Birdfeeding

Jun. 6th, 2026 02:24 pm
ysabetwordsmith: Cartoon of me in Wordsmith persona (Default)
[personal profile] ysabetwordsmith posting in [community profile] birdfeeding
Today is mostly cloudy and quite warm.

I fed the birds. I've seen several sparrows and house finches plus a male cardinal.

I put out water for the birds.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I started weeding the center of the telephone pole garden.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I did more weeding the center of the telephone pole garden.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I did more weeding the center of the telephone pole garden. I am past the halfway point. Yay.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I did more weeding the center of the telephone pole garden. I am near the far end.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I finished weeding the center of the telephone pole garden. \o/

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I planted 15 'Lucifer' crocosmia in the telephone pole garden.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I planted the last 20 'Lucifer' crocosmia in the telephone pole garden.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I planted 20 'Blaze Mix' gladioli in the telephone pole garden.

EDIT 6/6/26 -- I spread the bag of Black Kow composted manure over the telephone pole garden, then tacked down the net that discourages critters from digging in it. I still need to spread topsoil over that and sow the seeds, but that's for tomorrow.

As it is getting dark, I am done for the night. *goflopnow*
gullwingdoors: sketchy side portrait of gull, with many shards of color (Writing)
[personal profile] gullwingdoors
Image showing characters from the three short stories "The Navigator", "Crimson Legacy", and "The Puppel Goes Home".
A will for the present. A step to the future. A farewell to the past.




Three stories we haven't posted outside friend circles yet. (We've not stopped writing, don't worry.) We've got a lot of other stuff we've been sitting on, new and old and safe and tawdry alike, that we just... have problems getting around to.





The Navigator


A small-time independent space freighter needs a navigator to help freight some sensitive cargo.




"Kill the power when I say," she says calmly but sternly, gaze dead ahead at the approaching slipshadow in the windscreen.

I balk, slowly turning to her in my pilot's seat. "You... you really ARE trying to get us killed, aren't you?" She doesn't budge from her stance, wide shoulders tense as they've been the whole grip. "Kill. The power. When I say."

"But we're-"

Then she snaps, immediately loosening her stance as she spins to me and lunges nearly - but not quite - onto me. "Do it, or you get us killed! There's a way out of this, and you hired me to find those!"

I wonder in that instant if I really should have just let the navicomputer chart me through the sliproutes.




She wouldn't have been my first choice of navigator, if you asked me on any other day. Hell, no independent transporter even thinks about hiring one unless they're maining a busted navicomputer and either strapped for funds or strapped for time, but I had agreed to transport a few crates of *politically sensitive* material to some ho-hum-sounding forest-moon, and was told explicitly to make sure I wasn't able to be traced there.

No chance to be traced, unless you expect the Slip Bureau's eyes and ears to be out until the next slipbuoy signal-dump, means no full-assist. No full-assist means I either crunch every number along the lanes myself (Gods away, I hope to never) or I hire a navigator. A few hanging around a local dive seemed real promising, until I let slip "sensitive" or "traced" or "boarded". Soon, my options were the wild-haired woman at the furthest back booth with the unfocused-but-intense stare or the calculator back on my ship.

"... and there is a real chance we'll be boarded," I told her, not entirely sure if she was paying attention. "If we are, I need to be sure you're able to-"

She cut me off, holding her gloved hand up to me. "You won't be boarded," she said dully, her intense eyes finally glanced to me. "I don't know where you got that idea. If we're boarded, you keep my cut."

I could only blink, astonished. "... We haven't," I started again, eventually, "even... discussed your payment yet."

"Ten percent of your earnings off this. Nothing upfront."

"That's- that's nothing! You're barely making anything from this."

She lowered the hand, tapping the booth-seat behind her impatiently. When she did, I finally noticed the faded old-federal flight corps patch on her frayed flight-jacket's shoulder - and maybe more importantly, the discoloration-marked absence of the name-patches - but I thought better than to comment. "I don't want for much," she continued, "I just need the work. They don't hire navigators in the old tradition for much of anything this close to the heartlands."

"In the... old... tradition? Where're you from?"

"Maar."

Nobody's from Maar. Maar is the kind of isolationist nowhere-planet so deeply and thoroughly unfashionable that the only charts to bother dotting it do so through gritted teeth in the name of complete accuracy. Last anyone knew, they still had wheels on the ground.

"Sure," I shrugged, "Maar. Who the hell is teaching navigators on Maar?"

She sighed, audibly aggrieved. "I'm not being paid," she snipped, "to field questions about my history from some small-freight flygirl. I'll get you there if you trust me. Ten percent."

I scoffed. "I thought you'd try to upsell me at some point."

"If you're asking, then fine. Eleven percent." She looked away again and flicked her other hand at me in something approaching a shoo. "Call me Aegal. Just tell me where you're docked and I'll meet you there."

I had the impression I wasn't going to like her very much.




As soon as I fired the ship's systems up, Aegal reached over from her shotgun seat and pulled the navicomputer stop.

"Heck're you doing?," I queried, baffled. "We need that."

"No."

"No-?! What, are you just going to-?"

"Crunch the numbers for the route myself, yes," she replied as she pulled out a paper notepad (good grief, I thought, maybe she really is from Maar) and closed her eyes. "Get us to slip range from here, I need to think."

Biting my tongue, I engaged the lift-thrusters, the light-freighter lifting slowly but surely. I moved to quietly attempt to destop the navicomputer, but she slapped my hand away the moment it got near. "No, please, trust me on this," she whispered, eyes still shut tight, before she began muttering numbers and scrunching her forehead. I exhaled in slight frustration as I started the low flight out to slip-range.

Just about as soon as we crossed the atmosphere into wide space -

"Light-freighter, provide your current manifest."

- the worst thing we could have possibly heard over the tele-com came in from a Bureau signal, a cruiser and her small detachment of boarders closing in slowly from behind. I grit my teeth, and was just about to say that she was in over her head assuming there wouldn't be a boarding when she opened her eyes and spoke plainly. "Oh, that makes things simpler," Aegal said with a clarity I didn't remember hearing in her voice before. "Drop into the slip."

"Wh- *now?* They're *going* to tail us, it's a little late to do that without tracing."

"I'll shake them."

"Really?" I scoffed again. "How?"

"Drop into the slip and follow my routing. I read, you follow."

She looked serious.

Oh gods, she might be serious. Gulping, I started engaging the slipdrive and strapping in, while she sketched something I couldn't see in her notepad. "Dead straight until I say, then change bearings - twelve aside, fifteen away. Alright?"

"Twelve aside, fifteen away."

Twelve aside, fifteen away.

I knew that wouldn't even point at a sliproute, I could tell you that much. "Can you give me a route name for that?"

"Twelve aside, fifteen away," she repeated, firmly. "That's all you need to be concerned with right now, do you understand?"

I felt even more lost. She really is pointing into the wild abyss. "But how the hell are you going to-"

"I said," she interrupted, firm, "that's all. You hired me to navigate. Let me. Okay?"

"... Fine. Twelve aside, fourteen away."

"Fifteen. Don't fuck it up."

"Alright, fine," I said as the slip started to kick in, and the pursuant party dropped in following us. "T w e -"




Nobody in their right mind wants to look at the inside of wild slip - unlike the clean tunnels of sliproutes held together by the buoy system, it felt wild and dangerous to push through, and the ship juddered unpleasantly most of the way. Nonetheless, my navigator took to standing and staring ahead at it, gaze entirely unflinching. "Say," Aegal stated, breaking from muttering her numbers.

I quietly reset my bearing again - twenty back, five away. It was nerve-wracking, but I didn't know what else to do - she'd steered us away of the slipshadows we'd come horribly close to getting dragged through. The cruiser's boarders had gotten lost in them, but unfortunately the big lug herself was uncannily good at following us.

"Good. Next signal, ten aside, ten away," she said in acknowledgement, nodding. Her not even looking at her notes any more kind of creeped me out, but I held my tongue on that.

"Ten aside, ten away."

"We're going to be driving straight into a slipshadow."

"Sure, straight into a-"

Wait a minute. "Wait a minute. You're... kidding, right?" She just kept looking ahead, not responding as I turned back to my controls with renewed nervousness. "Gods, I hope you're kidding."

On her mark, I reset the bearings again.


Dead ahead, distant but approaching, was the familiar shape of a star's slipshadow. She wasn't kidding. I felt every vein in my body freeze over, the fear of death dragging itself from the back of my head. "What? Why? You're trying to get us killed, aren't you?"

"Kill the power when I say," she said calmly but sternly, gaze dead ahead at the approaching slipshadow in the windscreen.




And that brings me back to now, here, apparently at the mercy of what I can only imagine to be a madwoman, looming dangerously close to me. "Kill it, and we'll fly through harmlessly," she hurriedly whispers out, "and they rip themselves apart plowing straight into it. Keep us on and you find out what it's like to be drunk like a tall glass of milk."

My eyes finally genuinely go wide. "Mid-slip. You're... insane," I mutter slowly in disbelief.

"*Yes!*" She grabs me by the collar, pulls me close, and shouts straight into my ghastly face, panicked. "Of course I'm insane! All the sane navigators quit, die, or wish they would have! All the sane navigators do what your little computer does but worse! There's only you and me and the face of death staring us down out here, so stop listening to your brain for once in your life! Feel the stars in your eyes, the ground in your bones, the future in your present and just- fucking trust me already!"

I freeze in her clutch.

She drops me back into my seat, placing my hand over the killswitch. "Kill it when I say."

We're dead. We're already dead. I'm no less scared to admit it to myself.

She barks out one last "Say!", and I pull the switch back with as much force as I can muster, entire body freezing up the next moment as I squeeze my eyes shut, and I feel -

and I feel -

- nothing. I'm still sitting in the seat, if loosely floating due to the lack of grav generation. Rest of my body still locked up, I slowly open my eyes to the pitch-dark cockpit, lit only by the vibrant noise of the slipshadow gliding harmlessly - smoothly - around us, before quietly pushing out to the snarling nebulous haze of the slip itself. I glance to her.

And Aegal is looking at me, too, her stare much softened as she loosely floats off the ground, hair wavering around her. "... I can't guarantee you'll get there fast," she says, quietly, gaze averting just a little, "and I refuse to guarantee you won't run into trouble. But I can guarantee that you'll live, and you'll make it where you need to go."

My body, finally listening and realizing it didn't die, starts to loosen up as she continues. "This is the navigator's world - the real navigator's world. This is the world of the old traditions, of the regions that can't chart, of the seers of the wild edges of marked space. This is the world I live in. The sane navigator stops existing the moment they find the way forward."

"That's crazy," I manage to eke out of my barely-responsive throat, feeling like I'm five miles from my body. "You're crazy."

"Yeah. I am." Aegal sighs, her now-weary face painted in the hues of the slip-light outside, and uses her leg to pull herself back into her seat by the belt. "But look. You believed me, just a little bit, and we made it through. I... want you to keep trusting me. I want to navigate again." She reaches back over to my side and pushes the power back on, and the ship starts to warm back up straight into slip-exit mode.

Suddenly, I get it. As my body feels like it returns to itself and I start to reacclimate to existing in a body in a spacecraft, I feel like I really well-and-truly get it, and in so doing genuinely get her. And I finally understand the most important thing:

"I'd... have to be crazy to trust you."

There's a silence, for a moment, as what looks like a pain she might've expected begins to cross her face.

"... So I guess I have to be crazy too." I decide it's rude to leave her in suspense, and her expression immediately turns to genuine surprise. "You'd really-?"

"Listen," I tell her gently as I can manage, looking to her. "This shipment's implicating us in some real shit the moment we deliver it." I look then to the rear-view screen, and see the cruiser silently, viscerally shearing itself apart under its own force.

I watch for a moment, and then look back to her watching, too. "... I'm going to need a hell of a lot more impossible routes if I want to live another week, and you're going to need somewhere to be if you don't wanna be navigating in nothing but a space-suit. I need somebody."

"You need a navigator." She nods, slowly.

I follow suit. "I need a navigator."
Return to top.


Crimson Legacy


A girl and her friends try to inherit the family magic right out of her mother.




"... and, of course, since I have no daughter -" she glares at me - "and likely will never, the Crimson Legacy will be brought to the Stewards to safe-keep until either you have one, or our line of the family- Louis, are you listening to me?"

"Mm. Sure. " I'm lounging on the couch across from Mother's armchair, only half-listening to her as she rolls off the same speech about how she won't let her beautiful baby girl take over the family business because she hates me, or I'm not girl enough for her, or... something. "Stewards, the Legacy... whatever."

She narrows her eyes at me, as pissed as she ever is. "You need to pay attention, Louis. You may not be a daughter of the Legacy, but as a son you still serve..." blah blah blah blah blah. I hate listening to her. I'd much rather listen to the gentle crackling of our fireplace.

So I do. Good old fire, I think to myself as I half-heartedly feign an attentiveness towards my mother. At least you would love me for who I am, if you were alive.

Surely.




A pen hits me from across the diner table. "Ow," I ow, "what was that for, Ian?" Ian grins slightly from the other end of the corner booth as he lowers his tossing hand, screwball that he is. "Oh, y'know, Clarisse. It's 'cause you're a big lunkhead like always."

"Like always, huh." I wear an unamused expression for a moment, but I can't keep it - I'm having fun, and a snort betrays it. I always appreciate our little circle's days out, even more now that we've been... well, now that I've been out of school for a couple years. Some of our little posse went on to college, but some of us went straight on to trying to work.

And then there's me. "Yeah, like always," Ian replies, "given you've just been... what, rotting away in your family house since school on the bottomless family dollar supply?" I sigh. "Sure feels like it. Bet you wouldn't really know, though."

"Clari," Pip chimes in from their seat in our corner, "we've met her. We've been to your place. We know, don't worry." They roll their shoulders and tap at the table eagerly as they say it, mind still clearly on the fabled incoming food. ... I'm rather hungry, myself - who wouldn't be? - but I've got more pressing, conversation-related concerns. "Yeah," I shoot back dismissively, "twice, in middle school, before she threw you all out on your ears and said 'uuuh, never come back blah blah blah'. Fffucking hell, I hate her."

"What, did she get... worse somehow?," Pip asks, confused.

"Imagine that," Tim muses softly from the wide seating-space between Ian and I, leaning against Leah, who's been doodling away on her pocket sketchpad. "Worse momster."

I snort again, more bitterly now. "Between you all trying to visit and now, she's pretty much convinced I may as well not exist except for my use in furthering the bloodline. Won't even speak to me now, unless it's... well."

I leave 'family matters' unspoken. They get it.

I pick the conversation back up. "And I've given up on the whole telling her I can inherit the family legacy after all, wow, exciting thing." I throw jazz hands. "I thought she'd be more -"

I'm interrupted by the waitress setting our plates out - five, one for each of us. Between two sandwiches, two meatier main-course meals, and a big bowl of soup for Tim, we certainly aren't a group wanting for variety. "- oh, thanks," I say, nodding my head at the waitress. Everyone else follows suit. "No problem!," she replies chipperly. "If I can get anything else going for you, just lemme know, alright?"




I am stuffed, I think on our walk back out, shaded by the treeline and then - when we turn - the buildings. Not so stuffed that it hurts to walk, just... stuffed. I get so caught up tuned into that that I completely miss Leah asking me something. "Hey, Clari?", she prompts, snapping me out of my midwalk food daze. "-huh?"

"I waaaaas thinking... your 21st comes up in a couple days, right?"

Don't even remind me. I don't want to think about the day I'll officially be beyond inheriting the family magic.

Clearly seeing the look on my face and understanding that as 'yes', she continues. "Why don't we... uh, hold our own little mock-inheritance whatever, just you and the us? Maybe you're not gonna be a witch because of it, but you'll be our witch, and that's good enough."

I huff. "Thought's appreciated, but..."

... the family magic could let me truly self-realize through it. The family magic would finally mark me as something more than the family's black sheep. The family magic would let me make something of myself, like Mother expects me to spontaneously do on my own. "... just about the entire reason I haven't run away yet is hoping she'll change her mind on the family magic, you know, I don't know how I'd feel about faking it."

"Why not just steal the stuff and we do a real one, then?," Ian chimes in. "Hahah, what." I stop dead as everyone takes a couple more steps before realizing and turning around.

Ian turns back to me first. "... well, yeah, we just - get a copy of the ritual and the stuff to do it, and we... you know, do it."

I scoff. "If it were so easy. From what I remember, there's two things you need aside from the ritual - the... Compound Inheritant, or whatever you call it?, and something containing the Crimson Legacy, and unfortunately those things are respectively 'in my mother's personal library' and 'my mother'."

"Hmmm." Ian wanders to the nearest bench and sits, deep in thought as he... probably watches the traffic pass. "Hey, uh, for the first one. How... secure is your house? You're the witch family or whatever, so does she have, like, wards up or something?"

Sigh. I go to sit next to him, since we're ideating this. "Ian, we're not - that's not our family magic." I can't blame him - if there's one thing I actually retained from my mother's rambling, it's that no one else thinks about the witches' magic during the Age of Reason. "The Crimson Legacy is pretty much entirely the ability to alter bodies and adjust connections between people. Closest we have to physically setting a ward is the Inheritant, and that stuff is used exclusively for drawing one symbol in one ritual."

He nods. "And does she have like... iunno, normal people security stuff up?"

"She doesn't believe in modern security." I see where he's going with this. "Are you... gonna break in, and like. Steal the stuff??" He grins in reply, looking at me. "Hey, it means we get item number one and might be able to get number two if she's desperate enough to hold onto it."

A chill runs through me. This plan is terrifying. "Ian, she'll kill me if she-"

Actually, she'd probably kill me anyway. She does a good job of it already every time she spits the other name out at me. "- nevermind. I just - I want to, but I... need to get mentally... ready."

Pip comes over and leans forward, against the back of the bench. "That's scary," they say. "Wouldn't it be better to. Just fake a break-in?"

"Aw, but I've always wanted to do a real one, says Leah as she and Tim come over, too, and soon the five of us are laying out how this all will come together.




And I can't shake the mounting nerves a day and a night later. I feel like I'm going to explode as I clutch the 'ransom note' we all put together, lying in my big and uncomfortably orderly room, awake. I have to be awake to make sure it all goes down, of course, but even if I weren't -

Thunk. Their footsteps, from downstairs. In through the kitchen door I conveniently forgot to lock. I hear some move to the library, and one coming up the stairs - towards my old room, first, then pausing (I hear the sound of a palm meeting a forehead), and then towards my actual room. "Louis," I hear my mother disinterestedly shout from her room as Leah opens my door quietly and beckons, "I thought I warned you about making a ruckus when you walk around the house."

I quietly pad on over to her. "C'mon," Leah whispers harshly, "We- ah, let's go!"

And we're moving, down through the wide upstairs hallway (I hesitantly knock a sheaf of old papers upon a table aside to at least try and make it look like there was a struggle), down the stairwell (I drop the note right in front of the foot of the stairs to make it fairly plain to any potential descending mothers), and over to the back door.

My mother distantly hollers. "Louis?"

I almost freeze in place. That's good, I assure a part of me, I can use that, I can channel how scared out of my mind that all this could fall apart if literally anything goes wrong and scream with everything in me for

"HELP!"

Leah winces away as she drags me and my locked-up body out. "Eesh, Clarisse," she whispers, "didn't think you- uh, had that good a-"

"Yeah well it helps that I AM that scared alrightlet'sgo." I cut her off, hushed and panicked and maybe approaching incoherence as I hear the distant rush of footsteps from the other side of the open door. At this point, she really has started properly dragging me - I don't know if my legs are moving anymore, and I don't think I care. Matters have well and truly left my hands.




I've been laid out (insomuch as one can be, given the space) in the back seat of Leah and Tim's two-seater-with-a-dream, strapped awkwardly against the back by the retractable belts. It's a bumpy and uncomfortable ride, I finally realize as the panic... well, it wouldn't be fair to say it subsides. More accurately, it retreats just enough for me to feel like I exist in a body again, in a place, going somewhere.

I'm breathing, I'm feeling, I'm seeing. I take mental account of the handful of things I see and feel. Leah driving, Tim shotgun, the seat backs near my face, an old brochure Leah swore she threw out, a caramel wrapper. The slightly-fuzzy seat, the hard plastic belt connectors, the rough belt straps, uh... the night air from the open windows. I keep accounting my senses to myself, and I am more grounded for it.

Do I chance speaking? I... don't know why the thought even crosses my head that I wouldn't be able to. I know on a logical level that, for the moment, I'm in no actual danger. But it still does, and I still have to cross the mental gap to decide that yes, I do. "... For a fake kidnapping," I say as coolly as I can manage given my circumstances, "you... sure are giving me the full hostage experience."

Leah's shoulders visibly relax when she hears me and glances into the rear-view mirror, and Tim leans over to look back at me, usual smarm failing to conceal his own genuine relief. "Heyyy, birthday girl, glad to have you with us. Sorry for the... current accomodations, but you were kind of frozen up. Weeee... couldn't get you to sit like a normal person."

I didn't immediately remember, but that sounds about right, given... well, how the whole situation's felt so far. "Okay, I guess. That makes sense."

"Still scared?"

I... pre-emptively snort at the first response I have. It's all I have to hold on to.

"Shitless."




After being unraveled from the back"seat" and led out into the crisp night air, I feel maybe the first pang of calm I've felt all night. My body finally relaxes.

It's late. It's deeply late - nearly midnight. Nobody - genuinely nobody, except us and the night-birds and the night-bugs - is awake and about at this hour, and the only sound near us our little group or the animals aren't reaponsible for is the wavelike rustle of leaves in the wind. For a moment - for just a moment - I let myself forget everything else, and take in the world around me.

We are surrounded by tall buildings of brick and cement, and harshly lit roads and lines of trees, and a split-level park with an elevator to connect the sides. The sky is clear but for a few wispy clouds, which serve only to haze over a gibbous moon. I can't see most of the stars on account of the city lights, but if I could I'm sure they'd be beautiful.

Maybe they could be beautiful elsewhere just for me, tonight. Even if I don't see them, I think it soothes me to think they're extra nice for my birthday.

... It feels like it's been a long time since I was genuinely happy about it. I've gotta thank everyone later. After I soak in the world around me and calm myself, I push off and start for the park, where we planned to set up.

It's not the neatest rendering of the symbol of the Inheritance, I think to myself as I reach the hasty circle-and-two-diamonds pattern powdered out into the landing-and-ramp just outside the elevator spire. But... still, they're here. Leah and Pip have taken to stand on the marks nearest each railing, Tim and Ian on the ones aligned with the long of the ramp and the elevator's entrance. Stepping past the intentionally-overwide effigy-spot, I worm on over to the sigil's center and take my spot. "... Thanks, everyone. This is the worst thing you've ever done, and it means a lot."

Ian grins as he pulls out a little notepad from his pocket - one of Leah's - probably in preparation. "Hey, what's a pal worth, right?," he says in a played up tone. Pip starts up a birthday tune off the cuff, and the others join in, and soon I'm laughing at them, and then we're all laughing at each other, and the whole imitation family ritual slips my mind. For just this moment, free of the night's cares, we genuinely celebrate my birthday, and I earnestly feel like the most special girl in the entire world for perhaps the first time in my life.

That's when we spot her at the foot of the ramp, wide eyes' whites caught in the lamplight.

"LOUIS!"

All the nerves flood back in an instant, and I'm rooted in place. The others are, too, as my mother - haggard as she looks with worry and fury in equal measure - charges straight up the ramp, and right into the effigy's spot in the sigil.

And she freezes.

She doesn't fall over, she doesn't just lock up - she legitimately freezes in the air mid-stride, shivering in place as her eyes quiver. The whole powder-symbol starts to glow, a rich and unsettling crimson. I hear Ian shaking loose and flicking through the notes, before he reads off what must be Leah's copy from the ritual's instructions, unsteadily. "Uh... we stewards gather here beneath the moonlight to... witness the Legacy be passed in body and spirit from mother to daughter. Our eyes shall be its eyes, our... ears shall be its ears, our hearts shall be its heart." The others all try to repeat the last part, though they do a poor job staying together.

"Uh... inheritor, daughter of the Legacy, do you recieve this, the inheritance that is your right?"

I open my mouth.

No words leave.

No words can leave.

I am frozen. They are frozen, too. The wind has stopped. The leaves hang stiffly from the trees mid-sweep, the night-birds fixed like a stuffed trophy to the sky.




I am

nowhere. No one is anywhere. I do not have a body, and I do not have a mind. I do not exist right now, if I ever did.

Why am I?

I don't know where you got the idea you could. I thought you knew that being rejected by the legacy would unmake you, you foolish child.

It's her. I know her, at least. She has a form again, a shape again. I become aware of her, entirely, as though she were me, before she individuates and is soon only tethered to the nothing else. She speaks. "I don't know how you and those troublesome friends of yours got the idea that this would work, but it would never. Not without an effigy, and doubly not for a son."

At that, I feel a weight. I feel a husk on me, encumbering me, a body dragging the nebulous me into being - what I am to her. Louis's body, my vessel. I become aware of what I am, and I am uncomfortable. Maybe she's right.

Why shouldn't it work for her, though?

A third voice, neither mine nor hers. I can't peg it as anyone I know.

You wouldn't, of course. I feel as though I've been asleep for an age and a half. When was the last time we held a real inheritance, with tragic consequences, after all?

"You. Who are you?" My mother feels her throat, panicking - ah, I feel it through the tether, it feels to her as though it's speaking through her.

Your predecessor. The Witch of the Crimson Legacy. The family inheritance. The strongest remnant of the old tying-magic. I am many things, she says, and she is, and I understand it to be true. Ah, you've been shunting me into effigies to pass me down, I understand how I could be half-asleep for so long, for that's no way to live.

"Well," my mother replies, trying to straighten out in a non-place, devoid of anchor, "you could hardly call this a daughter, could you?"

I wish she'd use my name.

That's a fine point, inheritor. Could you, please?

She looks almost smug as she speaks. "_____."

Nothing.

"_____." She checks her throat again, growing more concerned.

Her true name, the name she understands herself to be, the name those she is understood by know her to be. "You say that like you believe he isn't _____," my mother says.

How could it be?

She looks genuinely irritated. "Have you consulted the Stewards, perhaps? Oh, wait - this little mock-ritual doesn't even have those, now, does it?"

She brought her own witnesses. I don't see the issue with that. At that, I feel - she feels - we feel four sets of sight focus on us, on me, and I on them, and suddenly I understand them in entirety, too. They know her as their own, she knows them as hers. Would one come forward? One does; a smaller-feeling presence, but a resolute one. It - they - Pip bites their tongue as their body Is again, here and nowhere, now merely tethered too.

Witness. "Yeah?" they say somewhat nervously, scratching their arm uncomfortably, unsettled by the situation. I do apologize for the circumstances. This should be trivial for you, of course - what is her - the inheritor's - true name?

They look like they were asked the color of the sky. "Clarisse."

I am. I *am.* I am named, and through it I am liberated. The husk sloughs away, and I embody - my body, my true body, once again, weird and imperfect and entirely incomplete as it is, but mine all the same. Little visually changes, I understand, but the tears flow from my eyes silently. "Pip," I half-whisper, voice brimming with joy. My head turns in three different, equally indistinct directions. "Ian," I say. "Leah," I say simultaneously. "Tim," I say at the same time as well, and they are drawn out and tethered, embodied and made whole again, and they - I - we pull together, and we are.

And, as we embrace, I feel her scratch at her throat, now genuinely uncomfortable. Why should your daughter not inherit me? Why should she not embody me, carry our spirit forward? Can you name the reason?

She opens her mouth again. "___." A layer of her self peels off her self, like the skin of an onion. "__." Another. "_." Another. '_.' Another. She sheds, she sheds further, she sheds further.

'_.'

'_.'

_.

_.

Soon, even no nothing is left to come from her, and all that's left is the impression of where she should be, and the desperation to cling to an appearance, to the world as she understands it, to a world that never really was.

And Her, crimson and clear in silhouette if not in feature.

Hello. Clarisse, was it?

"Y... yeah," I stammer as I feel her presence. "I chose it."

Lovely. In the Fourth Age of Witches, we chose and cast our names as they suited us, and I am glad the tradition continues. Your body - I am given to understand you are unsatisfied with it?

"Less than I'd like to be, but more than I think I figured I'd be, I guess." I look myself over as she washes through this.

Fresh from a true body, I am far more emergent than I feel like I've been in generations. We will be one and the same - would you wish to inherit some of my body, as well?

"... I... that sounds scary."

Hardly. She laughs, a laugh in her clear-as-crystal voice. I have little interest in occupying your self-as-a-person, and less interest in laying these old burdens your effigy-ritual forebears have built. You will know what I know, and further understand what I understand, but you will be entirely yourself besides. I have plenty of myself to lend, you see, so would you wish to take it on?

I think about it, as long as I think I need to. "... Some of it. Uh, would you know what?"

Why wouldn't I? We are already one and the same.

Are we?

We are. I am. Ah, yeah, I am, aren't I?

I stare ahead - no, up, at the gibbous moon, tears flowing on their own from my eyes as I am, as I am again, as I have always been, as I will now for ever be.

I smile.




The wind flows through my hair - it wasn't quite this long or voluminous before, was it? No, I realize, it wasn't, but it was before that, when I was someone else. As I become more aware of my body, I feel... slightly taller, maybe somewhat thicker around, certainly closer to feminine than I was, a tiny bit different in a million other little ways. I should feel like someone else, but I understand myself to still be myself, and I take solace in it.

My gaze lowers to Pip, who says nothing but looks behind them at the thunk of a body meeting the ground.

And there she is, dropped prone and seething - my mother, my last incarnation, the woman I loathe, aged ten years in a night, as though the life was ripped out of her. She looks up to me -

and in a moment, with a glance from me, the familiarity fades from her eyes. It's a trivial to clip a tie this two-sidedly animous, and though we both know on a logical level that we know each other, that we are related, we are nonetheless in an instant perfect strangers to each other. She pulls herself up and ambles away in a daze, emotionally unsure as to why she came here.

I stare at her leaving, unsure why I care so much to see her off, and then look down to my hands. A crimson glow fades from their backs and fingertips. As the Witch of the Crimson Legacy - that which I am - I understand, but as Clarisse - she who I am - I don't think I get yet. I wonder if -

"Uh... Clarisse, that... you?"

His - Ian's - voice from behind me snaps me out of a funk I didn't realize I'd slipped into. I jolt out of it and turn around. "Yeah?," I respond, surprised.

He jumps right into me, tackling me into a hug soon braced by the others. "I was afraid I lost you in there, or... something, lunkhead," he says, tinged a little with worry. "I dunno quite what happened, but... happy birthday, alright?"

I smile slightly awkwardly, looking around at the little impromptu hugpile burying me. "Hey, why would you be losing me? I can't go losing you, you're my -"

Stewards. Witnesses. Disciples?

... No. I'm overthinking it. I wanted to shed these old burdens of what I was, and here I am dragging them back.

I let the formality slip away. I know who they are to me, and no part of me could even tell you why I ever thought anything else.

"- friends." I drag 'em into an even tighter hug, into a world that's just us and the birds and the bugs and the leaves and the wind and the moon. "Wouldn't trade any of you losers in for anything else."
Return to top.


The Puppet Goes Home


The restless remaining identity of a lost armor-pilot is given the self and takes one last trip home.




There was an irritation, a sorrow among the Marionettes, and - as the imitation-mechanic gingerly unhooked the current Marionette Twelve's latches and loops from the vast armor's pilot-strings one by one, letting it down into waiting arms to strip it of the last few - it coursed through the others slumped lifelessly around the mountain-home, and the unit as a whole became begrudgingly slightly-aware.

It was hardly the fault of the twelfth one's latest victory, of course. No, that was a distraction from the feeling - a quite good one, even, between the adrenaline of machine-combat and the accomplishment of protecting the villages near-by. No, it had lingered over the unit for some fair amount of time, ever since the last twelfth was obliterated at the mage-machine's hands some months back. The former identity it bore had lingered among the Marionettes' composite-self as a convenience, of course, but so in turn have the patterns of thought she would think, the decisions she would make.

As soon as the imitation-mechanic and body twelve's bundled-and-masked form returned to the mostly-bare common area and slumped into inactivity, the Marionettes decided to think about what should be done, and so the imitation-commander, body seven and body fifteen got up and moved to one of the few truly furnished rooms in the mountain-home-body (the unit liked to think in there, for as much as it had shed the necessities of individuation and all that, it was very helpful to put faces to the process of thought, and it was really quite comfortable to do it somewhere that was, itself, quite comfortable.)




So seven and fifteen and the false-commander set themselves onto the thickly-cushioned seats in the cloth-draped, electric-starlit room, the stark contrast that it is to the flat, perfectly dark emptiness of much of the rest of the Marionettes' space. (Elsewhere, the unit rose the imitation-mechanics, twenty-three, and eight to keep the armors in order and the work environment tidy, to keep stimulated.) The imitation-commander, made in the likeness of Marionette Nine's former identity as the last commander to oversee the Marionette Squad before he let the structure fall away, spoke first. "It would be sad to see her go."

"She needs to." Fifteen spoke next, with the voice of Marie, the past-self of the lost twelfth body. "She would feel bad lingering, wouldn't she? Haunting the Marionettes like a ghost."

Then, seven, with the gentle and measured tone of body ten's former self, the voice the unit had presented as Marie's guide during her days as a Provisional Marionette. "It would be missing something after, but she would return to the unit as something simply less coherent. It would take on her self as bits of its own."

Fifteen again, throwing its baggy-sleeved arms behind the back of the chair and sinking into a slouch. "She'd be more comfortable, wouldn't she? She wouldn't be going immediately, in any case."

The commander nodded. "She has business. It's understood, but she'll still be missed deeply afterward. The unit is different without her."

"The unit is different without her." Seven nodded too, in agreement. "But change isn't a bad thing. The preparations should be made."

The imitation-commander, as the only one with no point-mask (and, more importantly, a permanent fleshlike face) pinched the bridge of the nose, leaned forward, and sighed. "They should, true. They should."

All three then dropped lifelessly, as though their strings had been cut. The unit would move them later, as its maintenance-stim-selves set then to preparing the auto-steed.




Marionette Twelve's limp form was laid along the twin-wheeled beast, its legs strapped down to the side, its forward arms and collar fastened tight to the retracting reins, its interface-heart tied down to the engine-lighter. The maintenance vessels backed away gently as the bay flooded from its unfurling doors with sun-light. As it clicked open, they dropped to the floor.

Twelve - the body that was most recently still-human, still lined with traces of Simon from-the-Mound, for body twelve was his, and the marking that holds the deepest significance to Marie of-Red-Waters, for before him body twelve was hers - snapped awake at the ley-engine's start.

It-she-he-they-we

I

came alive.

I stirred the auto-steed and bolted off with a machine-roar, my bay's doors slamming shut behind me.




Wearing a facade is easy. Any amateur mage's memory-counter can pass for a walking and talking person with a little clever bonding and masking.

It is exceptionally difficult to genuinely be a person.

The Marionettes struggle greatly with it, but I knew it was important, and so I pulled myself together as I rode. Distance held no meaning to the totality of the unit, but it takes so much to drag being an individual together from us that I only left the bit of awareness back in the mountain-home-body that lives at the root of its thought.

I, the I-that-is-Simon, didn't realize it was so hard to be a person. I, the more present me, Marie of-Red-Waters, had it in me to imitate a huff of amusement. Yes, I... was Marie of-Red-Waters, at least for now, while I had something this important to do. Once, when I had a body, I played in the forests whose leaves filter the light I just blinked through, ran through the fields whose grass I just trampled over, let my face feel the air that has streamed past my mask. It was a long ride to my destination, which suited me just fine - it gave me plenty of time to slowly remind myself who I was, what I was doing, why I was doing it.

I-as-Simon chafed uncomfortably at the feeling of my memories - not of a misalignment, but of an unsettling alignment. I shouldn't feel this at-home as this, specifically. Why? I didn't exist as myself anymore outside being convenient shorthand, so... why did I still feel those walls in my head?

I was immediately soothed, as I was again Marie. I knew I would come to understand, because I had understood before. I would be, for the next week, someone. Myself.

I let the scenery pass around me, the farms and the villages and the connecting roads and the forests dense and thin.

How I wanted to feel it. Soon, I told myself. Soon, how? Soon.




Soon, the auto-steed was parked beneath an enormous tree near the village, and I unhooked myself piece by piece. I slid off the seat, and then I was standing outside, wooden feet on the ground and baggy coverings shifting in the cool westerly wind.

I lifted my hands to the side of my head, unstrapping the sides and top of the mask and lowering it away, exposing the tightly-hooded solidity-without-form beneath. I next hung my mask from the steed before pulling back that hood and letting it fall to the thick woolen neck, simply letting the still-newly-empty head of Marionette Twelve exist in the air for just a moment before I focused in, before the mage's-flesh drawn from my collective will knit itself across and through the place-holding head and neck and downward, before I was - at least, from the shoulders up - once more merely Marie of-Red-Waters, allowed one last visit home. (I, as Simon, let myself recede almost fully, just enough to keep the still-freshly-converted body stable under the pressure of a self.)

I knew this tree, and I recall as I place my hand against it that I was here when I was myself but a child, allowed the freedom to play the gallant knight in the peace of Red Waters, slaying imaginary dragons and fearsome foes between the lessons and the farm-working. Wasn't it fitting that the home of my dreams would now be where they'd come to roost?

Before I took my stave from the steed and set for walking, I gave it a few gentle pats, feeling the bark beneath the thick glove covering my barely-hands. "O mighty Tree-dom, land of my youth," I whispered to it, "never change."

And then there I was, my nature nestled comfortably at the back of my mind as I began the long walk down to Red Water, the farm-and-craft collective-village I called home in my youth.

The water running red was some peculiarity of the area's soil, but nothing of any danger even to actual people of flesh and blood. It was instead a charming local quirk, the thing that made Red Water and its sisters so distinctive. It was sundown, now, and as I strode through the streets drawing stares of vague recognition I thought to myself that I didn't remember electric-lamps being here. Nor did I remember the buildings being this reinforced, the streets neatly cobbled over. She'd changed, become almost unrecognizable.

I'd changed, too, become almost unrecognizable to her. Change wasn't a bad thing, entirely.

But we were only almost unrecognizable to each other, and soon I arrived at my destination - a rather small house, somewhat nicer than I remembered, but with the same marking-stone buried outside. The door was the same, too, and it made the same sound it used to when I knocked.

She opened the door, older and more weary than I remembered, but dressed in the same old working-clothes she's always worn. I don't know if she recognizes me. "Who troubles me?," she squeaks out, tiredly.

I respond, remembered nervousness edging into my voice. "... Hey, Ma. It's Marie. I don't know for how much longer."

I was pulled, quickly and almost silently, into the tightest hug I think any of the unit has ever had.




"Ma," I tried to explain as she doled out the stew and bread, "I told you, I haven't needed to eat since I got brought into the fold, I'm fine." She merely huffed in response, continuing with an "I raised quite a voracious child, I thought, and damn me if I will not now let my daughter eat as heartily as she can manage too." Luckily, the body was still fully capable of eating - and with the mage's-flesh, enjoying - food, so I simply sighed and set about eating, slowly at first.

Warm, filling, rich, meaty. My mother always knew how to work the local hunt and harvest into something worth celebrating, and I was put at ease knowing she kept that going.

What I was perhaps less eased by, however, was the sudden memories of what it was like to... want more. It may have simply been the memory invoked by the stew, but I scarfed it down with great haste and demolished my roll of bread. I froze stock-still for just a moment - the entirety of myself and itself trying to remember how it went, before it all came back - and then made one simple declaration, lapsing back into a childishness I might have forgotten were I not altogether this wholly myself.

"More!"

"With *manners,* please," my mother shot back, playing at insistence.

"More manners!" I had burst into a grin.

"Well, I suppose can hardly deny such a strong warrior her request, anyway," my ma replied with a bounce, serving me plenty more - which, naturally, disappeared as quickly as it came.




When I told her I intended to stay for the week, she told me she could wait until then to hear what I was doing back home, and so I obliged her. I didn't want to break her heart so soon, I thought as I laid against the stuffed sleeping mat in what had become a mere spare room in my absence. It was... almost comfortable, in a nostalgic sort of way.

Soon, it severed all to the twelfth body but the thread needed to keep the mage's-flesh going and enough sense to tell when it was morning, and the unit drifted away to a selfless slumber.

... Drifted... away...

... into strange dreams, of being and becoming and loss, and nothing, nothing, nothing, no-

and I'm shunted wholly back into being myself, unceremoniously, by the smells and sounds of morning in my home village.

Home.

For a week, I'm home. For a week, I'm someone, with a name and a face and a body.

I nearly forgot.

And for that week, my mother introduces and re-introduces me to everyone, and everywhere. For that week, people reacclimate themselves to me, someone working far beyond their ken, coming back to live the mundane life. For that week, I think to myself as I tend the farms and play delivery-woman for the town's goods before coming back to a warm meal and a loving mother and a place for my head, that I could live like this.

And, whenever I catch myself in a reflection, I feel - in the back of my head - that for the first time, I-as-Simon am content with who I am. She-I realized it, and I-as-Marie was happy to help her understand, to let those walls between us crumble.

For a brief moment, we thought we could bear it.




The day I was to leave, ma came over to me at the door, casual as could be. "Now that you've stayed... why did you come back, dear?," she asked.

... I couldn't bear to break her heart.

The Marionettes knew it had to.

Sigh. I bite my tongue as I do a recalled inhale. "Ma, I'm... dead. I've been dead for several months now."

The warmth in her emotion, the warmth in the house, the warmth in the world seems to vanish. All that's left is me, caught in the one shaft of light splitting the proverbial darkness. "I've... been loosely hanging around the Marionettes as an identity, but I felt I needed to move on from being myself. I just... couldn't bear to do that without giving you the proper goodbye you deserved, alright, Ma?"

In her shock -

to my shock -

she latched to me, even tighter than before, sobbing into my covering wordlessly.

I stopped the imitation-breathing I hadn't even realized I'd started, and simply reciprocated the hug. I tried to reassure her, I did. "... I won't be gone gone. I'll just be part of everyone else. Maybe they'll visit, too, and a little of me can hang around, right?"

Nothing, nothing but more sobs and tighter clinging.

... I clung tighter, too, and I realized I was shedding a couple tears myself.




And there I went, gone for the last time.

From Red Water, from myself, from everything.

I wasn't. I kept my face, though, for I felt at home in it, and my name, for I thought I wore it well, and my voice, for it felt more natural than what I had before, and as I - Marionette Twelve - made the long trek back to the auto-steed, I let the new me, Marie from-the-Mound, take in her world and live in it for just a moment before the mask of identity would once again fall away.

The unit would convene again, and all would be almost as it was before.

Almost. Change wasn't altogether a bad thing, and it was rather fun for the Marionettes to be someone, it felt. Perhaps the unit ought to be someone more frequently.
Return to top.

gay pride wednesday

Jun. 5th, 2026 09:27 pm
thegreatratsby: (Default)
[personal profile] thegreatratsby
i posted this on wednesday on neocities. so it counts.
home for a week to visit family, boyfriend, etc. yay :-)

listening
  • shriekcast
  • trueanon eps 551/552 'dead load' from their patreon. honestly banger episodes, centered around the idea of the israeli Nut Retreival Thing(tm) but focuses way more on the religious background behind it as a concept, some of the controversies, etc. the content warning at the beginning is for "discussions of cum and homunculi" which rules
  • i don't know how i avoided listening to system of a down for so long but they fuck? they fuck hard? i think it's because i don't really care for chop suey as a song, it's Fine, but that's the one that always gets trotted out as The system of a down song. gateway back in was 'lonely day' and the rest is history, listened to albums 'toxicity' and 'hypnotize' on the plane today

Read more... )

Birdfeeding

Jun. 5th, 2026 07:41 pm
ysabetwordsmith: Cartoon of me in Wordsmith persona (Default)
[personal profile] ysabetwordsmith posting in [community profile] birdfeeding
Today is mostly cloudy and quite warm.

I fed the birds. I've seen a few sparrows and house finches.

I put out water for the birds.

EDIT 6/5/26 -- I watered plants in the house yard.

DIT 6/5/26 -- I watered plants in the new picnic table garden.

Little purple flowers are blooming in the south lot. I suspect they're from a previous application of Bee Lawn Mix, so it's likely self-heal. :D

As it is getting dark, I am done for the night.

Vancouver, May 2026

May. 25th, 2026 11:34 pm
[syndicated profile] sortition_social_feed

Posted by Sortition Social

Entry syndicated from untitled | sharnoff.io [feed link]

Vancouver is an unbelivably beautiful city, as it turns out. I was there for pgconf.dev, and took a couple days before the conference to take pictures, get sunburnt, and get over jetlag.

I finished the trip with nearly 400 photos, with almost 300 from just Sunday. (A typical day out usually gives me 50-100 photos, with ~5% that I think are worth publishing — maybe 10% on a really good day. This trip had quite a bit more of both.)

Vancouver was teeming with life. There were so many photos where I'd accidentally also caught a bird in flight, somewhere I wasn't looking. In one otherwise bland picture of Stanley Park (not included here), there happened to be a bald eagle soaring in the distance. Or, in the picture of the helicopter below, there's a seagull flying just below it, that I didn't even realize until combing through photos after the fact.

Other things that caught my eye:

  • the BC Place stadium has these distinctive support pillars in a ring around the top, kind of like a suspension bridge. I can't quite describe why I was drawn to them - maybe something in the idea of rugged metal reaching to grab the sky?
  • the port had so much color, especially on a cloudless day in the morning light. Not to mention the slow movement, which I wish I could adequately capture. I got carried away at the time & had to cut down what I actually put here.
  • the crows at Stanley Park were fishing for clams and then dropping them on the rocks to crack them open. I tried for a little while to get a picture of them - the crows would often not quite get it on the first try, and grab the clam again and almost throw it in an arc onto the rocks again. I wasn't quite fast enough to catch them, though, and eventually they left to go do whatever it is that crows do.

And, for fun, I've also included a couple pictures crossing London on the way back home.

load of bullshit

Jun. 5th, 2026 10:58 am
kossai: masculine form of kossai, cute wink (Default)
[personal profile] kossai
neocities is down right now due to some form of legal attack , no details or timeline yet . for some reason can not load front page of bluesky profile , so can only access this post

to be honest , not even sure where would go apart from neocities if that was to become non-viable - do not feel exactly safe with tie legal name to anything under this username , and also have more personal complications with online payment methods , so pretty much anything paid is out of question .

obviously already have one account set up with nekoweb - not sure if terms of service allow another ? would have to check . but also not sure if personal site sit quite right on nekoweb , and more that any platform rise in popularity is more chance of hit by some kind of bullshit again - must wonder if move services would actually solve problem , or just postpone . 

happy edit : neocities is back up ! though original point still stand , would not know how to move on if that ever become necessary . not necessary right now , but still something to contemplate . 
[syndicated profile] sortition_social_feed

Posted by CHz

Entry syndicated from Alterna Citizen Program M-00: Init (System Noise) [feed link]

By Kenji Yamamoto, Minako Hamano

← The trailer music is weirdly sloppy

Game info: Wikipedia
Listening: extracted audio, YouTube (incomplete)

Credits

-Retro Studios-
Audio Manager: Scott Petersen

-Nintendo-
Music: Kenji Yamamoto, Minako Hamano
Environment Sound Support: Shinji Ushiroda

Full credits available at VGMdb.

Info

I was putting off listening to this until I could actually play it, which for budgetary reasons only happened a couple of months ago. And then after I finished the game, I put off listening to it because the only rip was an incomplete one on YouTube. But the audio files finally got dumped, so it’s go time.

Prime 4’s soundtrack doesn’t massively depart from its predecessors, so you’ll hear synth instrumentation from and compositional callbacks to past games, but it does have a bit of its own individual flavor, in part because so much time has elapsed since the last one and in part because all the games do to an extent. Most notably, as you might’ve heard in trailers, there are wordless soprano vocals everywhere, which are new compared to the previous male choir vocals that are also still in the soundtrack. Overall there’s also more of an emphasis on “horror” sound design in the music than before; Metroid has always been influenced by space horror so it’s not like previous Prime games haven’t had scary music, but in the ambient tracks they really went in on stuff like metallic scraping noises and drones harder than they have in the past. As a result, I feel like the sound palette of this game is a bit less distinctively Metroid-sounding, but there are still a lot of good noises in there.

About the writing… well. Real fans of the blog (i.e., no one) will remember that in my post about Metroid Dread last year I fully and openly came out as the Kenji Yamamoto hater I’ve been for ages. So I wasn’t excited when the trailer music was clearly him, and I wasn’t excited when I saw he was credited for music after the game came out. I’ve got two major problems with this soundtrack, the first of which requires a brief digression into some Prime musical history.

I’ve learned a bit of trivia about the original Metroid Prime since I wrote about its soundtrack in 2023. I knew then that Retro Studios had originally wanted Autechre to do the soundtrack, but what I didn’t know was that audio lead Clark Wen revealed in an interview that after Nintendo shot down Autechre and Kenji Yamamoto came on board, the first concept track he produced was very rock-focused; they pushed back on him like “aaaaaactually we were thinking more like Autechre,” and that’s why he ended up going in the electronic, ambient techno/IDM-y direction that he did. So Prime’s soundtrack was Yamamoto (and Koichi Kyuma, presumably) intentionally doing an Autechre impersonation, and that’s why I enjoy it. It’s generally not as interesting as Autechre music in either composition and sound design, but it’s not bad, and quite frankly if more game composers even just vaguely pretended to be Autechre I think the world would be a better place.

After the original game, though, Yamamoto started slipping rock into the soundtracks, starting with the guitar solo in the Dark Samus boss theme in Prime 2; there’s also the Brinstar remix in Pinball and the Rundas boss theme in Prime 3 with geetarz in them. And in Prime 4, it appears he had free reign to geetarz as much as he wanted, so while the majority of the soundtrack is still in more traditional Prime electronic styles, there’s way more guitar in boss themes and area themes alike than in all the previous games combined. And I just find Yamamoto’s rock to be so profoundly uninteresting compared to his Autechre impression. It’s the side of Yamamoto’s music that I’d rather listen to the least, and the embrace of it is my first problem with the soundtrack. Even if the guitar was removed altogether I’d still have complaints about a lot of the stylistic and melodic writing, but the guitar is just an upfront signal that this soundtrack wasn’t aimed at me specifically.

My second major problem is that prior to this game, Yamamoto hadn’t had an explicit music credit in more than ten years, and it feels like he forgot how to write music in the intervening time.

I wrote about some basic timing issues in the Fury Green theme that was used in a trailer, wondering if they’d be fixed when the game actually came out. And they weren’t, the song is in fact just like that. And that’s not the only example, there’s a small handful of other tracks with blatant technical deficiencies of a kind I’m hard-pressed to think of any modern examples of from a major developer: besides mistimed parts there’s also incoherently layered sounds, abysmal mixing, etc. Like, get a load of this:

This blows ass. This sounds like two people in the room next door trying and failing to play guitar and drums over a weirdly-edited version of the Prime main theme. I’m not making a personal complaint that this is in a style I’d prefer not to hear; this is just objectively garbage.

I don’t understand how a 40-year audio professional could be satisfied enough with this to send it out. And I don’t understand how the rest of the audio team could’ve just… accepted this and put it in the game. There are multiple tracks in this game where Yamamoto leapfrogged “worst music in the Metroid franchise” and went all the way to “worst music to ever appear in a Nintendo game,” and I don’t know how we got here. Were the development hell and crunch on this game really just that bad, that in a couple of cases this was the best they had to go with?

It’s rough, man. Part of me wants to crow about this, like see? You all wanted Kenji Yamamoto back, well you got your wish and here’s the trash you deserve. But I’m not actually happy to see Metroid music in this state, at all. Which is why I’m going to switch and talk about Minako Hamano now instead. That’s right! This game had two composers, not one.

Hamano was a bit less randomly prog here than she was in Prime 3, but there is still a little bit of her rhythmic shenanigans tucked in there. What I really want to talk about though are her area themes; there are a few of them, particularly in the Ice Belt area and Sol Valley shrines, that are a lot more tonally complex than the rest of the soundtrack in a way that Yamamoto really never gets, so I think they’re probably her. And if they’re her, then she’s definitely upped her sound production game since the last time she’s known to have written music for the Metroid series; in the past her sequencing and sound design have never been especially elaborate and are in fact often very fake-sounding (which I don’t hate!), but here those tracks that don’t sound to me like Yamamoto compositionally are also the ones with the coolest sound design in the game. Generally their sound palette is a bit wider and there’s a bit more care spent in manipulating the overall sound instead of just slapping down some lines and calling it a day.

So they’re, like… definitely some of the best music that’s ever been in the Metroid franchise. Coexisting with easily the worst music that’s ever been in the Metroid franchise. The Prime 4 soundtrack, much like the game itself, is truly a land of contrasts.

The game rip on YouTube is missing at least a few tracks: jingles, some cutscene music, possibly some area theme variations, etc. There are about 25 tracks in the game data that I couldn’t immediately identify as being part of the game or not; a bunch of them are very sparsely ambient and I think are likely dynamic layers that are stacked onto other pieces, but there are “full” tracks in the bunch too, some of which have instrumentation that isn’t used anywhere else in the soundtrack. The game also has several tracks from earlier Prime games that definitely weren’t used in the game that I’m sure were just placeholders during development, so there’s a possibility that some of the unidentified tracks are just older tracks that I don’t remember. One of those in particular is interesting because it appears to be an early prototype version of the Mogenar boss theme from Prime 3 which as far as I know was never used anywhere; compared to the original it’s slower, has less layers, and has a much more prominent synth bassline.

Recommended tracks:

  • Ice Belt (Snow Wolf Battle)” (Hamano?) was the first track that convinced me I should keep listening to the soundtrack, nice spooky chord movement

  • Keratos Boss Battle Music” (Yamamoto?) was one of the boss themes that most hearkened back to the boss themes from the earlier Prime games in its composition and sound design

  • Flare Pool (Energy Extraction)” (Hamano?) is some of that drone-and-metallic-noises ambience

  • 100% Ending Song” (Yamamoto?) has a cool glitchy sound at 1:27 that definitely doesn’t feel like it’s actually part of the song, it totally is though it’s not a sound effect that’s synced to anything in the cutscene

  • Lamorn Shrine (Puzzle Room)” (Hamano?) is pretty easily my favorite track in the game, very warpy

  • Sand Griever Battle Music” (Hamano?) is some rare non-4/4 or -3/4

(track titles are unofficial)

LB are at Dyke March tomorrow!

Jun. 4th, 2026 07:55 pm
lb_lee: A happy little brain with a bandage on it, enclosed within a circle with the words LB Lee. (Default)
[personal profile] lb_lee
We’ll be tabling tomorrow (Friday June 5) at Dyke March, at Boston Commons from 6-10ish! We will have copies of Betty Dodson’s Liberating Masturbation, Joani Blank’s Sexual Playbook for Men, and the anthology zine My Love Is Strange!

Be here! Be queer! Hope to see you!

flightbox (2026)

May. 31st, 2026 01:06 pm
[syndicated profile] sortition_social_feed

Posted by CHz

Entry syndicated from Alterna Citizen Program M-00: Init (System Noise) [feed link]

By Michaela Nachtigall (mklachu), miles morkri, paper aviator, starling tan, Tancla

Listening/music info: Bandcamp

Info

Original Music Week continues with… the realization that I’ve never mentioned Infloresce Records here by name, damn. I’ve even posted about a couple of their releases before! Though not recently, I’ve been slacking on that somewhat. Anyway, Infloresce is a label founded by aivi with some friends in 2022 with a focus on the gentler side of digital fusion music—not toothless or bland, just gentle. At the end of 2024/start of 2025 they realized that the personal costs of the business and logistical support they were providing were more than they were comfortable bearing (running a label is hard!), so around the time Earthblade was released they refocused a bit to provide less direct publishing and production support, though they still do release albums under their umbrella and host events and so on.

flightbox is their first compilation album release since the reorg, apparently the first in a planned series of short albums where the composers are given a one-word prompt: the word here is obviously “flight.” Three of the pieces are fairly intimate, warm compositions, with two of those having chamber-y instrumentation and the other being a bit synthier with piano and guitar. “Take off!” by Tancla is a more action-y, rousing video game style flight theme with orchestra, piano, and drumkit. And then there’s “satellite” by miles morkri, which, well—their bio described their current musical writing as “a fusion of emo, prog, and showtune,” and I wasn’t really expecting their song to be that given the pieces that preceded it, but then it actually was. So it comes a bit out of left field, though it’s not like Infloresce made any stylistic promises with the album.

There wasn’t any track on this album that I super loved, but all of them did at least a couple of things that I enjoyed, some nice chords or mixes of acoustic and synth textures or what have you.

Recommended tracks:

  • unfurl the apricot clouds” (starling tan) was my favorite of the intimate tracks

  • satellite” (miles morkri) has a shmup-sounding pre-chorus I like at 1:02 and elsewhere

front roster ... haha cute

Jun. 4th, 2026 07:52 pm
kossai: masculine form of kossai, cute wink (Default)
[personal profile] kossai

obviously , kossai do not share who make what posts . someone here recently say that to give list of even frequent fronters would still be in dozens , and yeah - actually switch every few hours , on average 2 to 4 , apart from when literally asleep .

there is one side of coin that courtiers just get tired to be up here - start to get cranky , irritable , and eventually headache , all of which clear up upon switch . there is also other side of coin that so many courtiers want to experience things anyway , so although this was not conscious choice and early exhaustion still annoy , this cycle actually work out well to prevent clamber and fight .

... so then in practise , even list of frequent fronters will gradually shift , and random infrequent fronters often end up in mix . this is ultimate concoction to make public display of front roster unmanageable unless share entirety of records .

and , well , absolutely not >.>


Birdfeeding

Jun. 4th, 2026 01:07 pm
ysabetwordsmith: Cartoon of me in Wordsmith persona (Default)
[personal profile] ysabetwordsmith posting in [community profile] birdfeeding
Today is mostly sunny and warm.

I fed the birds. I've seen a few sparrows and house finches.

I put out water for the birds.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I did a bit of work around the patio.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I sprayed weeds in the prairie garden.

Black raspberries are ripening. Blackberries have green fruit.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I potted up the giant African marigolds.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I watered the patio plants and barrel garden.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I did more work around the patio.

I've seen a fox squirrel.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I picked a handful of black raspberries along the edge of the prairie garden.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- I watered the new picnic table garden.

EDIT 6/4/26 -- After sunset, we went out skywatching. We saw Venus, Jupiter, and Mercury in a line. \o/

At least 2 bats were out tonight, skimming along the edges of the yard and up the driveway. There were more fireflies, surprising given how dry it's been recently, but I am happy to see them.

As it is now dark, I am done for the night.

good prisoners , bad prisoners

Jun. 3rd, 2026 06:43 pm
kossai: feminine form of kossai, cute wink (feminine)
[personal profile] kossai
idea of prisons fuck kossai up ever since kid . earliest introduction to idea of what prison is like - even if in somewhat " kid-friendly " form - was stories of people who did nothing wrong falsely imprisoned , where no one would hear truth . prison was bad people place , so everyone in prison was bad person , and there was no need to listen or treat as anything but .

and as learn more about prisons , that feeling of frustration and unfairness just grow . that no one should have to be trapped in this way , forced to slave labour and cut off from world , where even birdsong and sunlight is treasured commodity . genuinely work up into tears when read real accounts of these experiences .

and just like in childhood stories , some people end up in prison for exaggerated if not entirely false reasons . of course , some people really do abhorrent things , and not always sure what best answer is both to adequately discourage , and gracefully move forward when some perpetrators might never want to . to really have answers in current world would require such different kind of society that have no idea how to picture yet . but do know that really , really love initiatives which put more materials in hands of prisoners and push to improve conditions of prison life - books , communications , anything .

today find out about bull press games , which seem to mostly service US but do indeed send out tabletop games to prisoners , and love that so much . decide to poke into FAQ , and right after statements about how creativity and socialisation is basic human need , that conditions of prison drive people mad , there is this :
I don’t want to support somebody “who did something horrible”, do you work with people like that ? No, we don’t work with anybody convicted of depraved crimes like sex offenses or child abuse.
that sure put little bit of damper on enjoyment . think initiatives like this still so important to support , but . not only can these convictions sometimes just be as false and unjustified as others , but even if entirely true , think there is something extremely powerful and important in ability to say that this person commit horrible acts with horrible intentions , and still no less of person who deserve rights and fulfillment of basic needs .

maybe no amount of kindness in world could truly get someone horrendous to change ways and become beloved community member . but then , that is not limited to these 2 categories of crime , and feel kind of like weird double standard . on one hand can not help but wonder if kossai is naive , and just miss something . on other hand , truly think need to be able to stand for protection of rights and fulfillment of needs no matter what , or else what do those things really mean ?

some thoughts on the backrooms

Jun. 3rd, 2026 05:08 am
[syndicated profile] sortition_social_feed

Posted by Sortition Social

Entry syndicated from videodante [feed link]

So the thing with the backrooms as as a cultural object is that I think it's riven in twain by a weirdly undiscussed generational divide. Given its existence as an internet-born, memetic fiction project à la the SCP Foundation, it is sort of a cooperative project across millennials and zoomers.

I think this is crucial, because (as i alluded to in my review of the 2026 movie), I think the horror symbols used in 'the backrooms' are being treated differently by these two generations.

For millennials, generally speaking, we are aware of the spaces that 'the backrooms' are based on — likely we were conscious people for at least some amount of time before the malls became abandoned. I, personally, went to at least three malls as a kid regularly that nowadays would be described as 'abandoned'.

For the slightly younger generation, the zoomers, they likely did not know these places as anything other than abandoned. For them, these empty malls or office parks or whatever have always been these strange relics of a previous version of American civilization.

This is, I think, the core of that internal tension in the 'backrooms fanbase'. Do you see the backrooms as a scary place because it used to have meaning (the millennial viewpoint)? Or do you find the backrooms scary because they have no clear meaning at all (the zoomer viewpoint)?

It's the latter that I think makes "adding a scary monster" to the space more amenable, because you're adding a meaning to the space. But if you're coming from the more millennial viewpoint — that sees the backrooms as a lost place that you remember — adding a monster feels superfluous, hat-on-a-hat stuff, because the space already has a meaning! The meaning is inherent to it, it's decay of the social or abandonment or loss of childhood or whatever.

So you have these two competing interpretations of how to approach the symbol of 'the backrooms', both of which, in their own ways, are reflections on the nature of decaying American society. It's not an extremely deep metaphor or anything, but I can completely see the attraction.


As always, you can find me and this post on mastodon, or on the RSS feed for this very website. If you want more of my writing, check out my linkblog. Thanks for reading. I love you.

Birdfeeding

Jun. 3rd, 2026 01:39 pm
ysabetwordsmith: Cartoon of me in Wordsmith persona (Default)
[personal profile] ysabetwordsmith posting in [community profile] birdfeeding
Today is mostly sunny and warm.

I fed the birds.  I've seen a few sparrows and house finches.  Red-winged blackbirds are singing overhead.

I put out water for the birds.

EDIT 6/3/26 -- I did a bit of work around the patio.

I've seen a male cardinal at the hopper feeder.

EDIT 6/3/26 -- I did more work around the patio.

EDIT 6/3/26 -- I watered plants in the house yard.
 
EDIT 6/3/26 -- I watered plants in the new picnic table garden.
 
EDIT 6/3/26 -- I watered more plants in the house yard.
 
EDIT 6/3/26 -- We went out skywatching shortly after sunset and spotted 3 bats flying around the yard.  :D  Yay bats!
 
As it is now dark, I am done for the night.
 

Starlings

Jun. 3rd, 2026 01:38 pm
ribirdnerd: perched bird (Default)
[personal profile] ribirdnerd posting in [community profile] birdfeeding
Wednesday 6/3/26

It's still pretty quiet around here.

We do have a family of European Starlings who spend all day eating up all the suet I put out. It's cute to see the 2 young ones beg and mom (or dad) comply.

I saw 2 Mute Swan cygnets on the pond. I think there were 3 or 4 originally.

Linux Art Programs

Jun. 3rd, 2026 10:19 am
lb_lee: an instrument panel with a hole, an arrow pointing to said hole, and a written warning: do not put tongue here AGAIN. (questionableideas)
[personal profile] lb_lee
Rogan: okay, so it looks like Clip Studio Paint is no longer a program I can rely on, because I can’t get it to work reliably on Linux and my Windows 7 partition looks like it can no longer be activated. At this point, I think I’d rather just find a new Linux-native art program than stay in Microsoft’s clutches.

I already have GIMP but it’s like drawing with a blunt ballpoint pen. And sometimes that’s what I need, but I loved Clip Studio Paint for its lush brush pen and pencil brushes; I loved not having to erase line ends to make them pointy, I loved being able to lock individual layers or insta-colorize or screentone them. Those were the primary features I used.

I overwhelmingly draw in black and white, maybe four layers tops. I hand-letter everything. Any recommendations?

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