Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 2

The Raven and the Marsh

My fire had grown dark with the deep storm blanketing the mountains. Tossing a log on it made no difference to the lurking shadows.

 A snap. A flash. A scream.

“Every time.” My voice echoed in the great hall, offsetting the small noise issuing from the floating embers.

“My lord?” A shadow cowered.

A stray leaf took to the flames and floated up, revealing a gathering in a mountain pasture.

“Humans. They’re at it again. Fetch my cloak. I’ve had it!” I spat. The fire in the hearth glowed an angry bruised blue and purple.

“Yes, right away.”

Cloaked, settled, and agitated, I stepped into the fire. 

A hot darkness pressed in around me before evaporating to leave me in a brightly lit open glade, surrounded by a mass of despots in long black regalia. Hoods from wolf pelts covered many of their heads. A poor man knelt on the stones at my feet, little left of the skin on his back. Leaning against the post he was bound to, he had passed out long enough for the blood at his knees to congeal. His brown hair, braided and beaded, had been hewn roughly, the strands thrown across the ground in ecstatic revelry. Symbolic tattoos, now shattered, snaked across his arms.

“Fenrir has descended! Bow before our mighty lord!” A woman in the circle shouted. The group dropped to prostrate themselves in front of me. I ground my teeth at the show. The smell of burnt meat behind me had my stomach pinching and rolling. Exasperated, I tugged at my feathered mantle to stave off the chill of late winter. I left the country alone for three hundred years and they perverted everything.

I knelt in front of the man at my feet. 

“We bestow an offering, Fenrir, in return for guidance against the fjándi threatening our gates!” A man called out from the throng. Vættr, the shadow at my feet, wavered. I glanced up from the chained invalid to pinpoint who it was that thought this was going to please me. I despised my meat charred beyond recognition. They bent lower, cowering under my gaze.

“What has this man done to deserve such a punishment?” I clenched my teeth to hide my seething rage.

“A Mikill Maðr, my Lord! The chief’s heir. We have brought you offerings of their horses and their prince to please you,” responded the woman who had demanded the others bow.

I broke the chain tethering the man to the post and cradled him in my arms. A pulse fluttered at his throat. “And what guidance do you expect from me, children?” I draped my cloak of black feathers around the man, hiding him from the crowd.

“How to destroy the fjándi!” A weaselly voice shouted from the crowd.

“And who am I to you?” I flicked a glance to the statue behind me. I would have laughed if I had not been so taken aback. True enough, an idol sat on a base. It was an idol of Fenrir in bastardized human form, but the base was in a different hand.

“You are Fenrir, the herald. The caller of wolves! You chase away those who intrude. You have protected the people of Mosebay for millennia!” came the call.

“What have you done to the shrine?” I hissed.

“We have moved many times since last you made your presence known, oh great Fenrir.” The woman bowed once more.

“And you have broken the shrine?” I surmised.

“It has been many years since the incident, my Lord. We will build you a new, better shrine, now that we know you will again heed our calls for help!” the man next to her explained. “Please! Take the man and the horses as offerings! Call the wolves down to chase out the Mikill Maðr!”

Standing up, I cradled the waif. How he or his people were called Mikill Maðr, I knew not. There was no greatness, no impressive size to the man, nothing by which to indicate a stature to rival the giants. His hair and tattoos told me otherwise. 

I studied the cowering crowd surrounding me and snapped my fingers. The echo of it bounced around the valley. 

The woman looked up in surprise. At that moment, she alone of the whole group recognized me. “You…you are not Fenrir!” She screeched, turning the tide of the crowd. The cawing of crows scratched the air around us, distracting the leader.

“No,” I smiled sadly. They had made a slew of egregious errors. “I’m Hrafnaguð. I bring crows and wolves to eat the dead. And he is my people.” I pulled the wounded man closer to me. “You stole the Mikill Maðr’s land and destroyed all in the temple, save but for the pedestal of my statue, cubs of Fenrir. The Wolf is bound to his little corner and will not be able to answer your prayers.  I’ll relieve him of some foolhardy followers, though.” I stepped back into my fire as the air filled with the screams of crows, and a dark curtain of feathers cut off my view of the scrambling crowd.

The suffocating void spat me into my hall. The man had not stirred with the change. “Vættr, summon Eir. Tell her it’s pressing.”

The shadow that had seen to my cloak upon my initial exit flickered and slid beneath the heavy door out to the mountains.

I clumped across the thick stones to the timber stairs that held fast against my fury. The second floor beneath the thatch gathered warmth and the scent of herbs and apples in storage. A bedroll of fresh hay and lambskin lay waiting for guests in a corner.

“They made a right muck up of your back, didn’t they?” I shifted the unconscious man such that his stripped flesh wouldn’t press against the bedding. His breathing was at least even and quiet. Hopefully, they had not injured him further. 

“I’ll return. No hurting yourself.” Back down the stairs I traipsed, to seek out one of my chests in one end of the longhouse. Clothing from my younger years came to hand: tunics, belts, trousers, boots. I rubbed a thumb across the coarse grey wool of a cloak. “Probably won’t be of any use yet. It’ll just stick to the wounds. Where’s Eir?”

I took the lumps of clothes back up the stairs and left them on a low milking stool that needed mending. “Giants? You’re no Mikill Maðr I’ve laid eyes upon, chiefling. Could it be that your father adopted you into the family? Would not be the first I heard of them taking in a lost human babe.”

A pounding at the door roused me from my one-sided conversation. I was left to enjoy the burn in my legs for the next round of stairs I faced letting in Eir and showing her to the man in the loft.

“Where did you collect him, Hrafnaguð? Let alone, why’d you bring him back? He’d probably already occupy Hel’s doorway if not for the world’s fire caught up in his lungs. Thank Surtr when you get the chance for that.” Eir dropped her bag of materials next to the hay pile.

“Noted. And I brought him back because people were irritating me.”

“He’s people, Hrafnaguð.”

“He hasn’t irritated me yet.”

“He looks like he irritated you.”

“No, he irritated worshippers of Fenrir.”

Eir pursed her lips at that revelation. Pulling apart her bag, she extracted salves and bandages. “Go, do something with Huginn or Muninn. They’ll be more entertaining than I will for the time. Know his name?”

I shook my head and left off for yet another trip down the stairs. “They said he was Mikill Maðr. Never seen one that tiny before.”

“Muninn might know then.”

“Oh, probably, but that means finding the treat pouch, and have you seen the state of the house? It will be faster to just let the man wake up.” I put hand to task, though, and picked up detritus that scattered itself across every flat surface.

Shears cut through fabric above me while I set the house back into a respectable order. I could have called in help, but I rather preferred my privacy in my winter home. Sometimes that meant remembering that I was there on my own and needed to give half a wheat head’s worth of effort to keep it livable.

“Hrafnaguð, get up here. He’s coming ‘round.” Eir’s whisper drifted down through the floorboards where I was spitting a mutton leg to roast. 

Setting it in the holder near the fire, I wiped off my hands and climbed the stairs once more. “Remind me to construct my house as one level next I decide to obtain a new residence, Eir. I may not look old, but my joints remind me I am no toddling babe.”

Grey eyes the pitch of a dove’s wing stilled my babbling. I was reminded in that moment that I was not without my senses, however, with my age. Leaning against the bannister post was going to be the only way to hide a wave of heat slithering up my skin. “You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here?”

“Amongst other questions.” His voice, a touch lower than his face would have hinted at, held a thick accent for the lands I oversaw.

“I am Hrafnaguð. This is Eir. Do you remember what happened before waking up here?” I studied the splash of freckles across the man’s nose that climbed across cheekbones and dusted the tips of his ears.

“The Napr Kelda men caught me when I took my father’s horses to water. We had stopped in the heights on our trek from the other side of the mountain as we do every year. I don’t remember you, but I do remember them. Every face. No clue, though, what they said, just knew they didn’t like me. Killed the horses. Best I can guess is they either hate my people, or they needed a sacrifice.” He carefully twisted into a sitting position, Eir clucking at him as his bandaging slipped. His eyes slid down me in a derisive calculation I had not experienced since childhood. “I’m going with sacrifice, and you’re a god that came to collect, so now I’m yours, right? What will you have me do? Chop your wood, tend your herds, mend your thatch? For if not a sacrifice, I am life bonded to you as a debt I have no money to pay or barter left to give.”

“You needn’t remember their faces. Their sacrifice was in vain, in so far as who they ultimately summoned. If the one they had wanted had shown his toothy grin, you would be food for prophets. Rather instead, you are now in my home, and as many have worshipped me for more centuries than I wish to admit, I would say that you are correct in your assessment of god, though none you know of by the name of Hrafnaguð, it appears.” I left my post and settled on the milking stool, careful of the short leg that threatened to pitch me off.

“No, Hrafnaguð is unfamiliar, my Lord.” The man ducked a bow, hair swinging forward. His fingers went to the edges in sudden fury and disappointment. Quickly, he dropped his hands, biting his tongue to still himself from a protest.

Eir turned between the two of us in question before collecting her bag. “He is stable enough, Hrafnaguð. Do not push him for a handful of days, and the wounds will mend.”

“Thank you, Eir. Would you join us for mutton?” I offered, though the shank at the hearth’s edge would still need another hour, if not two.

“No, sadly, I must be back to my own house where others are awaiting treatment. Send your shadow if you need to call on me again.” She drifted down the stairs on light feet, “Take off your cloak before you become a giant feather duster,” and disappeared out the door like a ghost. 

“The goddess of medicine is not someone I would have ever expected to meet for the number of times we have prayed to her,” the man across from me mused, though his eyes refused to leave off tracing my features.

“Who are ‘we’?” I pressed for an answer and pushed the hood from my hair, Eir’s direction finally registering. 

The man swallowed, tears pushing to fall. Massive grey eyes took in the beads and braids and beard. “Rúnatýr, you are Rúnatýr. I apologize, my Lord, for such a grievous error.” He again bowed, though with an honest strain to his shoulders this time.

“I am of many names, and as of yet, you are few by way of our meeting. Pray, will not a strong mead loosen one from your lips?” I pulled a simple jug from one of several boxes that contained more of the same in the loft and held the vessel out to the man in an attempt to draw him away from potentially prostrating himself and incurring the wrath of Eir on us both.

“Fensalir. My name and my people are Fensalir, Lord Rúnatýr.” He touched the clay timidly before taking the weight.

“Both your people and your land?” I offered him a knife by which to pry the wax from the lid.

He took the hilt to study the simple black leather before applying himself to the task. “It was my father’s way, as was his father’s.”

“I must admit, for you being my people, I have never heard of you.” I rose and left to the pantry to dig out a slab of bread, butter, and mugs.

“May that be why we have never once yielded to miracle or omen then, Sire?” He took one of the pair of mugs to fill while I provided crust and sustenance.

“Where do your people hail from, if the Napr Kelda took umbrage with your nomadic ways?” I countered, unwilling to answer yes or no to having ignored the wants and needs of humanity as I sat listening to the wind against my door for centuries.

“We come from the glades and marshes, a new family, made from cast-offs of war. I am no son to my father as my father is no brother to my uncle. We all are an assemblage, a stew of many roots and meats to satisfy the whole.” Fensalir handed me a full cup of golden heaven and took his plate in trade.

“They called you Mikill Maðr.” I bit into the rough bread and enjoyed the saltiness of the sheep butter.

“My father is of Mikill Maðr descent, that is true, but I am nothing more than the joining of a Ljósálfar and a læknir, if my current family’s guess is as good as any.” He sipped at his mead, pausing to savour the flavour of summer meadows in the depths.

“You were blessed with a magic?” I brushed the crumbs out of my beard.

“Of a type. It is of little use to most, but it serves me in my moments.” He took my empty cup and filled it once more. 

I stared at the swirling liquid, confused that I had already drained it to warrant such attention. “Seems we all have a type of magic that I know of.”

“You would see a variety that I would find unfathomable.” Fensalir shifted carefully until he could rest himself into the mound of hay and lambskin, head propped against the warm timber wall. There was an unexpected study in his movements, in the calculation of his smile, the sinuous ease of his digits that ran fire through my blood.

“Can you heal, then, child of  læknir? Would it be better to apprentice you to Eir and gain coin through your toils?” I cocked my head to return his studious gaze, amused with the mead flush drawing up under his freckles. This man, lounging like he ruled this little mound of hay and lambskin, knew of seduction. No. There is a difference between knowledge and wisdom. One was read and taught, one was experienced. And I, a god of death, had found myself blessed with a sage.

“One might say I heal, Sire. It is a healing of the heart, though, rather than that of flesh and bone.” His tongue touched his bottom lip, eyelashes falling in volitional grace. I shifted to set my cup away, along with the jug of mead. I took up my knife from the pile of clothes next to the hay and returned the blade to my boot. His fingers slipped along my hand, breath warm and honeyed against my collarbone.

I found myself suspended in a deep blackness. The scent of magic I waited to catch never came. I cleared my throat to test if sound was possible in the blindness. The echo greeting me resolved the starless midnight into a series of soft shadows. 

“You see, Sire, in a way, it is magic.” Fensalir’s warmth eased from the tips of my fingers to swirl around my arms and across my shoulders.

“What is this?” The taste of flowered honey coated my tongue.

“Me.”

The shadows burned off with the rise of a brilliant sun. Far to the horizon stretched swaying grassheads and rippling water channels. A flock of skua launched into the clear sky, the flap of their wings a hiss in the quiet late spring air. Turtles, fry, tadpoles teamed in the shallows around the mound of grass I stood upon. A young woman in a blue cape danced at the edge of the horizon.

“Fensalir?” I called to the openness, rushing forward into the warm waters after the woman.

“Sire?” Fingers dragged up my shoulder blades to circle around my traps and up the column of my throat, stalling my progress.

I turned to find no one there. “Where are you? Who was that?”

A warm breath at my ear spun me the other direction to consume the view of the marshland. “Where I have always been. When you get a chance, you should meet Frigg. I think you’d like her.”

“You are no Ljósálfar or læknir, are you, Fensalir?” I wished for the heat under my skin to dissipate as invisible fingers threatened to buckle my will.

“It took a god to see me as I am. What would you call me, Sire, if not a child of a Ljósálfar and a læknir?”

“You are Fensalir, am I right? You are the marshland.”

The ground beneath me opened up, and I dropped through the soil into a blackness before coming to in the loft of my longhouse. Grey eyes crinkled at the edges where a smirk fought to restrain a chuckle. “It’s amazing what humans will sacrifice in an effort to better themselves, is it not, Sire?”

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Jerry M: Return of the Frozen Player

I’m such a sucker for solo OP adventure manhua. I was looking for a good replacement to Solo Leveling after having read it through three times. I love that thing. So, you know how it goes – I went looking for something that looked like Solo Leveling, quacked like Solo Leveling, and just about produced the same golden egg of dopamine as Solo Leveling. And Return of the Frozen Player is doing that for me.

Released in 2021 by Jerry M, Return of the Frozen Player follows the life of a prior “Player” who took down monsters around Korea as a masked man. After having been frozen in an incident with a monster for 20+ years, he wakes up to a world that still needs his help. But, he lost a lot of the powers that had given him the prowess of his Alias. Ending up with a bit of an identity crisis, he decides to rebuild himself and learn about the new Frost powers he gained from the monster he’d beaten.

I appreciate that they make it look like he has to struggle with each level up he goes through. Though it does feel like he never really fails at any point in time. That’s how OP characters work most of the time in stories. It’s not deviating in a subplot of romance or mediocre rivalries either, which is something I do appreciate with manhua. I think American writing is so dependent on subplots to keep a story limping along that we forget that we can legit just write a one note story and it be good.

On that note, the world build does feel a little lack luster. Or maybe it’s just the computer references that the character makes for describing some of his skills that feels a bit jarring. Primarily Overclocking. That one…is a bit much, but to each their own. The other computer nerds in the room will probably not blink at that term being used, but the rest of us who don’t make building gaming machines a life long hobby will probably raise on eyebrow. Those who really don’t understand the reference won’t thing anything of it, so it’s just those of use in the middle that it feels weird to probably.

I would have loved it if it had a sumastion of skills at the end of some of the chapters like Solo Leveling did. I would actually read those every once in a while to understand exactly how the character is randomly doing this badass thing all of a sudden, as is want to happen with these types of stories. It’s alright thought that it doesn’t. The story can live without being an exact Solo Leveling copy, I’m just needing a bit of something laid out to explore what the characters set of powers are and what they do. That’s also what fan wikis are for.

Anyway, if you can find a good translation, it’s fantastic. I stumbled into a really rough transaltion between chapters 80 and 100 and had to grit my teeth to figure out what was being said. Then I hopped into a different chapter supplier and reread it because the translation was better. That’s about what I’d suggest you do if you’re enjoying reading and run into a bad transation.

Is this a manhua I’d suggest. Sure. If you like Omniscient Reader, Revenge of the Iron-Blooded Sword Hound, or Solo Leveling, this one can fit right up there. I’m not entire sure off hand if I would buy the books for my shelf like I’ve been doing for Solo Leveling, but it’s made for a good read so far, and for the suppliers I’ve found, it’s still ongoing. Now if I can just convince my internet to load the dang images so I can finish this last chapter I have access to today.

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Margareta Magnusson: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning

Margareta Magnusson brought out her beautiful little memoir/self-help book /cultural philosophy on death book in 2017 and contributed to yet another facet of the intentional living movement.

I rented the audiobook this go around. I’ve read it a couple times from the library before. This one I really should just add to my bookshelf. I don’t visit it as frequently as Goodbye Things, but three times in six years is probably enough times to qualify buying the ebook.

The title is morbid. I think every person says that who talks about this book. In a way, I think that is the point. It faces the major element of the topic head on and makes you look at it without beating around the bush.

The bad part is: it’s really hard to buy it as a gift for a lot of people. I want to give it to my Mother in Law (kindest woman you’ll ever meet) because she’s been wanting to downsize, but isn’t sure how to go about it. She’s not wanting to be a minimalist by any stretch of the imagination, but she’s aware she’s struggling to decide what is important, and what is not. Sadly, I really can’t help anymore than I have at this point. This is where I know this book would be of value. She’s in the age bracket to really get full utilization out of it. But it feels really morbid to give it to her. So, I’m pressing for her to rent the audiobook and listen to it when she gets the chance.

I’ve used some of the points in it to better evaluate sentimental items. It’s helping me getting going in the New Year with another wave of cleaning out things I just don’t want to be managing anymore. I’ve been downsizing my physical book library pretty ruthlessly. I have a couple antique books and children’s picture books I’m keeping because I love looking at them, but if I can get the physical book as an ebook, I’m just ditching the physical and will buy the ebook if I find I want to revisit reading it with enough frequency to warrant spending the money. This has opened up a phenomenal amount of space in my house already.

This is definitely one of those books, along side Savvy Estate Planning and There’s No Such Thing As Bad Weather that I feel should be given as very well meaning gifts and out of a realm of love. I would highly encourage you read this book. I don’t rightly care if it’s audiobook, rental, buy it – but give it a read before you get squeamish about the book title. It helps with prioritizing the space you want to live in as you age. We all age. It’s inevitable. And if you say ‘but some people die early!’ Well. That’s also part of the point of this book. Do you want your family fighting over your stuff? Or do you want to make that transition as painless as possible as one of your last gifts to them?

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Aiden Thomas: Cemetery Boys

Man, this thing was a trip. Coming out in the year of Covid. I can’t believe I waited four years to read this thing.

Look, I’m not out to everyone in my immediate family/friend group. Some things I’m not ready to actually deal with when it comes to justifying my existence. Taking on that mantle is exhausting. My SO knows, but still doesn’t use my preferred pronouns. Something about remember to switch them and one of us being cis-het. My sis-in-law and her SO knows, and a pair of board game friends know. That and the author community I was a part of when Twitter wasn’t a hellhole.

The most the rest of my in-laws know is that I’m pansexual/pangender, because honestly that seems to scare people less than coming out saying, hey I’m a transman, can ya’ll actually see past this stupid cage of a body for five seconds? It does not help that currently the world and the state I live in are both sort of just interested in trans folk being suppressed into silence. It doesn’t help that the entire rest of my side of the extended family are super religious and probably wouldn’t understand or would legit just never have anything to do with me anymore. Then again, I’ve drawn away from extended family too because I figured I’d get hurt about it on my terms, not theirs’.

It can feel really lonely. There are a lot of questions that I ask myself almost on the daily. Is this just because women are turning into second class citizens in my country? Is it because of getting gropped and flashed on the bus in middle school and high school and college? Is it because I don’t want to deal with the glass ceiling? Is it because I hate how women’s clothes look on me ? because let’s be real, I’ve got enough curves to make mens’ clothes look just as bad. Is it because I don’t want to be treated like a side of meat? These questions go on and on and on like a stupid wind chime hung up in the back of my brain. Gendered socialization and the patriarchy and toxic masculinity are shit. And political bullshit. That one can just burn in a diesel soaked dumpster fire.

Because it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t write from a female perspective. I can’t imagine it. And to me, writing, story telling, those are my realest moments, where I can live through my characters. It’s said that an author’s characters are fragments of their soul. And I write holding that closest bit of wisdom to my heart.

I dream as a man. Pansexual still, but I don’t dream from the point of view of a woman. My imagination doesn’t do that. It refuses to. Has since I can remember dreaming. And that goes back to me vividly recalling dreams of being six and flying around a playground as a boy.

I can’t stand my curves. They’re just bulbously in the way and make me annoyed more than anything. Sure, I can throw on a dress. I own several. And when I can’t stand seeing myself in the mirror and have run out of jeans because let’s be real, the wash cycle is never consistent, I throw one on and instead of seeing myself, I look at my reflection from the point of view of what I would find attractive to date in a women. Is that the best way to deal with it? No, probably not. Living my life half in place, and half like I’m constantly performing is alienating at best and hard to explain to those who know of my realness. It messes with their own stereotypes of what a transman should be and do. Sometimes the only way I can deal with dresses is to tell myself over and over that it’s a long shirt.

Binders hurt. I have blood pressure issues to begin with and those things can make me light headed or trigger migraines. But man do I love what they do for me in a button up shirt. I learned back when I came out in the author community how to slit the sides of button up shirts so they would lie flat at my hip. I’ve always worn vests to cover curves. I found a brand of men’s jean that stretch enough to look masculine and deal with the fact I have hips. I wear boxier shoes and bought a rip off Baccarat 504 to help me have days where I really want to signal, if only to myself, that I’m man enough to exist.

This book brought up all of those feelings. All of the coping mechanisms. All the intangible turmoils. The sensation of relief with how Julian acted with Yadriel was palpable for me. I’ve read several books with side characters that were trans, but it was one-bit information. This was my first real story I encountered where the main character was transmasc and the representation was so spot on. Transness doesn’t take over all the thoughts of the day. It’s like being inconvenienced at random moments and then desperately hurt at others. It’s desiring with every fiber of your being to be and look and feel in a different body. And it’s crumbling apart like feathers destuffed out of a pillow when someone finally looks at you and really honestly calls you a Bastard for making them cry over a silly short story. I never knew how much having someone use the right gendered curse word for me would make me feel so alive, but hey, the euphoria can be strong some days.

This story was all of that. Of being seen, recognized, called out, and offered an amazing cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon on top. When you see yourself. Honest to god see yourself represented and not just a token throw away line in media, it’s so empowering. It lets you feel like you’re allowed to belong somewhere.

I do love the world build and the story telling in this. The culture was beautiful. The hardships of the latinx community was real and timely. I really wanted there to be a few sections that were more built up, but I can’t see a good way for that to have happened without making the story bulky. I wanted more work with Julian’s friends and his brother. Something that would have really made their characters and actions more worth knowing about, but it wasn’t integral to the story. It’s not a make or break, just something I would have liked explored a bit more. It did give a bit of The Outsiders by Hinton vibes with the way the friends acted and interacted with Yadriel.

I picked up books for Christmas in 2024, and this was one of the ones in my batch of Christmas presents I bought for myself. I might have not waited for Christmas day to enjoy it…

At the same time of buying books, I also bought a Sante Fe HO kit with tracks, engine, and four rolling stock along with a DK book on the history of trains. This was always a very gendered toy in my life and something, like legos, the kids in daycare and elementary school wouldn’t let me go near and the teachers didn’t stop them. Grant it, those trains were the Thomas the Train wood ones, not the expensive electric ones. But still, I’ve repressed myself for thirty years now from getting my own train to play with. My godfather used to set up big G scale models around his Christmas tree every year and I loved that as a very young kid and have liked them ever since. I just haven’t given myself permission to really deep dive into learning everything about it, because there was no where I could go with it.

The community is very toxic masculinity. I say that having read enough comments on enough youtube videos. One comes to mind that was comparing not laying scale railroad track on fuzzy carpet to don’t have sex with women who have a hairy vulva. And that was the least offensive of the comments I was seeing when I was trying to find some instructions on how to properly suspend an HO track from a ceiling when dealing with joint expansion. There were forums asking why there weren’t more women into model railroading and the few who chimed in about their wives who had been pulled in to do the decorating for their husbands. I legit didn’t see comments from women on those boards and that has been a barrier to me getting into the hobby. Because I don’t want to deal with the misogyny, let alone the guaranteed homophobia in the art. I didn’t pursue large trains as a career because when I was young I was told on more than one occasion that women can’t be conductors and women shouldn’t work on big engines and women shouldn’t weld, and women shouldn’t do automotive mechanics, and women shouldn’t touch the chemicals in these industries because “what if you have deformed babies.” I was relegated to a brood chamber. I was told these things from 8-18. Only fit to do feminine tasks because “what about a what-if baby.” “You need to work an inside job with air conditioning at a desk that way you don’t put too much strain on yourself.” “Men don’t like masculine women.”

I hate it. I didn’t pursue my passions. I didn’t go into hot rod painting and automotives. I didn’t pursue welding. I didn’t get to play at a blacksmith forge. I didn’t pursue archaeology. I didn’t puruse paleontology. I didn’t become a conductor. I didn’t become anything. Because I was afraid to buck the norms. I wanted to keep my safety net in case I failed at something. But it’s hard to fail at something if you never try anything. And I regret it. I regret a lot of things. I regret not having a word for how I felt in middle school and high school when I realized that “I wasn’t like the other girls.” I didn’t feel the same style of crush on the other girls as the few lesbians in school that I talked to. I didn’t feel the same type of attraction to boys that all the girls chattered about at recess. I dated one guy in high school and didn’t explore others because that was how I thought it should work because that’s how it worked for my parents. That turned out to be a fucked up mess. But I slowly started learning more about the lgbtq community at the time I was finally out of my parents’ house and off five states over in a very diverse college. The anime community there pegged me pretty quickly as some form of queer, even if I was in deniel about it. Probably would have been able to keep that under wraps if I didn’t wear mens cargos, rib knit tanks, mens slacks, button up shirts, ties, vests, fedoras and such. But I felt free to express myself the way I wanted to be seen. And it felt good. I remember the first time a couple of people started calling me Hatori or Soma (Fruits Basket) as a nickname and it gave me this golden ball of happiness in my chest that I couldn’t name. I didn’t know what being trans was. At that point, people around me still didn’t use the word “transgender”. All I had been taught were some rather derogatory words used simultaneously to refer to drag queens and trans women. I didn’t know transmen could even exist. But gender bender anime gave me life. Ouran High School Host Club I watched on repeat.

It took until covid and all of us coming together through the internet for me to finally stop hiding behind “pangender-pansexual” because it felt safe. And there were still those who referred to me as “she/her” on there and I quickly blocked them so that I wouldn’t feel more alien in the skin I wanted to burn off my bones.

It took Life with an Ordinary Guy who Reincarnated into a Total Fantasy Knockout for my SO to start really recognizing what I was saying about thinking I was trans. The way I tend to frame it anymore is that I had to have said something really misogynistic to piss off a goddess and now I’m stuck like this as a punishment to get my soul to realize how much of a jerk I was. At this point, it’s one of many coping mechanisms when I recognize that I will never be able to afford top or bottom surgery. That the SO that I genuinely love is very much just into women and would really rather prefer I don’t go on T. That I live in a country that is very much approaching a desire to see trans folk wiped off the map. Let me be dead honest with you. Being trans isn’t a choice. And it isn’t easy. And it’s pretty dang lonely at times. But finding books about these struggles with well written characters. That. That right there can help.

Yeah. I’d suggest Cemetery Boys to ever transman looking for just a bit of rep. I’d suggest it for latinx community members looking to understand their lgbt kids. I’d suggest it to every ally who wants to understand more about what these types of struggles are. I’d suggest it to any gay guy or straight guy thinking of dating a transman and not knowing what that might look like. And I’d suggest it for any politician who might just have one last shred of a soul left in their rotten heart.

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Short: The Next Tower

I drag piercing, ragged air into my lungs, fingers slipping on ice-crusted granite. The burn sinks behind my ribs, leaving me reaching for the next foothold in hopes of escaping the whiteout. A crack of twigs turns me to my partner. He’d slipped against the trail, one hand desperately clutching at a pine tree limb. Snow dumps across his shoulders and head. You okay? I sign, dashing my gaze to the horizon and the undergrowth.

Slick spot. He reassures. Quietly, he pulls his way back to my side.

You hear them? The pounding of my heartbeat in my ears is footsteps in the timberline.

Not yet. You good to move? He motions toward the top of the ridge. The fire watch tower stands against the dim wane of the moon, leaving shadows on shadows. Swirling crystals blanket our legs. I rub my gloved hands together, puffing to warm them momentarily and nod. The hills echo with the precipitation of winter in its twisting black and blue deluge. A tug at my elbow has me following my partner, the reflectors on his coat marking my path.

Trudging against the murk, billows of wet snow cling to my trousers. My waterproof boots do nothing against the water wicking down my socks. The swing of his red backpack lulls me into miserable indifference. Blisters and chilled fingers demand their due. 

The hordes no longer clamber against the wind. They creep through my ears. Cling to the back of my mind. Snake up my spine.

The base of the tower splays wider than I expect. Staring up at the rusting struts, I swallow. Sleet coats the ladder in a glimmering coat. Think it’ll keep them away? I take out my carabiners and check my knots.

Hopefully. He tugs at my harness, squaring the straps before turning me to the rungs. Hand over hand, snap and clip of the hinge, I ascend the death trap. The growl of snow shifting through the trees runs nails up my shoulder blades. I rush, trying to escape the terror at the base of my neck, foot slipping as I miss a pole. The metal clangs beneath my equipment. I suck in my breath, turning to the skyline. A hand tapping at the bottom of my boot sends my heart to my throat. I gulp, looking down, green eyes reassuring below me. He secures my footing and puts a finger to his lips, pointing to the top. I swallow, returning to my task, the wind tugging at my hood.

The deck is a white sheet beneath my treads. I collect the sniper rifle and shotgun he hands up before helping steady my partner as he pulls himself over the edge. A freestanding desk at the wall of the cabin makes for a passable trap door. I cringe at every shuffle and groan of steel and wood, the backs of my ears cramping from listening for the scream beneath the sleet.

Let’s get in. He points me at the peeling white cabin door, a set of lockpicks in hand. I flip on my keychain torch, blocking the shine with my body while he slips the tumblers. Hinges squeal as he tests the door, rust and neglect forcing us to push against it until we stumble into the windless glass box. He spins to the threshold, eyeing the makeshift cover at the end of the deck, waiting, counting, fingers curling five times five until all we hear is the howl of the blizzard against the tin roof. I cower in, watching, searching, keeping my light low under the sills to search the thin shadows. Empty save for the minor furnishings of the last tenant, we count ourselves lucky. A chest of drawers and moving boxes filled with books, pinecones, and firewood are all we can shove against the door. Not that the four walls of glass windows will do much if they determine to make us into midnight hors d’oeuvres.

I slump into the far corner from the door. Too often I’ve seen others grabbed for being too close when they come. A crowbar at hand will break the glass above my head. The shotgun at my heels is close enough to my reach, the ammo box tucked into a pocket on my hip. I can jump the rails and slide the struts down. I can get away. My heart and gut say otherwise.

Fingers, chapped and cold, draw my attention from gnarled floor boards. He leans over me, concern crinkling lines in his forehead. My smile dips and warbles in an attempt to reassure him. Nose to nose, his hands cover my ears from the persistent ticking flakes until my limbs ease their shaking. 

Our glance snaps to the wood stove in the centre of the single room. Regret and reluctant acceptance flicks across our fingertips. Dinner will have to be partially frozen, non-perishables dug from our bags. The pop and hiss of the tins as he opens them have me watching the glass surreptitiously. Canned meat, canned fruit, our plastic utensils muffle under our gloves. All I taste is salt and syrup. Flavour in this wasteland is worthless. Many things are worthless in this desolate blackness under a starless sky as the storm blankets spectres on the window sills. Empty cans resting against panes are our last alarm against the horde.

We curl against each other in the drift, desperate for closeness, for reality, for the world to shift. He’s drifting to the beat of my heart, hands curled between my side and his chest as winter digs in. I pull the insulated blanket around us, wishing for sleep which has refused my advances for days. At each moment where I slip the bounds between the waking and the damned, I see the creatures. Clawing, ragged, rawring, screaming, screeching. 

I come awake, one of his hands holding tight to the back of my sweater, the other across my mouth. The shallows of midnight are passing into the depths before the dawn. I draw in alarm, clamping onto his wrist, holding it until I beat the squeak in my larynx into submission. Letting go, I pull at my turtleneck beneath my cable knit.

You’re safe. He signs against my arm, frozen fingers sending shafts of ice to my neck. I squeeze him closer, burying my cold nose into his halo of curls. Tears would have threatened, but they stopped weeks ago. I ease my fingers around his, hoping to warm his hands. They’re the same. I suck in my breath. He stills. I pull the sweater and layers up, tugging the zipper at my salopettes, and shove his hands onto the warmth of my stomach, drawing the layers back down to conserve the heat. He baulks as a shiver runs up my spine, and I pull him until the space between us is parkas and sweaters. A count of heartbeats and he relaxes into the offer, thawing his palms and backs of his hands while I adamantly refuse to let go of him for the ice creeping under my skin.

I watch the snowballs against the bubbled barrier between us and the impossible, begging them not to move as his fingers twitch, shift, ask questions. Tentative promises, permissions, desires number my ribs and trace the hollow of my belly button. I relax my stubborn grasp, stretching into discovery, my heart racing, throat dry. With every change in direction, he waits for my embrace to shift, to switch, to answer in our silent world. Tender spots where the horde got me yesterday morning have me moving away. Singing electricity has me loosening my hold. Fingers dance, skimming curves and ridges. He forms letters against my sternum. This okay?

Don’t stop. I bury my hands under his parka, the wool knit of his sweater scratching against my palms.

You watching? He finds the tuck at my lower ribs. 

A starburst slinks to hide between my lungs and my backbone. Always. The promise of dawn in the blizzard is cascading away with the snow drifting through the rails of the tower.

Heat blossoms between us, his fingers finding heaven. A note catches in my throat. He covers my mouth again, silencing me as I swallow, my glance swivelling the two hundred degrees of vision I can get without moving my head. They haven’t found us yet.

Retribution. I draw in a quieting digit, the pad of his finger salty against my tongue. A stutter in his breathing against my knee leaves a sly smirk on my lips. Two can play this game, even if I’m on watch duty. Twining along the joints, he stills, his thigh flexing against my leg, his teeth nipping at me in protest.

Tight heat wraps around me. Dancing threads of gold and cinnamon race through my sides. His smile sinks into my skin, and I’m struggling to constrain my voice. Determined, he’s pushing, seeing how far he can take me in the silence of our snowbound cabin. 

I tunnel my fingers through his hair as he finds that one point of brightness stretching into my desires. Silk strands brush against my knuckles, through the webbing between my digits. Kindling in the dark. A spark ignites the star behind my lungs, a numb wave washing in tides of light and need through my bones. If he presses much further, I’ll be the tsunami after an earthquake. Please. I tap against his neck. The star is burning me away to a flashpoint, one grain from ignition. He relents, easing back for me to come out of the thunderhead, electricity dissipating.

Warm yet? He asks at my hip.

You think? I pull his sweater from his ski pants.

You watch. He demanded.

I want my fun. I keep my words small against his lower stomach, flipping buttons.

Next tower. He promises, drawing my face to meet his chapped lips. I startle at the vow, leaving him to his exploration. Several more weeks of walking this wilderness, escaping the horde, before I would watch his expression rather than the windows. He carries me along, listening to the hitch in my breath, leading me through skittering pressure until the snow eases with the lavender of dawn. The view lightens, and all that greets us is the grey powder against our window panes. At the peak of the horizon line casting sharp light and shadow through the down blanket of the mountainside, he lets me find satisfaction, his curls twisting in my fingers.

The morning breaks as a chickadee hops across the rail of the fire tower, chirping its cheeseburger cheeseburger call, leaving pronged footprints in the alabaster. Tension eases out of my shoulders at the jumping creature. If the birds haven’t fled the mountainside, we’ve outrun the horde for another day, maybe two. 

He tugs me to his chest in the sunrise bathing the whitewashed walls, pulling the insulated blanket over my head, where I’ll be able to sleep to the bird calls overriding the terror waiting for the silence in the night.

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My ko-fi account

Hi,

I wanted to give y’all a little heads up. A friend of mine suggested I try selling my tea towels on Ko-fi if it felt like I was losing my soul on Etsy. Their fees have gotten ridiculous and unprofitable to a point where I can’t rebuy product to embroider. So, it will take a bit of time while I figure out how Ko-fi works as a store front, but I wanted to let y’all know you can look over there.

I know some folk asked me if I would sell my books as epub or PDF downloads. Honestly, I have not taken the time to figure out how to do that. It didn’t seem right on Etsy, but I think Ko-fi may have the type of compatibility and clientele to do that on.

I think I will also be able to start taking art commissions through there too. Now, you can always go through my commissions contact on here to get art or editing services, it’s just nice for me to have another route to reach out through.

I have been enjoying putting up reviews and I do still plan to continue doing that on here. I would love to know if there are certain things you would like to know more about when I do the reviews, that way I can round out my posts better.

Feel Free Games: Luma Island

Luma Island was another suggestion by Gab Smolders, a streamer I rather enjoy watching on youtube. This one I picked up to play co-op with someone else I know who enjoys these types of games. I have one more person I’m working on convincing to join me in this thing, because it feels like the more people you’ve got working on all the little projects, the faster you can really get through it and find more and new things.

Just released in November 2024 by Feel Free Games, this is one of those farming sims in a similar vein to Stardew Valley, but with a 3D rotation. Some of the graphic capacity, like the stretch and squish animations for the the interactive components gives me phone app vibes, but that amount of things you can interact with is dense and I can understand why this thing wouldn’t run on a phone comfortably. It is Steam Deck compatible and plays very smoothly on it. There’s not a whole lot of button combinations you need to learn either, which is lovely when you want to just relax with a game. Maybe this one qualifies as “casual gaming”, but I’m putting it in the same area as Stardew and Animal Crossing, just with better co-op compatibility.

The other guy I got to play with me and I have already put in about six hours of game play on it, which has let us get through profession development, into a new biome, exploration of caves, the fishing mechanic, and a load of other ‘side quest’ things. I can say that I really like just wandering around looking for loot chests. I think that’s my favorite aspect of the game, but there is an underlying story slowly developing and I’m rather curious on how that is going to unfold.

I can see where this style of game isn’t for everybody, but I’d suggest it for people looking for ‘easy’ game play with a cozy feel and low anxiety. So far there aren’t timers for getting projects done, it’s self paced and you can kind of do what you want without feeling like it’s a rail.

Would I suggest it? I picked it up for $15, and thought that was exceptionally fair. When it’s not on a sale it says its $20 on Steam, and I’d say that is still really fair on it. At that price tag, yeah, I’d suggest it.

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Fumio Sasaki: Goodbye, Things

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Fumio Sasaki, lauded as one of the great modern Japanese minimalists published Goodbye, Things in 2015, just in time to contribute to the firestorm that is the building minimalist obsession paired with The Minimalists, Minimal Mom, Marie Kondo, Dana K. White, and so many others. Grant it, not all of those listed qualify themselves as minimalist. Quite often they are just proponents of decluttering and living with intension, the simple life, etc.

This is one of those books I have read probably five times at this point. I just got done with another round of reading it. I’ve been a practicing minimalist since 2017. And a practice it is. In the same vein as meditation and yoga, showing up and participating is necessary to keep from getting rusty. I had this year where I really didn’t practice like I should have and ended up with so many bags of kids toys and several boxes of books to get rid of.

Some folk like having books around. For me, I had wrist surgery a couple of years back and have been struggling to get back into reading physical books. It only took me the last year to figure out why it was a struggle. Holding a book open for more than twenty minutes hurts. This actually made it easier to get rid of more books this go around than in past sweeps. I’ve just about got all of my books to fit into a particular cabinet I wanted them to fit in. The outliers are the recipe books above the microwave which I do use.

However, a good portion of Sasaki-san’s book has me on the war path to purge more out of my domain. I want to have less laundry to do, less dishes, less dusting and upkeep. And I’m pretty paired down at this point. A great deal of what is left are things that are shared amongst the family that I personally can’t get rid of. Mounds of boardgames that never get played. They aren’t mine, but they do occupy the space that I maintain. There isn’t room in the other family member’s office for them.

That’s something that I think might get lost in translation between a single minimalist and a family minimalist that people fail to extrapolate. They might say Sasaki-san’s minimalism is unachievable for families. And that’s failing to internalize quite a great many values found within the book. You don’t have to live out of a backpack to be a minimalist. He says that pretty early in the book. It’s a matter of getting to the point of having what you need. And that ‘need’ takes a long-long-long time to fully understand. “But I need this for xyz!” A person on the outside of that phrase might tell you “no, you don’t need that”, but for you, you still do. Your psyche still does. You have to come to a conclusion about needs in your own time. Hence practicing minimalist.

I still don’t feel like I have the house to where I would like it to be. Some of that is construction material floating around in strange spots.

I still have items that I am hard pressed to let go of, even though I really do want to let go: i.e. an Amish made solid oak rocking horse my godparents commissioned for me when I was born when the rest of my extended family figured I would die as a premie. That thing has no space in the house. It takes up a funny corner that I don’t like it being in, but I don’t really have any other good solutions. Ultimately, I should put it down at the curb and let some other family have it and get use out of it. To me, it symbolizes validity of my existence, and I really do need to pull myself out of keeping things for symbolic reasons. It’s hard. Practicing is not perfect.

The book itself is well written. The translators and editors did a great job.

It’s one of those top books that I would suggest people who have already gone through Marie Kondo or Dana K. White’s books look at. It feels like an intermediate minimalist book. Not because of difficult concepts, but because it will make you question things that you value even more so than the other books and that is something that can really wound an ego if you haven’t already had practice in letting go of some material possessions.

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The Camelot

He hovered over the scrying bowl. Water dripped into it from the canopy above him. What was he trying to gain by coming here in bad weather? The light had faded from his skin. Warmth was beyond him now. His brother had left, and his father was angry. Those around him wanted him to brighten parties and to be the new shiny toy to show around. His lyre no longer sounded right beneath his fingers. Even the raven had stopped crowing.

He sighed. The hum of the earth beneath his feet steadied his nerves. He placed a hand to the water and muttered. A sigil glowed across the ripples. Leaving the huge brass bowl, he headed back to the small shrine hidden beneath a large camphor tree. He sat down on the short porch, rested his head against the door frame, closed his eyes, and waited for an eternity to take him away.

It was a stupid dare. I know. But, hell, fifty bucks was fifty bucks, and it was easy money. Hop the fence and go sleep in the old hotel. Not like it hadn’t been occupied by squatters and homeless folk before now.

It was coming down in a couple of months. It had been closed down since the 90s. Camelot. The Outsiders was filmed near it. It was perfect. So what if it had lead and asbestos and fire alarm problems. Most of the houses in Tulsa had that crap, and no one batted an eye at it. Creepy? Oh yeah. Especially after dark. It was butted up against the highway, so road noise was constant until midnight. Fire engines and ambulances would add to the eerie factor.

“You sure you aren’t gonna chicken out, Eric?” Travis goaded.

“You’re the real chicken here, Trav. I don’t see you going in.” I pointed out as I eyed the ten-foot fence and the barbed wire.

“Oye, want the easy way in?” Corey yelled from over near a dead light pole. He pointed out a bust in the chain link.

“Brilliant.” I clapped him on the back and pushed in through the tight fit. Travis lobbed my ratty backpack over the fence. It caught on the barbed wire spiral for a moment, bobbing precariously before dropping into my hands.

“Fifty bucks. Get the film developed with the date stamps, and it’s yours,” Travis promised. A siren went up along Peoria.

“Twenty-five more if you come back with a picture of the ghost,” Corey whispered conspiratorially as we all ducked.

“That’s another hundred there, Corey. Twenty-five isn’t gonna cut it at that,” I hissed.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty and your unwrapped collector’s edition of Bioshock.”

“Either Fifty or Bioshock.”

“Bioshock.”

“Deal.”

I turned and scurried off to the back of the building under the shadows cast by the goliath. The windows on the bottom floor were all boarded up. I was almost done with circling the back when I found one of the boards had rotted out. I pushed in on it, and the whole plywood panel fell in. I stilled the tremble running through my fingers as a flash of lightning lit up the sky. Ducking at the following thunder, I slipped into the decrepit building.

It was rank. Mould and smoke were the first two overwhelming smells. I’d have to make for one of the upper rooms to escape from the rot of water line breaks and sewage backups that had plagued the building since its closing. The room I had gotten into had to be some kind of back office. The door was busted off the frame. I pulled my flashlight out of my bag and clicked it on. Black mould crawled the walls. Travis would make fun of me for this. I tugged a dust mask out and shoved it on my face.

I wandered through the first floor, snapping pictures of the old rooms where there was once a throne and the kitchen. Rats were everywhere, and I swore I heard raccoons. Rain started coming down, and the first floor had rivers running through it shortly.

Finding one of the fire wells, I took it up into the second-floor hotel rooms. Several hours of exploration and two rolls of film later, I still hadn’t seen a ghost. Too bad. I had hoped to get my hands on the collector’s edition.

I was still hyped up but exhausted. The rain did little to alleviate the July humidity. I found a room that was relatively mould-free. I tossed my bag to a vacant corner and walked around to look out the window on the backside of a line of buildings. Not much of a view.

Turning, I went to look at the bathroom, which was like every other one I had seen up to now. The tile was falling down, and the walls were sloughing. The mirror over the sink was dusty and cracked. A tiny scribbled note on faded yellow paper had fallen on the counter. I picked it up and turned it over, trying to read it in the dark. Flashlight, right. Click.

Please, don’t enter the mirror.

Oh, boy. Crackheads had nested in this room. I glanced back out the door to my bag. I’d need to check the carpet for needles before I sat down for some sleep. I tossed the note back on the counter, a puff of dust rising. I turned at a red glint out of the corner of my eye. I looked up to the left corner of the mirror. I waited, listening. No firetruck or EMT. Where had the light come from? I backed up, trying to get the light to come back. Nothing. I stepped closer. A glint, now from the lower right. Nothing. The hell?

I put my hand to the glass and wiped the dust off.

A coughing gasp and splash of water drew him from his meditation. He blinked, pulling his brain back into his skull. The rain had calmed. The trees dripped in tone. Another splutter. “Help!”

Hands reached up through the scrying bowl. A mouth, a nose. He rushed to the bowl and grabbed for the floundering person. Heat radiated from his hand, and ran up his shoulders. He pulled, dragging a man not much older than twenty out of the water and brass vessel.

“Where, what the, how?” I looked around me in horror. There was something else in the hotel, and it was making me trip balls.

“Are you healthy?” A man in a full-blown white toga asked me. I blinked at him. He was glowing. That wasn’t quite right. He was golden. Maybe he was glowing. I rubbed at my eyes and took in a couple deep breaths, trying to clear my lungs. The man and the forest I was now in had not evaporated.

“Highly doubtful,” I responded, turning to my right and left to get a better view of the remote space.

“Are you in pain?” the man asked with concern. He had a bizarre accent that I couldn’t quite place. An uneasy feeling sat in my chest when he talked. Like he wasn’t speaking my language, but I understood him.

“Nope, just confused. What is this place? What was that? Who are you?” I demanded.

“This is my private retreat in the realm of The Great Houses. I set a sigil on my bowl to call a companion, and you answered. I am Apollo. Who are you?”

“Eric Schneider.” I twisted, lunging for the scrying bowl as a thought occurred. “Bioshock!”

“Nice to meet you, Eric Schneider Bioshock. Where do you hail from?”

“My bag!”

“You came from a bag? How interesting. I know some of the gods live in clams and caves, but a bag, I would think that one new,” Apollo mused, setting finger to chin in a composition of a painter’s portrait of contemplation.

“No, you doofus, my bag is back in the hotel your water bowl brought me out of. Dang it. My camera was gonna be my ticket to a copy of Bioshock.” I reached into the bowl, only to find the edge of the container.

“I am still lost.” Apollo approached. “May I?”

“As am I!” I backed up.

He muttered something and touched the centre of the water, calming it from my splashing. Images flashed against its silvered surface: towns, canyons, rivers, rainforests. 

“What are those?” I wanted to touch the surface, the gleam mesmerizing.

“Sigil channels that I left my call in. Any look familiar?”

Camelot flicked across the surface, rain obscuring it save for the lamposts on the highway, making it look like a bad Hollywood interpretation of a Transylvanian-themed movie set. “There, there! That one. The trashed castle.”

Apollo stalled at the image with another finger. “You live here? Are you a king? Looks like you’ve fallen on hard times.” There was no judgement in his voice, maybe light curiosity as he studied the image.

“You kidding? Dude, I don’t think there are any kings alive anymore that live in castles. Nah, mate, that’s just an old hotel that’s gonna get torn down next month. I’m just a student at TCC.” I left his bowl to sit down at a little building with a porch.

“Not a king, but instead a scholar? There is much to be respected of such a profession.” Apollo continued to pursue the images in his bowl. “Your village is quite strange, is it not?”

“Could say that. My folks don’t think much of where I want to go with my career, but hey, I’m twenty now; I get to make decisions for my life.” I put on a show of my bluster, puffing up my chest.

“What is it that you study?” A mist settled across the forest, cloaking Apollo in a soft haze offset with gold halos from his glow.

“Forestry. Well, not right now. I mean, I’m in their Environmental Sciences course, but when I transfer out to OSU next fall, I’m taking their Forestry major. Want to work in the National Parks.” I flopped back on the smooth boards of the temple to stare up at the slat and thatch.

“Are you a follower of Silvanus?” His eyes flashed up to me, a look of calculation crossing them.

I frowned, raising an eyebrow. “I have a Silvester in class that is a right pain in the ass?”

“No, no. Silvanus, god of the wild woods and countrysides.”

“Bro, I’m an atheist. Don’t let mom hear that; she’ll never let me back in the house, and I can’t live without Sunday roast.”

“Atheist?” Apollo sat next me.

“Eh, got tired of being dogged by the majority religion. You hear it from every girl and guy at school. ‘Oh, come to potluck with me.’ ‘Did you make it to worship?’ ‘Are you saved?’ ‘John 3:16.’ The number of times I have heard that verse. Well, it’s on a bunch of advertisements around town, at least. Anyway, it gets old when you watch those same goody-two-shoes spout racist shit in the same breath and justify it as something to do with some guy named Ham or Ishmael, depending on their mood. I can’t stand it. If that god is real and I someday have to stand in front of him, I’m giving him a piece of my mind. If you can be morally better than some windbag who can’t even save little kids from their dad’s fist, then the concept of a god falls apart.” I deflated, my back popping against the floorboards.

“To be morally better than a god, huh?” Apollo leaned against the doorframe to watch me.

“Are you God?” I rolled to my side to match his stare.

“I don’t mess with Abrahamic Houses. Hermes would probably know more. He’s been over there with messages before. No, I’m not that one you are talking about.”

“But you insist you’re some kind of heavenly overseer, is that it? You look at a person and go ‘oh, you’ve sinned by some definition or another, and now you’ll die and go live in a horrible place.’ Is that what I’m doing now? You weighing my heart against a feather?”

“I am also not of the Duat. We don’t do feather scales.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “No, Eric Schneider, I am Apollo, as I have said before.”

“The Apollo? The sun god? That’d explain the golden glow.” I rolled up to lean against the opposing door frame. “So what now, Sun God? I’m here. Can you send me back, or am I stuck on this side now?”

“I could send you back. It might not be in the exact time you came to me, though.” His gaze dropped from mine.

“What do you mean by exact time?” I tugged my hiking boots and socks off, tired of the dampness.

“Could be a difference of a few decades, give or take.” Apollo shrugged.

“Eh, I wasn’t that attached to where I was. Trees are pretty here, anyways.” I needed the butterflies in my fingertips and the sweat on my neck not to tell him that I was nervous. And excited. The number of nights I had wished for something like .Hack//Sign or Inuyasha or Bleach to happen to me. To get me away from the house. Away from the darkness.

“I would say your parents will miss you, but putting you back in the timeline would mean you being the wrong age to them. It complicates matters.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m good not going back. Not like there’s much to miss. I don’t exactly have any skills, though, to get money. Not sure what I’ll do about getting food. Could turn into a hermit; there’s plenty of fruit around here I recognise just from where I’m sitting.” There were some fruit trees of the rainforest jungle variety, but it was a bluff on my part. I had no idea if the ruby and sapphire-coloured orbs were edible.

Apollo rose and dusted off his toga. “I don’t think you will need to worry about that now. I summoned you. My sigil is on your heart. Therefore, I am responsible for your needs.”

“Hold up. You did what?” I clambered to my feet and raced after him, stones slick against my toes.

“That sigil in my scrying bowl when you came through? It’s now on you. Well, technically on your soul, but neither here nor there. It’s mine and a way for me to protect you while you’re in the Great Houses.”

“You baptised me?”

“Not with the intention behind what you are referring to.” Apollo’s stride was relaxed, but I had trouble keeping up with the man.

“Then what intention, Sun God?” I bristled.

“A companion. That’s what I set that sigil up for, to summon a companion.”

I slid on one of the path stones. “A companion? Like…like a…”

Apollo paused to frown, waiting on me to get my tongue to work. Not like I had any intention of saying what I was thinking. He had no intention of walking on until I did, though. The mist turned into a light sprinkle, soaking us both through.

“Is this a friendly companionship sort of thing, or are you going full hentai here, dude?” I whispered, glancing around the forest.

“Hentai? Again, I am from the Great Houses, not the Takamagahara Houses,” Apollo sighed.

“Look, I’m not the one here that sounds dense, bro. You’re avoiding the point of the question, and you know it. Fact you knew to assign that over to whatever that House was called means you know what I’m asking.” I crossed my arms, willing for him to be clear in his reply.

“You ask that I be direct with you, and yet you will not be direct.” Apollo countered.

I snorted. What I wanted to reply would be injurious at best. I went with the diplomatic path. “Fine. Direct then. Did you summon me here to have sex with you?”

His cheeks turned the colour of clouds at sunrise.

“So you can’t be honest with yourself,” I needled.

“I-um,” he cleared his throat.

“Jeez, dude. Maybe you’re more repressed than I am.” I walked past him to continue down the path. “Where are we going anyway?”

“My house is at the end of this little forest.” He caught up with me.

“Got any decent food before we do things. I’m hungry.”

His smile was kind enough. “A plethora is on hand and can be found.”

“Do you have other companions?” I figured I might as well know what I was stepping into this time, rather than the mirror last time.

“No. My last companion died some time ago, and I have found my home empty for too long. It might have been foolish of me to seek someone after all.” The remorse in his voice told me I might be more of a rebound sort of one-night stand for this guy.

“Still have feelings for them, I take it?”

“She was wonderful, and we had a good life together, her and I. Humans live such short lives. Hellena. She lived to 92, and I loved her as I have with every other companion that has entered my house.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I thought your consort was Melia.”

“There have been several. Melia, Eudne, Chrysothemis. As times change, so too do they move on or pass on, dependent upon their level of gods’ blood.”

“No jealous lover to come behead me in the night, I should hope?”

“None that I am aware of. 

A mansion of white marble and red and gold paint lay at the edge of the forest. Beyond it sparkled the sea. “Nice place. What of Hyakinthos or Kyparissos?”

“You know much more of my history than I would expect. No, they are no longer with me.” He motioned to a set of marble benches under the deep porches. “A servant will bring us food shortly. Let us rest.”

The pillows were comfortable enough. “There’s a level of acceptance with the Greek and Roman pantheons for people who don’t quite fit the mould I grew up in. Felt kinda nice to find some gods that weren’t as judgemental, even if I didn’t believe they were real. Just meant a society had formed up at some point that wasn’t all for abandoning me.”

“Abandoning you?” Apollo sank into a bench in time for wispy, see-through women and men carrying platters and pitchers to emerge from the mansion.

“Eh. You know how it goes. Some communities decide that people’s natural predilections ain’t so natural and like to kick them out of the house or abuse them, hoping it’ll ‘straighten out their character’ as my dad likes to say.” I ducked a thanks to the whisps and grabbed a handful of grapes in time for my stomach to growl.

“I have a feeling there’s a reason I don’t enter into the world’s plane of existence anymore.” Apollo downed whatever was in the goblet one of the whisps had given him.

“Yeah, no, it’s not worth it bothering with that place.”

“But you had friends? People that you will miss and be missed by?” Apollo set aside his drink and picked up a plate of cheeses.

“You were the one who told me I’d end up in the wrong time if you put me back.” The grapes were particularly sweet, and the sliced cucumber and bread were distinct in their flavour compared to what I had grown up on. A little went a long way.

“I did. It’s not to say that I would wish you to completely abandon their memory in coming here.” The man across from me wouldn’t meet my eyes at that statement.

“You feeling guilty?” I surmised.

“I always do.”

“Then why did you do it?” I set aside my plate. The food settled heavily in my stomach.

“Because those who answer my call only ever do because they’ve given up on being happy in the world they’re in. I wish I could do more to make it a better place. I have some things I can help with, but none of us are all-powerful.” The man curled up to lounge on his bench.

“Sigil has a clause in it, huh?”

The god across from me nodded.

“Anyone wanting a new life, one not what they are stuck in, or willing to give up?” I guess I wasn’t too surprised. I was getting into ‘mischief’ as mom called it, more and more to just feel something, anything. Existing wasn’t living. It just wasn’t me dying. “Well, I guess that’s one way for me to finally stop swimming in denial, right? Kinda predatory though, don’t you think?” He finally met my eyes, horror washing across his features. I crossed my arms. “I mean, you are reaching out specifically for people who aren’t quite in an emotionally good place anymore. It’s kinda manipulative.”

“I can put you back, I promise. It might not be in the right time, but I can get it close.” Apollo promised.

“No one ever point this out to you before?”

“Not like that! Most people were relieved to not have to go back to what they were escaping from.” The golden god bowed his head over his hands. “Morally better, huh?”

“Makes for some pretty loyal followers. Doesn’t feel like you’ve got a saviour complex for it, though. It is a bit of hunting the vulnerable for your own satisfaction, though. Anyways. Not like I’m changing my mind. I’m one of those vulnerables, and you’ve got a pretty sweet set-up here. I think I’ll stick around if you’ll have me?” I offered. Maybe putting it into words felt safer. Voicing what I was seeing, giving it a name, acknowledging what it was before I jumped way in over my head. Or maybe I was still being naive.

“I have a feeling you and I are going to have some pretty long evenings talking out here.” Apollo picked up his goblet and frowned at its lack of contents.

“I’d like that. Haven’t really had anyone to talk to, not really, in a long time. You don’t feel like you’ll jump down my throat if I’m being honest, either.” I set away my plate and came around to sit on his bench to see what his view looked like.

The forest, shrouded in mist and the silver of a veiled moon sprawled out before me. For once, the night didn’t feel so dark, and the coming of the morning didn’t feel so scary.

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Black Salt Games: Dredge

Released in 2023 and available on Steam, Dredge by Black Salt Games is a fishing adventure with a dark twist. Or maybe creepy. I’m trying to decide if it is actual horror, or more on the line of thriller. It does work really well on the Steam Deck by the way. I mention that because some Deck approved games are still glitchy and I might be a bit salty about that.

Either way, I’m incompetent at the dredge feature of this game, but I do love the fishing section. It does not help that I was trying to play this when I was sick with Covid and had ruptured my ear drum. That just makes for a terrible combo when trying to work out that mini-game feature in this.

The color work and the art style of the characters and world are something that feels disjointedly subpar and yet perfect at the same time. I’m trying to figure out a way to better explain that other than at first sight it feels like the developers went on the cheap with the artistic execution, but at the same time, as you get more than an hour in on the game play, it feels absolutely perfect for the story telling and the in game movement work.

I found a twitch streamer that goes by Gab Smolders with a youtube post-stream upload that I absolutely love watching and have picked up a few games because of her playthroughs. I picked up Luma Island this week because of her cohosted stream on it and plan on leaving reviews later about the game. She did another game that I really enjoyed watching, but probably won’t bother with actually playing it because it isn’t quite a format that I like to actively play: Thallasa. That thing gives big Bioshock vibes and I love the coloration. I’d think there would be other people who would also enjoy that one, so I’m mentioning it here.

Anyways, we’re talking Dredge. Other folk in the house have already played well on into the third and fourth island in the game, but I’m still puttering around on the first island stock piling all the money so that the next set of islands can be just a bit easier. Also…the dredge feature is kicking my butt. Did I mention that already?

If you aren’t a twitch-reflex sort of person, you might struggle with this game like I am. But the storytelling and the really basic premise makes it into what I would qualify as a dark cozy game. One you can play and be interrupted in the middle of and not feel like you are going to break something by stopping for a minute. I did watch Gab do the Iron Rig expansion and cannot wait to get to the point of being far enough along in the game to warrant buying the expansion. I do realize it is playable at any time during the regular game – but seeing as I’m still stuck in island one, I’m going to just bide my time.

Would I suggest it?

Yeah. I think it works out pretty good as an ‘easy’ game that has a decent fishing mechanic and is perfect for the fall/winter wet weather sort of time frame. And maybe some clam chowder…

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