Another journal

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/DirtyWhiteNoiseActI

A fire-engine red Chuck Taylor hightop, toe-cap snowily spotless, nudges aside a leaning sheaf of long green-yellow grass. The ragged shreds beneath it, short acrylic fur a white gone wetly grey, marred by streaks of grimy mud, a stuffed toy animal, belly of it twisted, torn, and matted clumps of fiber stuffing spilt from the wound. All in black Jo Gallowglas lowers her foot, pushing back more grass with one bared arm. The head of the toy’s vaguely equine, with a short black mane of some material stiffer than the fur, and sewn there, just above the blackly glassy eyes, stripes of rainbow colors spiraled into a horn-shape stiffened, perhaps, by a length of wire within. Gingerly she lifts it, sagging, limp, out from its dew-damp hollow, tenderly she turns it about, to cradle it in the crook of her arm. More loose stuffing drifts from the rip to float away, snagged by the lightening grass. There’s a tag, sewn to the seam of one stubby leg, and over the faded washing instructions blocky letters have been written in a child’s persnickety hand, ROY G BIV.

“Boss! Hey! Hey, boss!”

She looks up, eyes hidden away behind small round sunglasses. Sweetloaf, pompadour a-bob, stumbles toward her over junk-strewn tummocks, holding up a flat black something, “I think I fucking found it! Over there, by the,” looking back, missing a step, “shit!” waving an arm for balance, “that fucking tent, right?” The debris trailed off behind him, cinder blocks and bicycle wheels, boards from broken pallets, an upright shopping cart, that bent torchiere at a drunken angle, all spread from a raggedly irregular mound, edges of it knocked and tossed about in churns of mud and torn-up grass, surmounted by a small dome tent uprooted, tossed aside but still intact, a-wobble beige and orange in the morning breeze. “I mean,” Sweetloaf’s saying, “I don’t fucking know, I can’t turn it on. Not sure if it’s the fucking battery or, you know,” handing it to her, “that.”

https://thecityofroses.com/story/DirtyWhiteNoiseActI

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/DirtyWhiteNoiseOpening

An officer in black beckons from poured concrete steps, “Who’s got the scene?” she calls to him, pointing to a van parked close by the curb, Portland Police it says on the side, Forensic Evidence Division.

“Logan,” he says, “and what’s her name. Hidaka.”

“Fuck,” under her breath. “They done with the fibers and shit? Because I am not putting on a bunny sut.” Her white pullover gone pale magenta in this light, her close-cropped silver hair stained pink, tipped back, she’s looking up, VERN, say those lit-up letters above them, lurid, red.

He holds out a pair of paper booties. “You’re gonna want these.”

Inside, the bar’s a pool of jukebox colors diffusely dim, a woman behind the bar, man on the stool before her, coffee cup in hand, “Bartender,” says the officer, “waitstaff, they didn’t see it go down, but they got good looks at the perp.”

“And have their statements been taken?”

“Of course.”

“Cut ’em loose.” She sets a couple of business cards on the bar, snap. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.” Sends them skating away with a flick of her fingers to fetch up next to the coffee cup. “Get yourselves home. Call if you think of anything. Detective Bauer.”

“We gotta lock up when you’re done,” says the man on the stool.

“Then, as quick as we can. So! Officer…”

“Villaraldo,” he says, tapping the nametag there on his tactical vest, but she’s bent over, tugging a bootie on over a hiking boot. “Corey Villaraldo. We’ve met, like, before.”

“What is this, Officer Villaraldo, number thirty-six for the year?” Yanking the elastic of the other bootie over and around her heel. “And it’s not even June.”

“I thought last night was thirty-six. Out by the airport?”

https://thecityofroses.com/story/DirtyWhiteNoiseOpening

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreClosing

This tub’s of beaten copper, not of wood, set in the midst of the trim green lawn stretched flatly out to parapets of brick. Panels of palest gauzy blue shiver in an intermittent breeze, screening the tub from the backsides of the buildings at the high end of the block. Above, shreds and scuds of darkening clouds slink from the setting sun, and those last bright beams of daylight strike window-glass and metalled trim, shine slantwise over graveled roof and silhouetted copse, softening as they fall to wash the edges and details away, dissolving all that distance to a deepening haze outshone already by storefront and streetlit intersection, artificial colors sharper, more precise, though small, and thin, to be so sharp. Jo’s sat at the one end, shoulders lapped by faintly steaming water, head hung low. Knelt behind her on the grass Queen Ysabel in a rough white robe, leaned over the beaten rim of the tub to rub and knead Jo’s wet-dark hair with sopping clouds of suds. Jo flinches, and she halts, her hands become cradles, “Did they hurt you?”

“They, ah,” says Jo, turning away, “they weren’t that careful, putting me in the car.”

Her hands now combs, to sluice away the suds. “My poor Gallowglas.”

“Are we done?” Slop of water restless against copper.

“Rinse,” says Ysabel, lifting away her hands to blot them, front and back, on the nubbled lapels of her robe. Jo dunks her head, then pushes out into the middle of the bath, her wake a soapy iridescence. Ysabel looks back, over her shoulder, “It seems it’s time,” she says, to no one in particular, “for refreshment, and illumination.” Parting those lapels to draw aside, let slip, down her arms and off. She lifts a bare leg over the rim, slowly to settle herself with a beatific wince, the water displaced rolled silkily across to lick the edges, lift Jo’s hair, brush her ducked chin as she looks away. The sun gone down, away behind the hills, the city turned toward night below.

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreClosing

Eleven climbers died on K-2 in a three-day stretch the summer of 2008. Amidst the tragedy were some extraordinary feats of heroism. The two most impressive ones, in my mind, were performed by a Sherpa who rescued another Sherpa, and a Pakistani cook who rescued a Pakistani climber/expedition organizer. Neither of those heroes were recognized by the American, European, and South Korean climbers, most of whom ignored the Sherpas and one of whom publicly disparaged the Pakistanis who struggled and died on the mountain. (Seriously, fuck that guy.)

This book is partly the story of those converging and ill-fated expeditions, but mostly of those two Sherpas, Chhiring Dorje Sherpa and Pasang Lama. It also gives a lot of eye-opening background on Sherpas, their ethnic and class divisions, the social and economic forces that lead so many of them to climb mountains, and the cultural forces that affect them when they do so.

(It also explains why so many Sherpas have the same name. Traditionally, they are named after the day of the week that they were born, and don't have last names so they mostly use "Sherpa" for outsiders who demand one. This is fine in a village of 100, where there will only, statistically, be 14.28 people named Pasang so you can easily distinguish Old Grandpa Pasang from Teenage Yak Herder Pasang from Pasang With The Missing Finger. Then you get to Kathmandu, where there's 350 Pasang Sherpas who are all 25 years old and are porters on mountain climbing expeditions so if you want to identify one of them you have to resort to naming what expeditions they were on and what village they come from and then you will still probably need to use a nickname as that could easily be five different people.)

Until I read this book, I had completely forgotten that the crown prince of Nepal had massacred the entire royal family in 2001. To be fair, there was a lot going on in 2001. Still, what a bizarre incident that was. It also caused a lot of political and economic chaos which, as always, drove people to move in search of safety and better living conditions.

The Sherpas almost all started climbing because the pay was good. But some of them, like Chhiring, got a taste for the risk as well. But even they seem, overall, vastly more level-headed than the paying climbers, who mostly don't come across particularly well in this book. This may be because whatever sort of person climbs Mt. Everest, you have to be fifty times more like that to climb the notoriously bloodthirsty K-2.

Between that, a very narrow window of good weather, the inevitable breaking of vows to turn around if you're not on track to summit at 2:00 PM, the one person who could translate between the multiple language groups having to be medevaced out, and some plain bad luck, it's not surprising that so many people died. It's actually surprising that so many survived.

This book is both excellent in its own right and a great antidote to all the books that don't focus on the Sherpas. Every time you read one of those, just remember that the Sherpas are doing everything the paying climbers are doing, but carrying heavy packs, with shoddy gear, without fame or glory, and often against the wishes of their families. They're like Ginger Rogers doing everything Fred Astaire does, but backwards and in high heels.

During the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile, one girl in a school never showed up for class one day, and never returned again. Years later, as adults, her former classmates still think and dream and talk about her. She and a friend exchanged letters even though they also saw each other in class every day. A boy had a crush on her, and maybe she had a crush on him too. A friend came to her house to play "Space Invaders," and her father showed them his prosthetic hand. A bodyguard began to drive her to school. Her classmates went to a protest. And then she was gone. Memories, dreams, letters, and imagery intertwine, then twist into a knot that can never be undone.

A perfect little book, incredibly sharp and precise despite being largely about dreams and uncertain memories. There's not a single wasted word; I think the translation must be excellent. I read it with gathering dread, as if I was in the sort of nightmare where nothing overtly violent is happening but but you somehow know that something will appear at any moment, something so terrifying that just seeing it will destroy you. Which is probably what it felt like to be a child during the Pinochet regime.

I was right to read the book with dread, though what happened to the missing classmate is less predictable than what I'd assumed. It's a very quick read but one which sticks in your memory and haunts you. It was recommended to me by my friend/occasional employee Ana, who is from Chile. I recommend it to you.

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActIV

“You know,” she says, “you know, where it comes from. You know. You know. I had the papers. I had them. The, the, the, injections, the vaccinations, they don’t, they don’t inoculate, they don’t, no, no! They don’t, they don’t put anything in, they don’t they don’t, they, sugar water. That’s all. Sugar. Water. I had the papers. No,” pushing back her hair, shoving back, down, stiffly crackle of too much old product, “no, what they do, what they do, they’re taking out. They’re taking it out. They’re taking out,” leaning close, “the blood.”

Jo clutches a rough green blanket close about her shoulders, shifts away on the bright steel bench. Leans back against the slick-tiled wall. Closes her eyes again.

“I had the papers. I had the papers. They took my papers, they took, they took them. The papers proved it. The papers proved it, in a court of law. A court of law. They take the blood, they use the needles, they use needles to take the blood because they’re scary, because needles are scary, they scare you to get the fight or flight, fight, or flight, to juice the blood, juice the blood with adrenaline, excite the adrenergic receptors, the papers, they took my papers, they took my papers and my laces.” Shuffle-flop of undone shoe about a restless foot. “Fight or flight. Fight or flight. It burns adrenaline, it burns the adrenaline, tightening muscles, dilating pupils, juicing the blood, isozymes and transferases, it was in the papers. They took my papers. To burn the adrenaline. Burn it right up. Ox-i-dize it. Carbon. Hydrogen. Nitrogen. Oxygen, whoosh to juice the blood, they take it, they take it, they inject the sugar water, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen tangled, aitch-two-oh, they inject it so they can outject, eject, take the blood, burning blood, adrenochrome, adrenochrome.”

Jo opens her eyes.

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActIV

Event: Fandom5K is a multi-fandom gift exchange for fic with a 5,000-word minimum and comics with a 5-page minimum.
Event link: fandom5k
Pinch hit link: On DW
Due date: 10 July


These pinch hits are due on 10 July, though I'll consider offers for later dates. The exchange is currently scheduled to go live on 11 July.

Please see individual requests for details on mediums (comics vs fic) and relationships requested.


PDPH 10 (fic only) - Gran Hotel (TV), 무빙 | Moving (TV), 설강화 | Snowdrop (TV)

PDPH 11 (medium varies by relationship) - The Amazing World of Gumball, Osmosis Jones (2001), Dandy's World (Roblox)

PDPH 13 (fic only) - Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Video Games), A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (TV), Fargo (TV)

PDPH 17 (fic only) - A League of Extraordinary Women - Evie Dunmore, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn

PDPH 21 (comic or fanfic) - Mononoke-hime | Princess Mononoke, Soul Eater (Anime & Manga), ダンジョン飯 | Dungeon Meshi | Delicious in Dungeon, ちはやふる | Chihayafuru (Anime & Manga), 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney, Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

PDPH 22 (comic or fanfic) - Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Dragon Age (Video Games), Doctor Who (1963)

PDPH 24 (medium varies) - Riverdale (TV 2017), Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen (TV), Euphoria (TV 2019)

A journalist recovering from the death of her husband is sent to a small town to investigate the claim that A HORSE GAVE BIRTH TO A HUMAN BABY.

I strongly dislike reading about normal human pregnancy and birth, but I love stories about bizarre births. I also love folk horror. So a story about a small town where a horse gives birth to a human baby sounded like just my jam.

Sadly, I really disliked this book. In fact the more I think about it, the more I dislike it.

My main beef with it is that very little of interest happens until about the last ten pages. The parts about the horse-human birth are cool! Ten pages of cool. Would've been a good short story.

There are eleven or twelve POV characters, but only one is actually necessary (the journalist) and only one is at all interesting (the teenage boy who is raising and claims to be the father of the horse baby). The rest are townspeople whose POVs don't add anything to the story, plus "The Horses," which ought to be interesting but wasn't because half of it was explaining what humans thought about the horses. I don't care what humans think about horses! When I'm in supposed horse POV, I want to be immersed in HORSE POV!

The setting is incredibly vague. I couldn't figure out if it was even in America or England until it mentioned the opioid crisis.

Aggravated spoilers. ( Read more... )

The premise is better than the book and the cover is also better than the book. I was in it for the horse baby but that's only about 10% of the book.

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActIII

“Mine is the hand!” a howl from somewhere above. He looks away from the wide room ahead, back to the closed front door, the kitchen lemon-bright to one side, stairwell to the other, winding its way up. “Mine, the hand that writes upon the wall the name of God!” He swallows. Adjusts the knot in his tie of burgundy blue.

“Six are the wings unfolded from my face, and six times do they beat, and from them do I draw my quill! My ink!” That voice pummels the close walls as he climbs. “My ink the very dregs from your cups, and with it do I tally your numbers, many and all. Seven! Seven the wings that beat about my breast, but numberless the eyes within, and from them will I bring the scales that I must use to weigh you all, and find what you are wanting!”

He stops there, a handful of steps from the top, head down.

“Mine the mouth, to sheathe the burning blade! I am the one to draw it forth, when comes the time, and times, and the dividing of time!”

He resumes his climb, around and up into a ravaged hall, the carpet raked and tattered, crumpled walls smeared and splotted with ruddy brown. Two long ungainly feathered arms too skinny for the swollen hands at the ends of them, fleshy anchors twitching uselessly amongst fallen feathers and gypsum dust, and sat atop, a white-crowned pink-cheeked head, “My teeth, of iron! My nails of brass! I will devour, and break into pieces, and stamp the residue with my feet!” Spittle flecks those lips with foam, and spittle and tears shine the cheeks beneath wetly blazing eyes. “I will kill you all with death!” And jutting from the temple, he blinks to see it, the short plain handle of a knife, pale wood and two dull rivets smeared with blood, or something like it. “Minister to me! A thousand thousands, ten thousand times ten thousand stand!”

“Did you bring it?” says the Viscount Agravante, knelt at the other’s side, stripped to his shirtsleeves. “Rhythidd?”

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActIII

As per usual for Jo Walton, this is an irresistibly readable novel with great characters and a truly peculiar premise.

The Serenissima is a magical echo of Venice which is also a sort of interdimensional space port, home to people from eight (or possibly nine) planets, including Earth. Humans are called Venetians, as the Serenissima is also a gateway to Venice at different time periods. (The Serenissima is publicly known on all planets except Earth, where it's a secret known only to the Venetians who are humans living in Venice.) It's a city without sunlight, permanently cloaked in mist, beset by plagues, where magic is real and anything enough people believe in becomes reality.

All the people living there have human bodies and different heads - cat heads, dog heads, heads with garlands of living flowers, etc - so that if they visit Venice, Venetians will know them for what they are but tourists will assume they're wearing masks. They have somewhat different biology from humans and very different cultures.

Each chapter is narrated on a different character, one from each planet, each with their own concerns. It took me quite a while to figure out what the plot even was, but I didn't care at all as the Serenissima is fascinating, the different cultures are fascinating, and I was happy to just hang out there indefinitely.

It's beautifully written and very immersive, strange enough to be fun in a science fictional way but also magical-feeling, and also very human and relatable. There's political intrigue, struggles for survival, love affairs, and even a couple of plot twists. The plagues are very reminiscent of the landscape of AIDS right after the first wave of life-preserving drugs came out, too late for many but just in time for some. It's small-scale, with the main event that the plot revolves around something whose significance isn't entirely clear; of Walton's work, it reminded me most of Lifelode. In terms of other books it reminded me of, it does have slightly Piranesi-esque vibes.

I really loved it. It's easier to experience than to describe.

Posted by Kip Manley

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActII

It’s not a terribly thick folder she drops on the table, just a handful of freshly printed pages in a crisp blue jacket. Beside it she sets a spiral-bound stenographer’s pad and two ballpoint pens, clack, tack, and last, a short brown paper cup with the tags of a couple of teabags peeping from under its white plastic lid. Scrape as she pulls out a chrome-framed black-cushioned chair, creak as she settles her bulk in it. Her slacks a slickly brown, her half-zip pullover softly grey, her silver hair close-cropped. She opens the jacket, flips back the cover of the stenographer’s pad, takes up a pen, click-lick, click-lick, and squints at the woman across the battered table from her, younger, smaller, downright scrawny, wrists manacled to a bracket welded to the tabletop, arms bared and shoulders, shivering, dressed only in filthy jeans and a grey bralette, her hair-colored hair a matted, tangled curtain dropped before her face.

“Chilly?” says the silver-haired woman. Not even a clink of the cuffs in response.

“Okay!” Another click-lick of the pen. “This is Detective Sally Bauer, Bee Ay You Ee Are, on the Homicide Detail. Date is Friday, twenty-fifth May; time, oh-seven eighteen hours; case number,” and here she checks the first page of the file, “two seven two, four nine eight. We are currently in an interview room in the confines of the Portland Police Bureau, Eleven Eleven Southwest Second, on the thirteenth floor.” Turning a page. “State your name for the record.” Looking up. That curtain of hair not even stirred by a breath.

“This strong and silent schtick won’t get you anywhere, okay? We took your prints. You’re in the system? We’ll know who you are in not too much longer. You’re not? Though, I gotta tell you, to look at you, this is not your first rodeo. Folks who, it’s their first time? Never been through this before? Tend to be a little more,” a shrug, “agitated.”

A shiver strong enough to chime the manacles.

https://thecityofroses.com/story/BeautifulWeAreActII