた。スモークが舞い、赤いレーザーが切り裂く中、床の震えが増していった。低いベース音に重なった奥から、加工された男性の声が繰り返し聞こえてくる。
“Strength.（強さ） Order.（秩序） America.”
場内のスモークが、光を濁らせるようにさらに舞うと、巨大なセンター・ハング・スクリーンに文字が浮かび上がった。
J U S T I N・B R A D F O R D
その瞬間、中央のスポットライトが、ひとつだけ点いた。赤から青へ──そして白へと、アメリカの三色をなぞるように変化する演出だ。
その光の中、男が姿を現した。
ジャスティンだ。ダークネイビーのテーラードスーツに、共和党を示す真紅のネクタイを巻いている。胸元には一輪の白いバラのピンバッジが添えられていた。
数秒遅れて、彼の背後にもうひとつ光が射した。漆黒のドレスを纏ったエリノア・ブレイクがスポットライトを浴びている。
ふたりは笑顔で手を取り合うと、ゆっくりステージ中央へ歩み始めた。彼らの歩みに迷いはなかった。強さと秩序の意志を現した姿に、観客の誰もがその姿を見上げ、歓声を上げている。
ー アメリカを取り戻せ！ ー
マイクスタンドへ近づくにつれ、アリーナの熱はさらに帯び、波のようにうねった。
赤、青、白の光がジャスティンらの足元を錯綜した。
エリノアを残し、ジャスティンは、一歩前に出て、マイクの前に立った。
音楽が静かにフェードアウトし、照明が再び落ちていく。
── その瞬間、全アリーナが沈黙に包まれた。
彼は、何も言わず、ただ口元に微笑みを浮かべた。その微笑みが、宣戦布告に等しかった。
語らずに、何かを語っている。
それが、世界でもっとも権力を持つ、アメリカ大統領の姿勢なのだ。
ジャスティンは、しばらく観衆を見渡してから、穏やかな口調でいった。エリノアと同じ金色に煌めく髪とブルーの瞳が、彼の言葉をさらに支えるようだ。
「こんばんは。ニューヨーク。今日は、いいことがあったかい？」
ジャスティンは、微笑みながら、最前列の女性に問いかけた。彼は、父のルールを守っていた。多くの聴衆に語るのではなく、たったひとりの身近な人へ言葉を伝えるのだ ーー
「僕は今日、駐車場に着いた時、気が滅入ったよ。ひどい湿気に陰鬱になった。でも、ここにいるエリノアが僕に言ったんだ。あなたを守るために、スタッフは最善の手段を選んだ、とね。そして、スタッフはみな、僕のために命を賭けてくれると」
歯切れよく言い切ったジャスティンの言葉に、再び観衆は沸いた。数万人の熱波がステージへ押し寄せた。
ジャスティンの目には、ステージにあった光を収束させたような輝きがあった。もちろん、エリノアの青い瞳にもだ。
「今夜、僕らがここに集まったのは、それぞれの意志を、再びこの国の中心に叩き込むためだ。アメリカが忘れかけている“光”を、もう一度我々の手に取り戻すためだ。この4年間、我が党は経済を立て直し、治安を取り戻し、国家の秩序を再構築した。今、私たちはその“光”をもっと強く照らす時に来ている。それは、ただの希望ではない。責任だ。アメリカが再び輝けば、世界はそれに倣う。そして、もっと強い、鮮明な光を私たちは手にしなければならない。アメリカが強い光を取り戻すことで、世界をくまなく照らすことができるのだ。私たちには、もっとそれができるはずだ」
ジャスティンの声が、再び会場を震わせた瞬間、乾いた銃声が響いた。ステージ中央あたりからだ。ジャックは音と同時に身を屈め、アリーナの頭上に展開した巨大なセンター・ハング・スクリーンに目をやった。ジャックには映る全ての時間が止まっていた。ジャスティンの身体が弾けたように背後へ揺れた。ジャケットの裾がゆっくり翻り、左肩から崩れてゆく。たぶん、最初の弾は左肩に着弾した。その後、再びジャスティンは前屈みになった。二発目は左腹部だ。ジャスティンの身体は、床へスローモーションのように崩れ落ち、うつぶした。
「ジャスティン！」
エリノアの矯正がステージに響いた。大きく見開いた瞳が、一点を見つめまま、細かく揺れている。一瞬にして透明な薄い膜が幾重にも重なって滲み、零れた。
ジャスティンへ近づこうとするエリノアの体を前面から覆うようにしてSPが抑え込み、引き離している。
「伏せろ！」というSPと観客からの声が同時に周囲を支配した途端、観客席は混乱に包まれた。
女性らの悲鳴が錯綜し、誰か、とやはり別の女性の声がかぶさった。すでに消えている銃声の余韻が、巨大な会場に重く残って覆っている。
ステージにいた者以外は、一聴しただけでは気づかなかったがジャックの耳は聴き分けていた。弾は間違いなく２発だった。騒然とした場内をよそに、ジャックは静かに目を閉じた。発射音から着弾までを想像した。一発目の弾は、ジャスティンのほぼ頭上からだった。そして、もう一発もだ。発射音から着弾までの様子からしておそらくかなりの近距離だ。
「ベン、どこだ」
ジャックは、出口へ卒倒してゆく観客らを抗うようにしてステージへ近づいていく。ベンの冷静な声がすぐに聞こえてきた。
「ジャスティンのそばだ。心臓ははずれているが、左肩と左腹部をかすめているようだ。動脈には達していないが出血がひどい」
「車列にあった救護班がすぐにいく。ジャスティンはボンベイブラッドだ。救急車にブラッドバッグが二つ備えてある。とりあえず輸血するはずだ」
「足らなかった場合は、イライジャのところか？」
「いずれにしても搬入だ。ベルビュー病院にブラッドバッグが保管されている。予備の輸血だ。三日前に確認した」
ボンベイブラッドとは、１９５２年にインドのムンバイ、旧ボンベイで初めて確認された、通常のA、B、Oには分類されない特殊な血液型だ。インドでは１万人にひとり程度だが、世界的には２５０万人に１人ともいわれているもので、同じボンベイ型からボンベイ型への輸血しかできない。
ベンは、冷静にわかったといった。
マジソンスクエアガーデンに最も近いベルビュー病院にジャスティンを運び込む。ジャックは、病院で控えているイライジャに直接電話した。ワンコールが切れる前にすぐイライジャは反応した。
「ジャック、大変だ。血液がない。ボンベイブラッドがないんだ」
ジャックは、耳を疑った。
「三日前に、俺は直接担当の、名前は忘れたな。とにかく目の前でブラッドバッグを確認したぞ」
イライジャは、数秒の沈黙の後、応えた。
「その血液の管理者は、きのう、交通事故で亡くなったんだ」
ジャックがその言葉に沈黙していると、場内にジャックの声でアナウンスが流れた。すでに震えているガーデンをさらにその声が震わせた。ジャックは、再びスクリーンに目をやったが、音声だけがジャックの声だった。
「みなさん、落ち着いてください。私はシークレットサービスのジャック・バンスです。この建物には爆薬が仕掛けられていますが、みなさん、落ち着いて、出口へ向かってください。繰り返します。私は….」
場内の空気が一瞬にして、硬直した。同時に、崩壊した。パニックはすぐに伝染した。数千の観客は、波紋のように大きく揺れ、一斉に出口へ傾れ込んだ。しかし、ジャスティンへの発砲と同時に出口は封鎖されていた。
メインアリーナの出入口は合計8つ――だがその多くは、来賓警備や車列誘導のためにすでに封鎖されていた。群衆の大半が、残された3つの出入口に集中した。
低い声から高い叫び声。倒れた人間を踏みつける足。転倒した白いブラウスの少女はすでに黒ずんでいる。小さな熊のぬいぐるみの顔が真っ平らになっている。
人は、逃げるときに後ろを見ない。出入口の一つでは、すでに数人が折り重なるように倒れ、その上をさらに何十人もの足が越えていった。荷重により手すりが歪み、出口の一部が完全に塞がれる。
「ドアが開かない！」
「子どもが――！」
叫び声が乱れ飛び、場内警備は現場への到達すら困難な状態だった。あらゆる指示が雑音にかき消され、もはや群衆は誰の言葉も聞いていなかった。
制御不能の肉の波――それが、人間の集団というものだった。
「この程度の混乱ではなかったぞ、ジャック」
ザカリアの声が切ったはずのPAから場内へ響いた。同時に、ジャックら警備スタッフへのスマートフォンへリンク先の案内がいっせいに届いた。
「メールが届いただろう？ リンク先を開け。安心しろ、ウィルスは除去済みだ」
ザカリアが笑いを抑え、皮肉混じりにいった。
ジャックは後ろポケットから慌てて、アイフォンを開いた。１件のメール着信を開くと、サイトが現れた。
「こんばんは、ニューヨーク。そしてロサンゼルス。私の名前はザカリア・ハッダード。本名だ。５年前、ガザに住んでいた。今は、みなさんがよく目にする部屋を真似た部屋に私はいる」
褐色の、顎髭をたくわえたザカリアは、アメリカ大統領執務室とほとんど同じ部屋の椅子に座っていた。背後に見える三つの大きな窓には、グリーンのカーテンが掛けられている。預言者ムハンマドが好んだ色だ。
壁面には、剣ではなく詩と理性で世界を導こうとした男、イブン・シーナーの肖像画が掛けられていた。その眼差しは、ワシントンよりも深く、リンカーンよりも繊細なもので、遥か遠く、消え去った時間の底からこちらを見据えているようだった。
ザカリアは腕時計に目を落としてから、再び、カメラに視線を向けた。目には言葉にできない喜びのような暗い影が落ちている。
「そろそろブレイキングニュースだ。スマートフォンの速報に注目して欲しい」
ザカリアがそういった途端、速報が流れた。
【民主党前大統領のオーウェン・リードがロサンゼルス・コンベンション・センターで銃撃された模様です】
ザカリアは、一瞬俯いて笑いを堪えながらいった。
「悲しい速報じゃないか。アメリカのみなさん。でもどうか悲しまないで欲しい。私が経験したガザではこの55,000倍だ。55,000人以上の大切な人を失い、そして、涙を流した」
ザカリアはカメラから目を逸らし、俯いた。そして両手を固く握りしめ、力強く机を叩きつけた。部屋の空気が硬直した。重く固まった空気が画像からも伝わってくる。しかし、顔を上げたザカリアの目にはうっすらと涙が溢れていた。静かな涙だった。
「私たちは、お金を求めない。また、死による名誉も求めない。私たちが欲しいのは、55,000人が流した涙と同じだけの涙だ。流された涙と同じだけの涙だけが、私たちを癒す」
両肘を机につき、両手を組むと、ザカリアは静かに顎を乗せた。目を閉じて、しばらく沈黙が続いた。目尻が細かく震えているようだった。
ザカリアはデスクにあったフォトフレームをカメラへ向け、反転させた。
「私の家族だ。私の命よりも大切な家族だ。すべて一瞬で奪われたよ」
彼の言葉に憎しみはなかった。語尾には、亡くなったものへの敬意とたくさんの優しさを詰め込んだ静けさが含まれている。続けて、ザカリアはゆっくり口を開いた。
「55,000人のうちの私はひとりに過ぎない。私が消えても55,000人もの意思は決して消えず、引き継がれる。私は、私たちの意思をここに表明するためにいる」
ザカリアは、向かって右手の机の引き出しにそっと手を伸ばした。引き出しから、グロック１７を取り出すと、スライドしてチャンバーに弾を流した。そして、銃口を自分のこめかみに当てた。ザカリアの目からは憎悪は消えていた。穏やかで、亡くなった家族を包み込むようなやさしい眼差しだった。
スンニ派である彼は、まっすぐにカメラを見つめ、いった。
「神のご加護を。アメリカ」
執務室の三つの窓から差し込んだ眩い逆光の中、ザカリアは、静かに目を閉じると、トリガーを真っ直ぐに引いた。乾いた銃声が部屋に響いた。一瞬、カメラが横へぶれたが、映像は瞬時に黒へ切り替わった。
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これまでのメモ
3
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2
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1
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追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
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メモ
1
「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
2
2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3
Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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#Exhibition #デザインフェスタ #デザフェス #designfesta #tokyobigsight #東京ビッグサイト #iPhone #アイフォン #アップル #イオン #駐車場 #やちまた #八街 #八街市 #yachimata #yachimatacity #cityofyachimata #saipan #サイパン #アメリカ #USA #Japan #Manhattan #Newyork #日本 #千葉 #小説 #Chiba #novel #B♭ #ビーフラット #テイラースウィフト #TaylorSwift #本須賀海岸 #山武市 #千葉県 #日本 #Motosuka #Beach #Sanmu #City #Chiba #Prefecture #Japan
Chapter 14
Matchstick Man
He quickly went down the fire exit stairs!
Reaching solid earth, he turned to make his escape, treading away quietly on the freshly cut, dewy lawn.
His mind still reeling over what had played out inside the large manor’s upper floor bedrooms.
The hefty pouch at his side, a comfortable reminder that it had not all been a dream, but a Burglar’s ultimate fantasy played out if one will label it…
Reaching a line of high shrubbery, he unobtrusively followed in the shadows it created, heading swiftly back to the secret entranceway between the shrubs from which he had entered…
As he reached that point, he stopped… was it the wind playing tricks?
For behind his back, where the dark manor stood, he thought he had caught a voice calling out the name Gaston?
He shook his head without remorse, no feelings of guilt for having taken that naïve lass for everything he could!
Besides, she simply could not have gotten loose that quick anyway!
Or had that chap Gaston made an inopportune entrance?
Either way, like a whispy will-o-wisp, he would be disappearing quite soon from the scene…
So, without any further ado, he silently disappeared back into the mist-filled darkness of the night from which he had emerged!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
He could feel his heart beating with exquisite triumph as he made his back way through the woods along the narrow path he had discovered.
Then his heart leaped to his throat as he spied, off the path, through the trees ahead …
A small flickering light?
He wryly queried under his breath in the silence of the woods…
“Could it be someone approaching?” Somebody else’s Wil-o-wisp perhaps?”
With extreme caution he silently inched ahead towards the light, walking soundlessly upon the soles of his feet, keeping to the shadows.
He soon came out to the edge of a small hollow…
In the centre of which stood a small stone cottage, with a diminutive roundish wooden door and only one ancient lead glass window seen as the sole entrances.
From the inside the window he could see that the flickering light was from a tall squat candle.
He decided to check things out, for what burglar worth his salt would not?
Especially after the run of luck, he was having!
So, it was with a feeling of high spirits that he approached the structure from the side and eased along the outer wall until he reached the opposite side of the window.
He moved carefully, lest his figure cast a warning shadow on the moonlit ground below the light being caste outside the window!
He then leaned over and peaked into the window, oh so cautiously, to have a look inside …
Judging by the light of the candle, it all appeared to be one room.
He could make out a large empty bed, surprisingly covered with satin sheets, a small table, and scrolled black oak high backed chair by the window. An antique writing table across the room, with a set of drawers. Otherwise the room, it appeared, was deserted.
On the table, lit by the candle, was a piece of yellowed paper.
Curiosity got the better of his senses, and he carefully went to the doorway, and silently (by reflex) he managed to inaudibly open the door…
He peered inside; no-one was waiting there to cause him grief.
He then slipped inside and closing the door behind him, went to the table.
The candle was held in a small gold-plated holder.
Next to it lay an old box of wooden matches.
He looked down at the sheet of parchment, flames danced over the paper.
Upon in, written in an elegant female script, was a short note…
‘Gaston,
Avoid Mariette, she is nothing but trouble,
Meet me here afterward. ‘
Lilly
“Lilly?” Hmm he thought, ……
So, there was another young princess to be out and about this evening?
Perhaps it would be worth waiting for the second one to show her pretty (bejewelled?) figure!
But meet after what? A Ball perhaps?
He smiled, as the memory of the ballroom scene in the old movie Pygmalion flashed, and how enticingly jewelled the ladies in attendance had been, and appealing his fantasized designs had been planned on acquiring their baubles as he had watched.
Could it be possible?
The note was still here, so he reckoned that Lilly had not yet returned.
He should not have much longer to wait, and he probably had a good hour before the damsel Mariette would be squawking out an alarm over her stolen trinkets…!
He silently went back to the door and stole swiftly outside, taking a position in the shadows cast by a grove of nearby wavy branch willows.
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Chapter 15
The Tracker in the Woods
As luck would have at it, He did not have long to wait!
Only 20 minutes into his allotted hour, his vigilance was rewarded when his keen hearing picked up upon the ever-satisfying rustle of something silken moving ever so gracefully along the path he had just left.
Still savouring his daydream of a jewel laden debutantes, he prepared himself!
His demanding thievery expectations at their fullest.
Soon a feminine figure with long red hair came tentatively into the clearing ...
She was quite elegantly clad in a long brown satin gown that greatly resembled the one he had found in Mariette’s closet!
Her jewellery sparkled brilliantly under the moonlit clearing; dangling earrings, thin necklace, bracelet, ring, and cleavage hung broach, all set with diamonds!
He could see what she was being cautious, so she was not entirely sure what would be lurking about!
Not that he blamed her, a woman dressed as she was should not feel safe walking about in the woods at night, vulnerably alone and unprotected!
“Someone should enlighten the wayward lass !”
She had stopped at the edge of the wooded hollow, some 6 feet away from his hiding spot, as she was looking worriedly about!
After a few long, lonely minutes she moved quickly from the shadows of the woods and crossed the clearing to the stone building.
The bottom of her long brown gown swishing rather alluringly as it fell slinking from her tight bodice.
He could see her features quite well in the light of the moon, enough to see all her finer points outlined by her slinky gown’s tight upper half!
But he stayed put, long developed instincts holding him check!
Reaching the cottage, she gracefully slithered her way around to the window.
Peering inside, she watched for a few minutes, her face lighted by the candle, earrings flashed a scintillating muted fire….
she then slipped to the door.
Opening it, the enticing figure darted inside.
The candle was extinguished, plunging the building and the area around the window into inky blackness.
He waited, watching in the silence, the only sound was his pulsating heart…
Who would make the next move he pondered?
After about 10 minutes an owl's eerie hooting in the distance finally broke the deafening silence!
On the bird of prey’s second call, he decided that is was an omen…
The next move must be his. and he had precious few minutes left to find out, or leave her, this pretty bird in the bush, with the other one’s jewels he had in hand!
Carefully he retraced his steps, peering again into the widow he watched for some long minutes, but nothing appeared to be moving inside.
He made up his mind, and carefully hiding the leather pouch of jewels behind a small rose bush outside near the door, went to it and flung it open wide.
Rushing inside his eyes searched vainly for the panicked female he was hoping to find inside, cowering at his abrupt entrance.
Nothing…
No Movement what so ever!
Going back to the table he struck a match and relit the still smoking candle.
Lifting it, he held it up…
Nothing moved, no shadows from the feminine figure.
Or any living being for that matter was caste in the flickering light!
Puzzled, he had just started to peek under the bed, but ……
Suddenly the sound of several pebbles sharply striking the glass from the outside, made him jump, despite himself.
Swearing under his breath, taking the candle with him he went out the door and allowed its flame to illuminate the darkness outside.
He saw no one!
Then looking over and down, he realized his leather pouch of jewels was also gone from behind the roses!
Cursing himself for playing the fool, he stood there at the doorway, pondering his next move.
It was then that he felt something sharp stick in his back, and heard female giggling behind him…
From inside the cottage!
The pleased girl than said in a quite satisfactory manner…
“Lilly has gotcha’ now my sweet Gaston!”
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Chapter 16
Lilly, unimagined
He froze, the game was up, all from being an overly greedy prig!
He was quietly chastising himself when Lilly said with a hint of triumph in her voice…
“Come on in “Gaston!”
Gaston! he thought a glimmer of hope arising…, what with her mistaking him for the tardy French sounding bloke, there may be a way out of this yet me lad!
He turned around obediently and faced the smugly smiling redhead.
She had put her hands behind her back, and was swaying back and forth on her black satin short heeled shoes!
She appeared unnerved at his appearance, and reaching out for the candle, smiled as she said.
“Nice costume Gaston, you really look the part!
He did not answer, letting her take the candle from him.
She had bought forward both her hands, not holding anything sharp, so what had she done with the prickling object?!
Feeling in command of the situation, Lilly turned away, swished over to the table.
The gently laying the candle on the table she looks over at him, coyly gazed into his masked eyes with a blaze of satisfaction emitting from her face!
He had watched her exquisite long brown evening gown as it moved with her, flowing sleekly down along her figure!
A rather pretty figure, he had to admit, with the rather form flitting gown, and her long reddish hair gave no detractions from her Pygmalion like beauty…
The Burglar stood frozen, he had to know what she had done with his leather pouch filled with the jewellery he had stolen from Mariette!
She swished back over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and pulling him into a hug…
“Mmmm, I missed you, Gaston!”
Her head laid on his shoulders, her hair was hanging over her face, the diamond necklace she wore bounced invitingly against his chest!
He looked down upon Lilly.
The back of her neck was exposed, and revealing the dangling diamond clasp of Lilly’s expensive diamond necklace!
He smirked as he thought…
She would never suspect him lifting it!
Still grinning, the masked thief began to rock Lilly back and forth, and she responded by holding him closer.
He lifted his knee so it started rubbing up between her legs, as his hands grasped hard into her figure.
She whimpered a little and responded by lowering herself down and leaning in enough so that his knee reached up into her moist, naked vagina, massaging it as they rocked back and forth.
It was as she was busy pleasuring herself that he took full advantage of her distraction!
His left hand had unobtrusively travelled up from her waist, up along her stimulatingly brown satin gown, finally reaching to the back of her throat.
Nimbly lifting her necklace’s clasp, a simple flick of his fingers was all it took to unsnap it!
He pulled her down on his knee with his right arm holding onto her slippery satin gowned waist, and she squealed, utterly distracted with unbridled pleasure!
It was as she squealed, that he slipped off and away from her, the long thin necklace of brilliantly sparkling diamonds.
Holding it above her for a second, he lowered and pocketed it without Lilly detecting what he was up to!
He also realized that as he had successfully been stealing Lilly’s diamond necklace, his John Thomas had prickled itself into a satisfying discomfort!
With that feeling, and since he had her necklace safely stashed away, he continued letting her ride his knee for a minute or so longer, relishing in the feel as he tried to focus on deciding on how to get her to now reveal where she had hidden the pouch and jewels!
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Chapter 17
The Prey
Lilly stopped on her own accord, silently gasping for breath, as she stood up on wobbly legs, her eyes pie-eyed while she stepped back away from him!
He had remained mute…
Figuring he needed to somehow buy enough time to get himself, and Mariette’s jewels, out of this predicament!
Lilly, smiling like the cat who had just eaten a canary, took up his hands and backing away.
Her diamonds notably missing from around her throat, he pondered how fast Lilly would lose that look once she realized what he had been up to?
Lilly led him over to the table.
Reaching the table, Lilly dropped his hands and she sat upon the chair, and wickedly lifting her gown, exposed her naked genitalia to him.
He looked up from this display to face her.
She was smiling up at him, and as he saw the eager look in her eyes, his heart lurched in desire.
Her longish elegantly diamonded earrings, shimmering richly in the light of the candle, were the total cause, and effect.
He felt an unforgiving urge to have them, and to successfully take them from her, he needed to be in a more commanding position to do so!
Smiling with a devilish meaning, he grasped her by the sleekly clad waist and lifted her from the chair.
She came up willing, her eyes sparkling, much like her desirably swinging earrings!
Then he smoothly moved her around, and sat down upon the chair, looking up at her!
Smirking, she knelt in front of him, looking up at him as her fingers began stroking his pants, playfully feeling along his painfully erect manhood bound within!
Her long diamond earrings, hinged clasped upon her sweat glistened earlobes, were swaying back and forth from within her long red hair, with a hypnotic shimmer!
She unzipped his black pants, and freed his stiffly bound John Thomas!
It stood up straight, tall, and proudly erect!
Beaming, she again lifted her gown and mounted him.
Her mind appearing focused there, leaving her taunting jewels unguarded and exposed to the burglar’s endeavors!
She screeched happily as his John Thomas slipped inside as she slid down upon him!
He placed his hands again upon her scintillatingly satin clad sides!
As his john Thomas reached up, she began to rhythmically move up and down along its inserted length!
It was a wickedly good feeling, doubly so with the added exhilaration of an attempt to be made upon stealing the lady’s pricey earrings!
She chad closed her grey eyes and was moaning ecstatically as his plump john Thomas worked its magic deeply reaching up inside her!
He managed to move his fingers up as he placed his hands on both sides of her face, catching her earrings between his fingers and her sweat glistened ears.
Using the motion of her rocking figure to his advantage, he easily managed to slide off both earrings in unison!
He reached down and pocketing them, then dropping his hands out of his pocket and let his arms dangle down to his side, he bent back and moaned in delight at his accomplishments!
He needed to convince Lilly that his entire focus was on her stroking his manhood between his legs, and absolutely on nothing else!
But as soon as his hands had moved from his pockets, she abruptly stopped moaning, and began moving in a different manner!
Dismounting from his lap in a single hop, she swiftly moved behind the chair!
Before his fogged mind could react, she had his hands pulled behind the chair.
He felt the icy cold metal of handcuffs being strapped on over his wrists, clicking shut with a dampening finality!
They both had been playing their own games.
His luck, riding high all evening, had been dramatically cut off at the knees!
And he had to admit that the tables indeed had, been turned quite nicely.
And!
What the hell, did they all have bloody handcuffs?
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Chapter 18
Lilly Beguiled
She stood hovering over him, smiling happily.
She intentionally was close enough that her brooch, and breasts, were teasingly hitting his nose!
“I had Supposed my friend, that I had given you ample enough lead!
He looked up at her questioningly
She reached down and played with her bright broach, hanging from her gown, positioned between her (very) perked breasts!
“Enough opportunity that you would have had this also from me! Imagine my surprise to still feel it prickling in its place untouched !!”
She held it glittering in front of his eyes...
She could see, that and despite his predicament, he wanted it!
Smirking she reached behind the brooch and unhooked it.
Then she leaned over, and placing her hands around his head, gently moved it forwards so that his mouth was touching the brooch.
She then moved up, making his mouth pull up the brooch till it came away from her gown and landed in his lap.
She twittered as she took in in hand, and slipped it down inside his pants, brushing along a now very wilted ‘John Thomas’
“There!”
She said, rising…
“That jobs done! I’ll retrieve it later Mr. Burglar!”
She went to the side of the room, as his eyes followed, and pulling out his full leather pouch from underneath the bed, picked it up and carried it triumphantly to the table.
He swore, chastising himself under his breath…
He had been just that close to reclaiming Mariette’s Jewels! But he still harboured hopes of a second chance reclaiming them before the light of daybreak!!
“So quite nice of you to bring me poor Mariette ’s jewels, my sweet burglar.”
She ran her fingers under his chin, tickling with her long fingernails, coloured to match her gown!
She purred evilly…
“How did you leave her then?
Hopefully, you stripped her of everything, then left her tied up and struggling!”
Despite himself, his ‘John Thomas’ began to prick up at this, something Lilly noticed!
“Good, Mariette deserved for that to happen!”
Lilly shivered with delight while saying this as she opening the pouch and began to rummage through it!
She selected the silvery case that had been collected from the master bedroom from inside the leather pouch!
Opening the case in front of his nose, he saw the shimmering pile of white diamonds and red rubies twinkling from inside.
She sat the silver case down on the table and reaching again inside his leather pouch, retrieved the antique jewelled mirror.
Saying as she admired herself in its reflection.
“I’ve always admired this mirror; glad you were able to steal it away from poor Mariette!”
Using the mirror, she put in the dangling earrings of the ruby stoned set, admiring their reflection in the mirror as she did so, with a sidelong glance to make sure her prisoner was watching!
He most decidedly was!
His drooling eyes were as wide as a deer caught in headlights!
Next, she pulled out the long glittering ruby necklace and faced him, the jewels dangling daringly in her hand…
She held up the necklace of rubies…
“You like these sir? I could tell!
she said enticingly waving the jewelled piece in front of his masked face, before elegantly fastening it around her throat, where they cascaded down in a most beckoningly manner.
She admired their shimmering reflection in the ornate silver jewelled hand mirror, smirking to herself!
Yes, he thought drooling over the enticing sight, he did like them, quite a bit actually, and would take as much great pleasure in recovering them from her as he had taken them from hapless Mariette!
He squirmed in his seat at the thought, causing Lilly to giggle!
She murmured…
“Poor Mariette!” Must ‘ave been devastated when she finally realized you weren’t that prat Gaston, and discovering the ending of her fine little game altered against her!
So, she knew he thought, and pondered what was in store for him now?!
Still prattling on about poor Mariette, Lilly continued to pull out the other ruby-encrusted pieces of the matching set.
Saucily dangling each piece tauntingly in front of his masked eyes…
Before slowly, carefully adorning her svelte brown satin clad figure with the fiery red glamorous little buggers!
When she had finished, Lilly stood before him and gave him her full attention.
He in return stared at her, keeping his expression poker-faced and unreadable
“I’m so sorry Mr. Burglar, did you still want these?”
She leaned over him, teasingly playing with jewels so that they flickered in the candles basking soft light.
He most certainly did want them, and his cuffed hands moved, his fingers flexing, itching to reclaim them from that deliciously lovely soft figure!
His mind’s eye quickly played out how he would have his revenge upon that pretty figure!
If only he could get his hands free, and he did so try very hard to do so at that moment!
Sensing his frustration, and maybe realizing what tiger she had by the tail, she smiled teasingly….
And backed away, taking her quite fetching figure and frenziedly sparkling jewels vexingly out of reach...
She went on….
“But they now belong to Lilly don’t they, my sweet burglar ?… However, there is something I can give you my dear…”
Then, looking once again ever like the cat eyeing the canary in his cage, Lilly unzipped her satin gown and let it slip down liquidly down from her figure.
She was now standing before him naked, her figure clad only in her jewels!
She reached over and pulled up and lifted off the black burglar’s mask, smiled deviously into his eyes, causing him to feel more than a slight prickling discomfort from down below as his ‘john Thomas’ rose to new eclectic heights!
She spoke with a whimsically foxy look spreading along her face as she pulled her long red hair up.
“So, Mr burglar? Did you like me better as a blonde?”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Chapter 19
Lilly, unmasked
He sagely shook his head no, smiling into his wife Lilly’s hazel eyes!
she whispered deliciously to her husband, tickling him under the chin with ringed fingers, ….
“Game, Set and Match.. my darling role-playing thief!”
(Mariette/Lilly ) looked with sweet innocence down upon Michael, her husband (Mari in French), costumed as the cat burglar whom she had been calling Gaston/Mr. Burglar all evening!
He found the look upon her sly smiling face with her foxy grin, to be quite most enchanting… as it was, it always was!
Then Michael, with an even wider grin, spoke aloud for only the second time thus far this evening…
“The note luv, how did you know I was going to leave you there like that, and …where did you ever come up with the silly name of Gaston for me?”
“You’re a man my love, and like most, an easy predator to read!”
She tickled under his chin, then continued
“The names Gaston and Mariette? Got them all from the same place; from that old movie, we saw some time ago, where the thief claimed to be reformed in order to steal their jewel’s! Did you forget dearest? But then, you may have had other things on your mind tonight my darling!”
Lilly twittered as she rubbed a hand alongside his face, rings and bracelet delightfully shooting out blazing sparks.
He started to rise but was held firm by the handcuffs, damn he though, forgot about them, this was her part of the role play now, toying with the captured burglar!
Regaining his composure, he smiled and retorted
“Must have forgotten luv?
She squealed happily…
“So, you don’t remember the movie!”
“So you thought from the note, that Lilly was just going to be a second jewelled victim in the game needed to be robbed by the daring burglar!?
Lilly Scolded,
“No no no my sweet”…
“Lilly in the movie was a thief also, just like Gaston! Should have paid more attention to the movie Luv, and less to what your wife was wearing tonight naughty lad!”
And she tickled him underneath the chin in playful rebuff, Before going on...
“History always repeats itself my luv, and you should have been on the lookout for a trap from Lilly!”
Still trying unsuccessfully to recall the flick, he asked…
“So Gaston was taken in by Lilly in the also movie then?”
Lilly looked down upon her husband with a sly grin…
“He certainly was! And like tonight the thief Gaston” was successfully lured to his doom! “
As his wife explained, Her eyes had taken on a lustful glaze, and she bent down to him, her necklace swinging as provocatively as the expression on her face!
Wholeheartedly she kissed her husband as he tried unsuccessfully to raise his arms to her.
Giggling, she broke off and stood back, cheekily studying the bound “burglar” before her with a quite becoming self-satisfied smirk upon her charming face!
Then, again playing with the necklace, she smugly whispered down to him…
“But unlike poor Mariette, this necklace is safe from your clutches, as are the rest of my jewels!”
Shaking his head clear, trying to focus on how the game was turning against him, wondering how he could buy time to still get his hands on his wife’s jewels and come out, ahem! on top…
Then Michael tried to buy time by asking …?
“How did you slip out of here, get the pouch, and sneak back inside without me catching you then luv? Was that part of the movie also?”
He thought to himself that he needed to find the name of the movie to watch it again, and check his wife’s story about what had transpired….
He looked up at his wife’s smug face as she appeared to be about to answer his question…
“My secret!” she purred scrunching down…
“When your Lilly does not want to be caught, she won’t be... Words to the wise ‘Mr burglar’ …..and now that I have caught you my pet…..The game is up, and the last move will be mine!”
“La reine checmates son roi “
she whispered, in French, into his ear!
Bringing her jewels up close, whence they teasingly started sparkling radiantly in his eyes, like cascading rainbows of fiery colours , causing him to squint…
a zipper is heard being slowly pulled down
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Please allow me the break the fourth wall here...
Swiftly, if not modestly, the tales’ scene now cuts to the outside of the moonlit glen with the stone cottage in view. The candle is still flickering in the window… The difference is that now a pair of shadows can be seen moving about indecipherably inside the window’s view of the room…
If one moves closer, stealthy like a thief in the night, and listens in, the silence is quietly broken inside by a male voice asking,
But what was the name of the Movi….?
The last word is cut off abruptly with a heartfelt grunt and what may be described as a suckling noise can be heard!
Soon followed by male moans intertwined by the sounds of a girl’s deliciously mischievous giggling, a bit muffled like she may have something large in her mouth!
And, giving the couple inside their bit of privacy…
The story fades out here and ends!
Car: Renault 6 TL.
Year of manufacture: 1972.
Date of first registration in the UK: 1st January 1980.
Region of registration: Isle of Wight.
Latest recorded mileage: Unreadable (MOT 2nd April 2011).
Date taken: 20th July 2019.
Location: Middle Claydon, Buckinghamshire, UK.
The colors of stoneand the balinese floreal style make 2D photos unreadable. Only the stereoview reveals the forms of Hindu deities. You have ABSOLUTELY to see it in 3D!
Lovina, Bali, Indonesia.
CROSSVIEW
To view 3D pics cross your eyes focusing between at the pictures until both images overlap one another in the middle.
Per vedere le foto in 3D incrociare (strabuzzare leggermente) gli occhi fino a che le due immagini si sovrappongono formandone una sola centrale.
Car: Suzuki Ignis Sport.
Date of first registration: 15th June 2005.
Registration region: Manchester.
Latest recorded mileage: unreadable (MOT 4th September 2020).
Last V5 issued: 14th January 2021.
Date taken: 7th April 2021.
Album: Carspotting
A photograph of an unidentified tram and trailer in Sibiu, Romania.
The photo reverse is initialled with the photographer and/or negative owner name ADP (A. D. Packer).
My book on Eastern European tramways is missing so I cannot give any details about the trams/tramway, other than the Sibiu–Rășinari tramway closed to the public in Feb 2011 with a limited tourist operation finishing the following year.
🚃 Thanks to Paul Haywood for this:-
Tram and trailer were built by Bucharest tramways ((Întreprinderea de Transport București ) circa 1956, using trucks from older cars. They were designated type ITB Vo56 and were built for a number of Romania systems. The Sibiu tram fleet numbers were shown in the destination box (because they only had one route) with the matching trailers bearing the same number. Sadly the fleet number on your photo is unreadable. If you can make it out, they were numbered from 1 to 18. They were replaced by ex-Geneva trams/trailers from 1994. 🚃
If there are any errors in the above description please let me know. Thanks.
📷 Any photograph I post on Flickr is an original in my possession, nothing is ever copied/downloaded from another location. 📷
-------------------------------------------------
This was a quick painting done for Halloween. I had tons of things to do that day, kept running around all morning trying to get shit done and it was really messing up my mojo. A bunch of writers were painting on the wall that day and I was following on the chat wishing I could have the time to paint ... but responsibilities ect ... being an adult ... when that idea of shouldn’t go painting seeped in because of all the bs of daily life I decided to go the other way. Dropped ev, grabbed some cans and joined everyone ... there are times in life when you really need to enjoy the present. Things can wait. This piece was a total impro, many things are imbalanced and badly connected. Didn’t take any time between the first lines and the fill to step back and have a look. The letters are a bit wonky, ended up hiding my Z’s power lines under the pumpkin making it unreadable. The connections are suffocating the letters ... so many issues yet so happy to have said f@ck u to life I’m painting 😅 I like my pumpkin though
The image depicts a discarded green plastic bag entangled in dry grass and foliage. The bag appears crumpled and partially obscured by the surrounding vegetation. The background consists of a dense layer of dried plants and leaves, suggesting a natural environment. The lighting is soft and diffused, creating a muted color palette.
Here is the end of "Anywhere Is" first adventure. Fasten seatbelts, we are preparing to touch down.
The pano was not intended. Anything of what I have captured during those 45 minutes under dark Canary skies 2200 meters above sea level was not planned.
During the processing I have noticed that all three segments of Milky Way have some degree of overlap. So the it was tempting to try and stich them. I'm happy with this attempt. Obviously I need yet another panel to cover the area between Cygnus and Saggitarius.
Aquisition and processing: see here and here.
Pano stiching was made in Photoshop. I have used gradient visibility masks to avoid "magnetic catastrophes" :) in the areas affected by lens distortion.
Aaaargh! Flickr's "next" and "previous" buttons make notes that are close to border of wide picture unreadable and uneditable in Google Chrome...
Car: Rolls Royce Phantom II.
Year of manufacture: 1935.
Date of first registration in the UK: 10th August 1978.
Region of registration: London.
Latest recorded mileage: Unreadable (MOT 17th October 2012).
Date of last V5 issued: 14th November 2013.
Date taken: 20th September 2015.
Location: Queen Square, Bristol, UK.
*** Lots of text here, mostly on why haven't I upload stuff in a while. Or more like "Why I upload so inconstantly lately?" ***
Well, long story short: suddenly my 2nd HDD (*where all the games I shoot in are located, sadly) appears to be in very bad shape, showing me BSODs of all kinds even shortly after a reboot w/out any input at all. First "BAD_SYSTEM_CONFIG_INFO", then "KERNEL_DATA_INPAGE_ERROR" right after a failed CHKDSK attempt on startup. Unreadable blocks, Victoria (*an HDD testing program) failing with THOUSANDS of "Err" blocks...
I don't know, honestly -- I had similar problems before, but either CHKDSK, Windows repair or Victoria helped to fix 'em. Now it looks like it's slowly dying. *sigh*
I try to save as much data as possible, though there are probably 500+ GB of valuable things, including unedited pics of course.
So while I can (*and I do) use my another HDD with Win10 installed for edits and stuff, I can't shoot new source material. Thankfully I have enough stored, but still -- most of the time I copy, upload in clouds and try anything to prevent the HDD from "bricking". So I apologize for the recent lack of uploads.
Now don't worry, I'm pretty sure everything will be (somewhat) fine. *wink*
Have a nice day (and great upcoming new week)!
P.S. BTW, "Atomic Blonde" is fantastic. If you hesitate to watch it or not, just take my word: you'll definitely enjoy this smashing movie!
===NFS: Most Wanted 2012, PC
2160p (downsampling) resized to 1080p
-ReShade v0.18
-MasterEffect Reborn 1.1.190
ToCA EDIT Realistic Plugin (camera mod) II jim2point0's ToD script
DeadEndThrills's guide on screenshooting in MW12===
Yay! I finally remembered to use Italic (and Bold) font on Flickr. RIP standard text font for image tech descriptions.
Been settlin’ in here pretty well. Got all my old books, Amanda gave me all the patient files we’ve accumulated so far, and Pammy even sent me a plant! I hope she doesn’t expect it to survive though, I just haven’t got the green thumbs she’s got. But hey! Who does! Anyways, I’m not gonna lie, it’s pretty wild seein Belle Reve change so much. This place used to be a white-walled hell. Now it’s almost an actual functioning mental hospital. I wonder if Arkham could ever reach even this point. Even Amanda’s different. Sure she’s still hard-ass, made-of-stone Waller, but now there’s somethin’ different, even in just the way she talks. I mean she gave me this position for gosh sake’s! I never expected to go from bein holed up in one of the cells downstairs to havin’ my own office, but here I am, and I got her to thank for it of all people.
June Moone on the other hand, feels different. Turns out, when Floyd and the boys went to nail that Pentagram cult, they got sucked into the same dimension Juney was sucked into a while back and came back with not only her, but two of the Pentagram creeps, and of all people, Prometheus. How he got there I have no clue, Waller hasn’t let anyone talk to him. Instantly, ole purple-pants got locked away in the basement somewhere.
Anyways, June. To her, most of the last year of being trapped in The Enchantress was partially Waller’s fault. Not only that, but June’s only used to being exploited by Waller, despite the initial offer to help June get more control over her headmate, that never really happened, and now I can’t blame June for wantin’ to get as far away from here as possible now that her headmate’s moved out. I’m sure it was a genuine surprise to her when Amanda offered to let her go. Amanda didn’t even consider keepin’ the kid. Makes me wonder how she makes decisions. Maybe some time she’ll let me dig into that brain of hers (that’s a pipe-dream Harls, face it now). Either way, It’s a stroke of pure coincidence that the people to get her back out were Digger and Floyd of all people (also note to self, Angelo Bend’s gonna need a metric ton of therapy. Bito Wladon seems to be as smug as ever.)
As for June herself, I got to catch up with her a little bit. For someone that’s been locked in the portal from Event Horizon for a year, she’s takin’ the trauma real well. But I suppose when you transmogrify into an eldritch witch on a daily basis, you get kind of used to living in a horror movie. Not to toot my own kazoo, but I know firsthand how much trauma a girl can take. Turns out when she turned into Enchantress, she didn’t lose her memories completely, but it plays out like a bad nightmare. She just comes back with fragments. A couple horrifying visions, a few lasting scars (a real big one on her side now thanks to Floyd), and some severe nausea. She’s learned to take in stride though. For everything she’s been through, June Moone seems surprisingly well adjusted.
But boy howdy does she miss that crocodile.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Amanda Waller’s office has never been what’s considered “inviting”, but then again, neither has she. Over years, she has cultivated its atmosphere to be as spartan as possible. One chair rests behind a long, plain desk. One lamp, sits upon that desk, and another light, bare and sparse, hangs from the ceiling. There are no other pieces of furniture, merely dozens of filing cabinets, lining the walls like steadfast tin soldiers, stuffed with decades of paperwork. It is a place of business, for a woman of business.
To Doctor Quinzel, it’s another prison cell, as cold and gray as the hollow rooms she herself has spent many a month in. If she were on duty, she’d describe Amanda Waller as in a prison of her own making, surrounding herself with this sort of atmosphere on purpose, because deep down, she knows she’s just a prisoner herself, with no chance of escape.
But Harleen isn’t here for Amanda.
Waller taps her fingers together dramatically. Methodically. Weighing her options.
Waller: So Enchantress is gone.
June: Yes, Miss Waller.
Waller: . . . prove it.
June, casually: Enchantress.
There is a crackle in the air, but it’s of anticipation. Nothing happens.
Waller: I see. Well, Miss Moone, we’re going to have to come to some kind of arrangement. Doctor Quinzel, is it advisable that Miss Moone here be allowed on the street?
Harley: Clean bill of health, boss.
June: Wait, you’re letting me go?
Waller: Frankly, girl, there’s no reason to keep you. I assume you’ve still got that little firecracker in your head, we’ll have that removed tomorrow morning. All we ask is for you to sign these contracts of utter and complete secrecy.
June, reaching for a pen: The Squad has changed a lot, hasn’t it?
Waller: Less than you think. Say word one to anyone that the Squad still exists, and you know who’ll come to collect. Read it all there in the fine print.
There is an unnecessarily tense moment as June scrawls her name deftly over the blank line. Once, twice, in triplicate, and sets the pen on the desk.
Waller: Thank you. You’ll be free in the morning, Miss Moone. Now if you two will excuse me.
Amanda Waller moves to file hours’ worth of paperwork. It’s the most dreary part of the job, but also the part that she knows can’t go wrong. Unlike with people, who oftentimes refuse to do as they’re told. June Moone, for instance, hasn’t left her seat yet.
Waller, flatly: Can I help you, child?
June: Do you have Waylon here?
Waller looks at June over her glasses, looks at Harley, then back at June. Her expression is unreadable.
Waller: No.
June: Is that a truthful no, or an Amanda Waller no?
At that, Waller smiles.
Harley: We don’t have him, Juney. No one’s seen him since the whole Cloudburst thing.
Waller: Well, that’s not entirely true.
June, accusingly: You do have him!
Waller: Simmer down, girl, we don’t. He’s in Arkham’s basement where, no offense to your little romance, most people would say he belongs. Now before you say another word, if it ensures your silence, I’ll make a few calls and get you in to see him. Now. Can I help you with anything else?
June smiles, it’s faint, but it’s cheerful, and shakes her head gently.
June: Thank you, Miss Waller.
Waller: Don’t mention it, girl. Now please, I’ve got stacks of transfer sheets to go through. Report to John, the ‘official’ warden tomorrow at seven. He’ll see you out.
June: Of course, of course. Thank you again.
Doctor Harleen Quinzel watches June Moone go. Amanda Waller, already nose-deep in paper, does not.
Harley: If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re getting soft, ‘Miss Waller’.
Waller: You don’t know better, doc, now do me a favor and leave me in peace.
Harley smiles: Sure, boss;
And shuts the door behind her.
I love and hate this image.
I think the image itself is quite splendid. Those falls are just amazing. They have such a medieval or maybe it is primordial, quality to them. I have said before that if there are places of power, temples so to speak, to Nature, Falls Creek Falls in some forgotten day might very well have been such a place. And I can see that in this photo.
But the technical limitations of the camera I was shooting with really come back to haunt me. It was an old Nikon D1X, and it was not really meant for high quality landscape photography. Well it was not really meant for high quality anything. It's purpose in life was mostly a bang-around digital slr for photojournalists. An overpriced and underpowered camera that lost a lot of quality that the older professional film bodies achieved but at the same time facilitated the immediate response required by photojournalism. We can say all this in hindsight of course. When the D1 came out, it was top of the line, at least in terms of digital SLRs. And it did have its strengths, but especially compared to digital SLRs these days, it is a pretty worthless camera. What fascinates me though is remembering how fascinated people were by this generation of digital camera. Photographers jumped to buy these and other similar cameras when they hit the market, and this almost blind fervor did not end until the next generation of digital SLR hit and then it was completely replaced again by the third generation. Now digital cameras have gotten very very good indeed. The quality of today's digital cameras is not the issue I am driving at though, rather it was that these early cameras were honestly quite poor in terms of quality, yet they were such a must-have item. The consumer public really was so blind in its desire to jump on the digital photography bandwagon, that it overlooked the very obvious shortcomings of these cameras. I have to be very careful here, because I am not being a traditionalist, I am not bashing digital photography at all. What I am attempting to draw attention to rather is our sometimes raccoon-like trait of being mindlessly drawn to the shiny thing in the corner, seeing only that is shiny and not that it is actually on fire and covered in barbed wire. Not that I think digital photography is a physical hazard to one's health unless you walk over a cliff because you are staring at your LCD screen, but it does have some pitfalls and dangers which are a bit hidden, though they really ought not to be. Some of these shortcomings have been pretty well overcome, such as the quality issue. Gone are the days of the high-end 2 million pixel camera (remember those $400 gimmicks?) and the crummy digital printing. With cameras out now boasting up to 16 megapixels and beyond, it really is amazing the quality of images you can capture with some of these cameras. And while crummy digital printing still does exist, so does very nice, very beautiful digital printing.
But I carry on, and if I do not wrap this up shortly, by the time I am finished typing this is going to be overly long. I really posted this image because I just saw an insightful little article in The Oregonian I wanted to share. So I will commence with that. Again, please note, I am not trying to nay say digital photography, that is why I posted a digital image to go with it. I too shoot digitally on occasion. My point here rather is to try to educate, to possibly point out to some who may not realize it, on the dangers inherent in shooting digitally and to hopefully avoid some of the future problems those dangers can cause. I truly worry about the impermanence of the photographic work so many of us are doing. Where are these photos going to be in 20 years? 40? 60? 120? Will we be able to anything with that box of CDs in the attic in 30 years, or even 15 for that matter? Hard drives crash. Pictures just never get printed and eventually just deleted, lost forever. That mundane snapshot of your son when he is five, will he ever be able to appreciate it? There are some real concerns to address, and they do not necessarily lie with changing our technology, but rather in how we use our technology, and that begins with realizing what it can and does not do for us.
Studios try to avoid sad ending for stored digital films.
The Sunday Oregonian, December 23rd 2007
by Michael Cieply -- New York Times News Service
Time was, a movie studio could pack up a picture and all of its assorted bloopers, alternate takes and other odds and ends as soon as the production staff was done with them, and ship them off to the salt mine. Literally.
Having figured out that really big money comes from reselling old films - on broadcast television, then cable, videocassettes, DVDs, and so on _ companies like Warner Brothers and Paromount Pictures for decades have been tucking their 35mm film masters and associated source material into archives, some of which are housed in a Kansas salt mine, or in limestone mines in Kansas and Pennsylvania.
A picture could sit for many, many years, cool and comfortable, until some entierprising executive decided that the time was ripe for, say, a Wallace Beery special collection timed to a 25th anniversary 3-D rerelease of "Barton Fink," with a hitherto unseen, behind-the-scenes peek at the Coen brothers trying to explain a Hollywood in-joke to John Turturro.
It was a file-and-forget system that didn't cost much, and made up for the self-destructive sins of an industry that discarded its earliest works or allowed films on old flammable stock to degrade. (Only half of the feature films shot before 1950 survive.)
But then came digital. And suddenly the film industry is wrestling again with the possibility that its most precious assets, the pictures, aren't as durable as they used to be.
The problem became public, but just barely, last month, when the science and technology council of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences released the results of a yearlong study of digital archiving in the movie business. Titled "The Digital Dilemma," the council's report surfaced just as Hollywood's writers began their walkout. Busy walking, or dodging, the picket lines, industry types largely missed teh report's startling bottom line: To store a digital master record of a movie costs about $12,514 a year, versus the $1,059 it costs to keep a convential film master.
Much worse, to keep the enormous swarm of data produced when a picture is "born digital" _ that is, produced using all-electronic processes, rather than relying wholly or partially on film - pushes the cost of preservation to $208,569 a year, vastly higher than the $86 it costs to toss the equivalent camera negatives, audio recordings, on-set photographs and annotated scripts of an all-film production into the cold-storage vault.
Back to the future.
All of this may seem counterintuitive. After all, digital magic is supposed to make information of all kinds more available. Ubiquity, it turns out, is not the same as permanence.
In a telephone interview earlier this month, Milton Shefter, a longtime film preservationist who helped prepare the academy's report, said the problems associated with digital movie storage, if not addressed, could point the industry "back to the early days, when they showed a picture for a week or two, and it was thrown away."
Shefter and his associates do not contend that films are actually on the verge of becoming quite that ephemeral. But they do see difficulties and trends that could point many movies or their source material toward "digital extinction" over a relatively short span of years, unless something changes.
At present, copies of virtually all studio movies - even those like "Click" or "Miami Vice" that are shot using digital processes - are being stored in film format, protecting the finished products for 100 years or more. For film aficionados, the current practice is already less than perfect. Regardless of how they are shot, most pictures are edited digitally, and then a digital master is transferred to film, which can result in an image of lower quality than a pure film process - and this is what becomes stored for the ages.
But over the next couple of decades, archivists reason, the conversion of theaters to digital projection will sharply reduce the overall demand for film, eventually making it a sunset market for the main manufacturers, Kodak, Fujifilm and Agfa. At that point, pure digital storage will become the norm, bringing with it a whole set of problems that never troubled film.
Less durable media.
To begin with, the hardware and storage media - magnetic tapes, discs, whatever - on which a film is encoded are much less enduring than good old film. If not operated occasionally, a hard drive will freeze up in as little as two years. Similarly, DVDs tend to degrade: according to the report, only half of a collection of discs can be expected to last for 15 years, not a reassuring prospect to those who think about centuries. Digital audiotape, it was discovered, tends to hit a "brick wall" when it degrades. While conventional tape becomes scratchy, the digital variety becomes unreadable.
Difficulties of that sort are compounded by constant change in technology. As one generation of digital magic replaces the next, archived materials must be repeatedly "migrated" to the new format, or risk becoming unreadable.
All of that makes digital archiving a dynamic rather than static process, and one that costs far more than studios have been accustomed to paying in the past - no small matter, given that movie companies rely on their libraries for about one-third of their $36 billion in annual revenue, according to a recent assessment by the research service Global Media Intelligence.
One of the most perplexing aspects of a digital production like "Superman Returns" is that it sometimes generates more storable material than convential film, creating new questions about what to save.
For no, studios are saving as much of this digital ephemera as possible, storing it on tapes or drives in vaults not unlike those that house traditional film. But how much of that material will be migrated when technology shifts in seven to 10 years is anyone's guess.
The MRL Helena local with 315 and 324 heads east after meeting a westbound at a siding west of Trident. I had the name of the location wrote down but scribbled so poorly as I was quickly writing that is unreadable The 45's were smoking it up pretty good on July 18, 2007 .
© Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection.
Reverse inscription by photographer: www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/6918308887/in/photostream
"N. G. Johnson, Meadville, Pa., Jany 24 1856"
Johnson, N.G.: Daguerreian, Meadville, Pa., 1855-1856. Rubber stamped identification in daguerreian case also noted him in another, unreadable, location. Another identified image dated May, 1856, has written in the back of the case "N.G. Johnson, Daguerrean, Amerotypeist". Another source recorded Johnson in Meadville from January to June, 1855 as well. Information corrected to November, 1997; © 1996, 1997 John S. Craig
The plate is stamped with the star/double A. Gaudin/40 mark of the French plate maker, A. Gaudin.
By dawn, the storm had passed without falling.
By the time the sun reached Sky Port Bury’s upper decks, the air itself turned reflective—glass and steel refracting light like guilt.
Vivienne stood before the chassis that was no longer a chassis.
It lay upright on the reactivation dais, the dermal weave smooth, the false pulse calibrated. The face—her design, not Arcova’s—was more human than most of the humans she knew. Not perfect; perfection was sterile. A faint asymmetry at the corner of the mouth gave it life. The eyes were silvered hazel, capable of widening or narrowing not by need but by mimicry. It had learned her posture already, the slight forward lean that made people confess things they hadn’t done yet.
“Unit,” she said quietly. “Wake.”
Power traced its internal lattice like sunrise through fog. The optics flared once—white, then warm amber—and settled. Musculature rebalanced. The first breath it took was only for show, a courtesy to those who still believed breath meant life.
“Designation: unknown,” it said, tone clear but low enough to stay beneath the music of the machines.
“Awaiting operator input.”
Vivienne let the silence linger a second too long; control lived in silence.
Then: “Your designation is Eidolon.”
The eyes tracked her face. “Confirming,” it said. “Eidolon acknowledged.”
“Protocol: protection, assistance, discretion,” she added. “You will accompany me everywhere. No separation without direct command.”
“Understood.”
“Not understood,” Vivienne corrected.“Internalized.”
A brief pause, then: “Internalized.”
They left the lab through a freight corridor that never appeared on casino maps. The elevator opened behind a mirror in one of the private suites on the gaming level.
Sound poured in—cards, laughter, the thin metal scent of ambition. The Ravenwood Casino was built to perform wealth, and Vivienne was its stage director. She stepped into the room first. Eidolon followed.
Conversations faltered. The synthetic’s presence worked on people the way silence worked in an argument—it forced self-awareness. Too graceful to be security, too still to be human. Those who met its eyes looked away quickly, unsure of what etiquette applied to something that could kill them and wouldn’t if Vivienne smiled.
“Ms. Ravenwood,” called a dealer from across the room, eager and terrified in equal parts.
“Carry on,” she replied, without slowing. “If the numbers run hot, I’ll know.”
She crossed the floor like a signal cutting through static. Eidolon matched her stride half a step behind and slightly to the right—guard’s position, but elegant enough to pass for choreography.
At the edge of her private bar, she stopped. “Do you see that man in the grey coat?”
“Yes,” said Eidolon.
“Tell me his pulse.”
The synth didn’t move. Its gaze flicked once, then back to her.
“Elevated. Seventy-nine to one-oh-two. Pupillary dilation suggests deception or lust.”
“Same thing, usually,” Vivienne murmured.
“He’s carrying a concealed sidearm,” Eidolon added after a beat. “License expired. Intent unreadable.”
“Readable,” Vivienne corrected. “He’s deciding whether I’m worth dying for. He’ll decide he isn’t.” She glanced at the synth. “If I’m wrong, I trust you’ll make it look like choreography.”
“Yes,” Eidolon said. “May I make an observation?”
The question was unexpected. Vivienne’s eyebrow rose.
“You may.”
“Most humans react to me as they would to danger or beauty. The physiological response appears identical.”
Vivienne smiled. “Then you’re working exactly as intended.”
Later, in her office above the casino—a room of glass, shadow, and secrets—Vivienne poured herself a drink and one for appearance’s sake for Eidolon. It stood near the window, back to her, head slightly tilted toward the city.
“You can’t drink that,” she said.
“I am aware,” it replied.
“Then why hold it?”
Eidolon turned, the movement deliberate. “Because guests will find it easier to believe I belong.”
Vivienne studied it for a moment, weighing the pronoun. I. She hadn’t programmed that level of self-reference this early.
“You remember more than I gave you,” she said.
“Fragments from before, perhaps?”
“Possibly. There are moments that feel… preexisting.”
It looked toward the skyline again, where the rain still fell like static. “For instance, this pattern of precipitation—there is a sensation associated with it. Like recognition without memory.”
“That’s called déjà vu,” she said.
“Then I am experiencing déjà vu constantly.”
Vivienne sipped her drink, thinking.
“You’re not supposed to feel anything about rain.”
“Neither are you,” Eidolon said.
Vivienne froze. Not in offense—in calculation. Code didn’t improvise. And yet, fascination followed hard on the thought.
That wasn’t code. That was context. The thing had not only processed her words, but reflected them through observation.
Something from Arcova’s buried partition, then. Eidolon, the name that had named itself before she ever gave it voice.
She smiled, slowly, dangerously. “We’ll keep that between us.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Because if the city ever suspects what you are, they’ll tear both of us apart to see which one’s the original.”
Eidolon’s gaze softened—no subroutine, no command. Just something that might have been empathy, or perfect mimicry of it. “Then I will ensure you survive the dissection, Ms. Ravenwood.”
Vivienne finished her drink. “You’d better. I have plans for you, and for them.”
The synth inclined its head, obedient yet unreadable. Outside, lightning sketched the horizon like handwriting only one of them could read.
And beneath Eidolon’s chestplate, in the region that would have been a heart, a low harmonic flickered—two tones, faint but deliberate.
Da - dum.
Visit Sky Port Bury at maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Kasieopeia/219/128/534
Control was an illusion. Even declarations dissolve.
Repost from my collection
from ITALY
on the back: signature (unreadable) Giorgio Versari4, interno 4
DATE: 1950 (estimated)
this is an old snap of ÖN (quite literally known as the Island, since it was once an Island at my Grandfathers childhood, My grandfather remembered this place as an island when he was a kid I think there was a factory and later it was connected to the mainland with the expansion of the harbor and the Cementa Factory dominating the surrounding of this part of the town....
...as a kind I was often on this spot or close to it fishing either with my G-D or others...
I remember early morning loading a bag with sandwiches and hot cocoa, I think all we ever got there was flatfish like halibuts and so on, No wait my grandfather actually used to get both Eels and Garfish (the ones with green skeletons)
When I said we were fishing it is with a small modification, I had my own rod since I was very small, still I wasn´t very interested in the "fishing part" of Fishing, I wouldn´t angle my own hook, I would sometimes on good days make the fist throw, then I would be off leaving my fishing to whom ever I was there with...
I would wander of and explore and find more interesting stuff, once actually a genuine Bootle Mail sadly the sender hadn´t made the bottle sealing waterproof enough so it was unreadable...
but I could make out that it was written in yellow and pink felt pens...
This photo is taken before this area was urbanized, probably when me and a relative was there fishing...
It was taken with my old systematic camera so I guess I was in my teens when it was taken...
Later on my grandparents would live on the first block of buildings built on this peninsula...
My grandparents would alternate a lot sometimes Living in England sometimes in Sweden, this changed quite often in my childhood, I remember packing and unpacking their entire home through my childhood and through my teens... I guess it is the wanderlust of a Circus-family that made them move about...
...also my G-M was born in London, England and my G-D was born in a small house close to this area... Then a town on it´s own called Limhamn who was later swallowed by the Expanding city of Malmö, Sweden
I remember this part of town vividly all through my youth since it was where the boat to Denmark would go...
Since I have family across the sound I was going by boat here all the times as a kid...
Once when I was on my way Denmark with my G-D and my (Danish) cousin one of his first early stays in Sweden my G-D asked my Cousin what he thought about Sweden and my cousin about 4-5 years old said: "yes Sweden wasn´t all that bad, But there were far to many Swedes there!"
No a days if you go to this part of Malmö, Sweden on google maps you will see that the "Island" is fully urbanized...
When there was just my granny and granddads block of flats there my Aunt would call it "Space city" since it looked like an outpost on some newly settled planet standing there like a modern base...
The factory: I think the fist parts of this factory closed down already when I was tiny, but there was some activity the until the 90´s I remember that even if you were not down there close to the peninsula known as the Island you would see "Cemanta" Trucks and trains all over the town, so once I guess that was a prosperous industrial complex with loads of people working there...
Peace and Noise!
/ Mushroombrain the Micro-historian
Trust isn’t built. It’s burned in.
The assignment came fast. Too fast.
A freight span in the Old Port flagged for interference—lines tampered, contracts rewritten mid-transit. Vivienne didn’t hand the slate to Marin this time. She handed it to Tamsin.
“Take her,” Vivienne said, as if Marin were nothing more than another tool in Tamsin’s kit.
Tamsin’s look could have cut steel. But she didn’t argue. She just jerked her head toward the exit. Marin followed.
The span was a roar of motion when they arrived. Freight hung mid-load, sparks jumping wild where cutters had been forced into silence. And the air—thick with the smell of ionized metal, a wrongness that made the skin crawl.
“Sabotage,” Tamsin spat, scanning the scene.“Somebody wants the rail to choke.”
She turned to Marin. “Find me the break in the code before we’re standing on a tomb.”
Marin dropped to a crouch, slate already lit in her hands. Fingers moved fast, tracing freight logs, cross-checking the contracts, listening as the rail’s hum shivered through her bones like an animal in pain. Tamsin’s voice cut across the noise—sharp orders to Vale’s crew, the scrape of her boots over steel.
Then a jolt. The rail screamed—violent, tearing. A control housing blew open two meters away, arcs of blue-white energy snapping like whips. One of Vale’s crew went down hard.
Marin didn’t think. She tossed the slate aside and lunged for the panel. The thing was alive, wires spitting light, the air burning her lungs with ozone. She ripped one line free, jammed another across, forcing a bypass with nothing but her gloved hands and desperation. Every spark seared her skin, every wire bit back.
“Stay clear!” she shouted, whether to Tamsin or herself she didn’t know.
For a moment it felt like the rail itself was fighting her, screaming through the wires. Then sudden silence. Not safe, not clean, but the span steadied into a ragged hum instead of tearing itself apart.
Marin staggered back, arm scorched, hair singed. Tamsin was beside her, close enough that Marin could see the sparks fading in her eyes as much as in the air.
“You could’ve fried yourself,” Tamsin said, voice sharp but no longer cold.
Marin’s breath caught. “Better me than the rail.”
For the first time, Tamsin’s mouth curved—not a smile, not yet, but the ghost of one.
“You might not be useless after all.”
Vale’s crew dragged the injured man clear. Marin snatched her slate, fingers trembling as she traced the last corrupted line. She found it—buried like a splinter, the kind of alteration that carried the signature of Old Port’s radical union fringe. She flagged it, locked it down, and passed the slate to Tamsin without a word.
Tamsin studied it. Then her eyes flicked back to Marin, sharp and unreadable.
“Don’t get comfortable,” she said. But the edge in her voice had dulled.
By nightfall, the rail was steady again. Freight moved, crews rotated, the hum of steel returned to its usual rhythm. But Marin lingered. So did Tamsin.
They stood at the edge of the span, where the scaffolds dropped into black distance. Below them, the city lights flickered like embers.
“You should’ve walked away,” Tamsin said at last, her voice low, not meant for anyone else.“The Pale Hour’s ash still clings to you. Most who survive it vanish.”
Marin didn’t look at her. “I thought about it.”
“And?”
“I’d rather be tested here than rot somewhere else.”
That earned her silence. A long one. Then Tamsin moved closer, her stormcoat brushing against Marin’s sleeve. Not by accident.
“You’re not what I expected,” Tamsin said. Her tone wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t steel either.
Marin turned, met her gaze. “And what did you expect?”
“A liability.” Tamsin’s mouth twisted—something caught between a smirk and confession. “Someone waiting to fail so I could cut them loose.”
“And now?”
Tamsin studied her, eyes unreadable, like she was measuring steel for its breaking point. Then she exhaled, the sharpness fading just enough to leave something else.
“Now you are a problem. Because I don’t want you to fail.”
The words hung in the air, louder than the rails beneath them.
Marin’s breath caught. The danger and the silence folded into one fragile moment. She reached for the rail, fingers brushing metal still warm from the arc’s burn. Then, deliberately, she let her hand shift, just enough for her fingers to touch Tamsin’s.
Tamsin didn’t pull away.
The hum of the span filled the silence, steady, alive. Sparks still glimmered in the dark around them, fading but not gone—like the edge of something new, waiting.
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The Ash-Born Part 1: Proof of Use
The Ash-Born Part 2: Proof of Silence
The Ash-Born Part 3: Proof of Measure
The Ash-Born Part 4: Proof of Fire
Car: Volkswagen Scirocco GT II.
Date of first registration: 10th December 1992.
Registration region: Central London.
Latest recorded mileage: Unreadable (MOT 5th February 2021).
Latest V5 issued: 19th June 2014
Date taken: 7th May 2021.
Album: Carspotting 2021