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The Blackthorn Orphans Serialization:  Dakhma 6

27/12/2018

 
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With her small torch propped against her pack Susan changed into fresh clothes and tied up her hair, all the while subjected to the vigilance of the piglet standing four-square in the doorway, its narrow head wearing the shadow like an operatic villain.  He could not be tempted in with clicking fingers or offerings of dehydrated fruit and regarded her inscrutably, grunting and moving to precede her as she switched off the light and made for the door.  

Sachiin had furnished, lit, and begun to neglect a fire on her behalf by the time she climbed the steps toward them in darkness, its low coals sprawling and collapsing around its glowing remains.  The face of the peak bounding the yard had rebuffed the layer of silvery white that had alighted elsewhere upon the flags and castellations and Kala'amātya and Petrouchka pursued an almost wordless game of bezique beside it at the refectory table.  The vampyre's mannequin features and obsessive intent proved less useful than her opponent's barbaric statistical command; Susan paused by his shoulder to look at his cards, then removed herself to the pyre, standing with her pink hands stinging over the ebbing flames.  Sachiin sat in a chair before the parapet.  Its stout legs had been reduced by their contact with the damp floor of an inner chamber, his own lying propped on the stone as he contemplated the benighted panorama.  The snow had settled on him in an eccentric distribution; he made room on his legs for her, using his elastic dimensions to confound her half-hearted attempts at repulsion as she sat down, pressing a kiss to her ear, and she sighed, showing him the thorns still buried in her palms and fingers.  On the ground beside his chair a strange collection of dark, egg-sized objects sat on a stripe of bark, from which a peculiar aroma rose with the faint heat of the fire, roseate and linseed-oily.

“Cul de chien.” he told her as she reached down for one.  “Medlars.  Found an old tree down the hill.”
“They’re rotten.” Susan observed, curling her lip.
“Bletted.”
“Rotten.”
“Bletted.” he insisted, pressing a finger into the soft heart of the largest fruit and committing it to his mouth.

Sampling its yielding flesh doubtfully, she was startled by its fudge-like savour, the creamy tastes of date and cooling caramel paired with strange, sylvan associates, awakening her moribund appetite.  She consumed several in untidy succession, addressing the remainder with more consideration, then sitting up suddenly and staring at him.  

"You're freezing cold..." she complained, pressing a hand to his face upon perceiving his condition through their clothing.  
"It's snowing." Sachiin reminded her.  "Wait a minute..."  His face became entirely expressionless as he took her hand in both of his; their temperature climbed slowly until it was indistinguishable from her own, as though flushed through with hot water.  "There you go... thirty eight degrees C."  

Her mouth fell open.  

"Are you only warm for me?" 
"I'm hot for you, poupée." he smiled.  She exclaimed again to herself, sliding his hand into her jersey and laying back against his shoulder.
"God, that feels so dodgy.  You do have a superpower, though... I knew it."

A dry halo clasped the moon, arrayed in shards of spectral lavender and silver and they considered it together.  

“More snow coming.” he murmured.  


​



Even in the hands of six sweating conscripts the folding spades that had been dropped with the rest of their equipment from an unmarked helicopter made scant impression on the root-bound soil.  They toiled in mottled darkness beneath the trees, the drop chute lying flaccid over the bracken while Amis and Wessner dismantled the package it had purveyed. 

“A Two, Three, get in and assist.  I want that chute covered in five.” the latter muttered, directing the two conscripts standing guard; they complied, but soon demurred, climbing back out of the shallow depression.

“Sir, we got a great big fuck-off rock under this shit.” A Four declared, scratching at his black-greased neck.  Josephine frowned, took up the welter of silky olive folds and rolled it in both arms, dumping it into the depression with the dismantled crate to expedite their concealment.  While the conscripts were set to shoveling debris on top of them she found Amis poring over his GPS and stowed her rifle, taking the appliance from his hands.

“Something wrong?” she asked, looking up through the grease stick slashes that flattened and dissembled her features as she scrolled through its screens; he made an abortive move to reclaim it and then shook his head, folding his arms.
“Some kind of mode issue.”

Josephine slid her own device from the side of her pack and pressed it on him, glancing up from beneath her black cap when he began to object.  

“It’s the same unit.” she assured him.
“You don't have the data... I need those coordinates t...”
“Get them from Wessner.” she told him over her shoulder.  "And get some mud on your boots.  I can see them from half a click out."  Shrugging her pack onto her shoulders turned her about and brought her face to face with Shaw, who lifted his gaze in a pretended survey of the evening sky, partially visible through the canopy. 

They waited while the single file arranged itself and moved off, assuming the posterior guard, both glad at least of the waning moon's half-light upon the deer track; the boots preceding them had churned it to a slippery ribbon tracing the contours of a steep rise.  They crested it together, pausing to quarter the grassy glade beyond while the advance party shuffled into the trees.  A raised hand urged them onward, and they had taken their first step with that intent when a high scream pressed them onto their knees and brought their weapons to bear in its direction.  

The cry was quickly stifled; Josephine looped around the glade, meeting the tail of the compressed procession as Wessner dispatched a new point past the dark shape of the longhouse.  C Two lay on his back, hands pawing at those held tightly to his mouth and nose by grimacing companions.  She hissed the overlooking men out of her way and threw off her pack, stooping to search out her emergency appurtenance.  The stout brown teeth of a gin trap had met two-thirds of the way toward the conscript's right knee, severing everything in its hunger for bone.  His features were shock-white and shiny under his greasepaint; standing with a foot on either side of his leg, she popped a heavy silver syringe from its plastic cell, leant down and stabbed it into his thigh, dispatching its twinned doses.  The man sagged, eyes rolling beneath lids already suffused with contused blue, the colour blackening his lips.  Josephine looked up into Wessner’s face.  It was as tight and slick as the dead man's, and she rose as he nodded slowly, wiping a hand over his nose.

“That’s... that's... good job.” he told her.  The other conscripts scowled bitterly at the praise as they freed the corpse’s leg and dragged it into the trees.  She threw down the syringe in favour of her rifle once more as another cry went up beyond the eidiré, just as quickly extinguished by the small point team.  

The second victim began struggling at the sight of her, requiring his cadre to restrain each one of his desperately crawling limbs while she shouldered her way into the affray and pressed a boot to the side of his head.  He threw his loosed hand against the fresh needle, piercing it through and prompting her to whip it back and slap the dose into the side of his sweating neck.  

A scout from her own detail returned to Wessner with news of the second longhouse, then doubled back toward them, eyes wide.

“He says we gotta bunk in these." he told her, cocking his head toward the black bulk of the eidiré beside them.  "We got this one, they got the one up the way.”  Glancing in the prescribed direction, she rose and capped the needle.


CONTINUED NEXT WEEK
© céili o'keefe  do not reproduce
​


Read the Book onsite   *   Go directly to this Chapter


Season's Greetings from New Zealand

21/12/2018

 
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Rose Fragrant Cloud

It really is, too.

Photo du Jour: Black Backed Gulls

18/12/2018

 
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​They're in finest early breeding feather at the moment.  
Courtesy of the Lovely R

Photos du Jour: Random Spring Rodeo

15/12/2018

 
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Fir is a crazy little unit with rolling sanpaku eyes and a joyous love of virtually everything.  He's a year old now, which we cannot believe.  Like Felix, he's topped out his miniature designation and gone over 35cm at the shoulder but is still small enough to sit comfortably in your lap.  He throws up on long car rides.  He treasures little pieces of fabric for hours, flipping them around and carrying them in his mouth like the little pica freak he is.  Neutering didn't take the edge off his inexhaustible mania so I think we're stuck with all that dragon energy.
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In what seems to something of an emerging pattern, late winter was warm and clement, easing into a nice early spring that then shit itself badly, turning into a month and a half of clammy sunless rain late in the season as Antartica started its seasonal thaw and threw front after front at us.  Not fun.  But the roses are gigantic.  I'll post some pics soon.
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See more of our photography   *   Port Chalmers, New Zealand


Oamaru in 'Shit Towns' Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.  Accurate.

12/12/2018

 
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I fucking hate Oamaru.  I also hate steampunk.

From Shit Towns:
"I like Oamaru, they’ve latched on to the steam punk thing for no apparent reason, that’s quite funny to me.
The town itself has no genuine connection to that, they’ve just randomly picked this sub-culture."

"Ten years ago Oamaru was just another small South Island town best known for casual racism and a long history of abusing the local population of endangered penguins.  
The town has since succumbed to an epidemic of steam punk, the faux Victorian sci-fi fetish that has flooded Oamaru with more goggles than a Minions movie - transforming it from an economically depressed sh*t hole, to an economically depressed sh*thole in fancy dress."

"The highlight of Oamaru’s social calendar is the Steam Punk Festival, an excuse for people who work in IT to slap on some stupid hats, do some wheelies on their steam-powered penny farthings and engage in group sex."

👍😍

RubyHue Lipstick Review:  Nars Dolce Vita Velvet Matte Pencil & Sheer Lipstick

10/12/2018

 
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For a long time I have treasured the idea that Nars Dolce Vita is the deep, warm mallow pink that looks good on absolutely everyone.  A few people have since assured me that they look like smacked arse in this shade, but I wonder if they aren't just a bit affronted by this kind of strength in a pink.  Imma stick with Dolce Vita as my universal white-to-medium-brown person recommendation.
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The same universality could be claimed for the bullet version of this shade, simply because it doesn't actually deliver enough visible colour to fuck anyone up.  I bought it on a whim because I've always enjoyed the original and was disappointed by its well, abject sheerness.  Nars should have just called it Natural Lips instead of Dolce Vita and leading a bitch on like that.  

That's not to say the sheer version is without merit.  If you're new to the whole concept of lipstick, it's a great training shade.  If you're in an ultra-conservative environment, it's a way to add polish to one's facial situation without visibly offending.  It offers a really beautiful balm-like texture, fairly impressive staying power and an enviable natural sheen that serves up mid-90s Kate Moss at the beach naked under flattering atmospheric conditions-type satin lustre.  Sheer bullet DV is just enough of a thing to take the edge off patchy pigmentation and smooth away the dreaded forgot-your-lipstick issue that can sometimes blight a low-key look.  Perfect for sucking face across the table on a night out.  Or a walk to the shops when you think you might run into someone hot but don't want to look like you were... you know... trying.  Do people still do that?  I have fond memories.  These days I suppose one just stays home chugging anxiety meds and stalking them online.
Moving on to the Velvet Matte.  The Nars VMs are probably the most consistently wearable of the truly matte pencils in my humble opinion, and Dolce Vita is among the nicest of the lot, comfort-wise.  That soft, fudgey, sun-warmed mouthfeel is always welcome, and the syrupy, condensed, Venetian afternoon pink actually evokes an emotional response in my swampy old heart, always making me feel happier and less of a fucking ogre when I'm having a bad face day.  Dolce Vita is a truly romantic shade, sweet and rich, graphic enough save a red lip fiend from feeling naked and modest enough to keep a more basic unit from fainting at the prospect of visible colour. ​ I wouldn't be without it.
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​Shade-wise, it's essentially timeless, neither young nor mature, vintage nor modern, and I think it looks just as nice on a cool face as someone with yellow tones.  Unsurprisingly, it is the perfect compliment to a brown-based smoky eye or a simple black wing.  ​​

The palm swatch above tells the story of the different versions' respective opacities.  The pencil is 95% opaque but retains good workability; I can easily sheer it out and smudge it for a long time after application.  It's a definite matte but never dries down into parched oblivion, remaining supple enough to be touched up without caking.  Don't be fooled by the look of the bullet to the right there; the lipstick comes in at a paltry 10% (maxed out) by comparison, as you can see on my palm and in the lineup swatches below.  

Yes that is a ghetto manicure; I know better and should do better but I have a massive garden and no help.  Assistant weeders always welcome.
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Normally I would have moved such a low-clout lipstick on, but I keep the sheer DV because it offers amendment of the pencil shade and just because I enjoy the soothing feel of its quality formulation.  I wouldn't buy it again but it might become an OG option for the pigment-phobic.

Dolce Vita is an essential staple so just try it, goddamit.
L2R, MAC unless stated:
​
​Russian Red
Nars Dolce Vita Velvet Matte Pencil
Dolce Vita Sheer Tube Lipstick
Brick O La
Nars Walkyrie
Aim To Please Velvetease Pencil 
Hot Tahiti

Natual light, indoor and out.
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Joy to the World:  More Lipstick Reviews


liked this 36 Days of Type by Mario de Meyer/Rafa Goicoechea & Nina Sans

6/12/2018

 
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OMG you look at this shit right now or we are fucking done professionally.

see the whole alphabet did like this here

Blackthorn Rose Review: Scentimental (Floribunda)

2/12/2018

 
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Okay so I briefly ranted.  It's over now, I promise. Scentimental is a striped rose par excellence.  But even when we dismiss the aforementioned prejudice, it almost falls at the second hurdle- that name.  Rose names these days are either depressingly brutalist (City of Scungeycrust), punny/cringe-tastic (Tee Hee Lady Panties), supercilious literary references (oh hi, David Austin), or just hideously cynical (OMG Best Mum Eva!!!).  

So while it could have been worse, 
Scentimental is a crap title for this amazing floribunda and really plays into the rose snob's hands.  Look at the pic to the right there; if that plant was called Premier Ribband de la Toute Courtesan or some shit like that, there would be acres of foolios gushing over its superior qualities.  ​
Striped roses are like BDSM.  You either roll that way or you do not, so I'm not going to try and sell you this variety if you object on principle.  I totally respect your discretion.  

Ha ha!  Just kidding.  Rose snobs are the worst and they should absolutely be judged and shunned because they are wrong about almost everything.  Their assertion that striped roses are somehow intrinsically vulgar is utterly asinine; that's like arguing that tigers are in bad taste.  

​Nature knows what she's doing with those colour-break genes and she doesn't need critique from people in popped collars and taupe anything.
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​Scentimental it is, unfortunately.  Though I am baffled as to why.  I have sniffed this rose in a dozen settings and can report that there just isn't much worthwhile scent to speak of, and it's not like anyone who sees it in full bloom will give much of a toss what it smells like anyway.  To my reckoning, 'scent' must be consistently present and furthermore worthy of your nosetime to be rated as such; fucked-out pot pourri dust (as is the case here) doesn't count.  ​It may just be the particular bud material propagated in NZ, but as a sensory panel veteran I can faithfully declare this is not an anosmia.  It's hardly surprising, though- overselling scent is a rose breeder con driven spectacularly out of hand in the last few years by online sales.
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Lack of scent is just one of the reasons Floribundas deserve caution.  Despite their industrial remontance, too many are so objectively deficient in the rose's inherent virtues- beauty of flower form, fragrance and colour- that you're left scratching your damn head over why somebody bothered.  Let me assure you that Scentimental is a special case.

In our mild, often frost-free conditions this plant would roar away above 6 feet high and wide if I didn't prune to keep it around 5.  The leaves are typical of its class; flipper-esque, shiny and olive-leaning, furnished in tiers from top to bottom so it is fully dressed and doesn't suffer that horrid chicken-leg look.  There are large thorns placed irregularly toward the bottom of the canes but I had to go out and check on that, so they haven't really bothered me.

Scentimental's constitution is a straight 10/10.  It has been torture-tested; a few years back after being very carelessly ripped out of the ground on a hot day, almost shorn of its roots and dumped in half shade, this plant looked distinctly peri-mortem. 
On my return a couple of weeks later it had completely recovered and burst into another round of flowers. 

Its health, good form and performance are gobsmacking.  I mean, above left is a rose competing with Horse Chestnut roots and half day shade in early spring.  In these humid, no-spray conditions it resists rust almost completely and blackspot is never able to outshine its vigour; I can't recall seeing it more than 1/3 spotty, even in the very worst years.  Cane dieback is a bit of a problem here too among wimpier roses, but I don't think it's ever lost a single one.  

It's obvious that Scentimental draws its genes from a deep ancestral well of quality plants.  Its
 parents are Playboy and Peppermint Twist, both descended from generations of unkillable roses.  We need more like this.
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​Scentimental's blooms are produced in profusion, both clustered and individually (meaning there is always a decent number of picking prospects) over the entire plant.  Although slender, the stems support the blooms well with just enough nod to ease that awkward Floribunda brass neck stance.  They are quite Hybrid Tea-ish at first, their clean white liberally streaked with deep, vivid raspberry, the former dominating in shadier positions while the red will take over in full sun.  Few things are more lovely than a vase stuffed with an armful of Scentimental once they have opened out to reveal their generous eyes of pale golden stamens.  It flowers in lengthy pulses for me starting in late spring through to early winter, meaning it's a top choice for a position that needs prolonged and reliable impact.

Earlier stripeys like Commandant Beaurepaire and Ferdinand Pichard might have more refined individual flowers, strictly speaking.  Rosa Mundi might have more roguish vintage charm.  A number of modern striped roses promise more complex colour combinations.  But I grow CB, FP and RM and Scentimental pwns those guys by almost every criteria except fragrance.  And I can't even remember the number of modern striped varieties I've punted onto the compost heap after they've proven themselves inexcusably feeble.  

If you can reconcile yourself to the fact that striped roses are awesome and fancy just one for your own place, this is the plant to go for.  They're addictive, though, so make sure you have room for the rest of them.

See more of our new Rose Review category


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