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disappearing boy

2019.10.21 05:06 PandoraSymbionte disappearing boy

"But I'm just a kid..." opening sentence of a story. "It was just a little mistake" as the ending sentence.

things are hollow, people on the street seem to be fading, but it is you that is disappearing, never on sight.

Hemlock has partial micro-convulsions from time to time.

Attack metamodernism for what is seen as 'capitalist analogs'. We need a plural culture to

better transform our current capitalist state. Metamodernism risks commodifying plurality in little boxes of ambiguity and irony cycles, hollow layers that need to be peeled then covered with something else.
How to incorporate Lethem's concerns in 'The Ecstasy of Influence' into the twin stories ( Panta and Gargantua)?
A theme: Slice of Life in the 21st Century
'Transcreation' part of the opening sentence in Panta

The night is viewed as the time and place which and when things from the Day transform

and transmute, commute and dance more freely. As Joyce dissolved and amassed his previous epic of the day in a long night and book, Finnegans Wake, a kind of fall, I want to dissolve and amass my services creating researches and articles in a virtual kind of night, in which I’ll be able to transmute and transform their form and content to fit a larger narrative. Yeah, I wish.

Nameless thief: a bag of wonders, a box of Pandora, my personal patchwork of themes,

characters and styles as particles colliding with each other. An immanence of transcolliding fictions, a maze of affects. The little book of the arrival, the first happening, the creation myth of our universe. Here I’m to transform my library in a story, a bizarre tale of a night without light but the moon’s. My Silmarillion.

the light running through nothing to hit him in the face

Drown yourself in meaning, without silence, make noise until you die. Then silence.

light metamorphosing into sound

I feel my time flux through the floating flame of an uneeded candle that repeats dancing

with its sisters, beating hearts of light, of syncopated difference. They jump in the air when I close my eyes. They are as free as I am not, traveling back to hit me in the face.

smitten with spells and wrath of gods - modern and old alike - they transform him

chaotically, agonizing he pleads.

In the emptiness of a mealtime thoughts coalesce and crystalize, a mirror is held to the void's face

making it recognize its own present as a sphinctery push between past and future ,- where it is made clear that this voice echoing around the head, through and about it, has a misfortune of not being enough anymore, as the voices of parents wheren't a long time ago - the cocoon breaks to reveal something new forming and already festering, enclosures enough in the past, like the prescriptions of mothers and fathers, weren't for a long time, as the inner voice that assumed thereafter, aren't anymore -, enough, that is.

Use my pocket city turned fiction to purge affects, like, for example, materialize the hatred for this fucking

idiot on the bar below, putting music so LOUD. What is wrong with you?
He grew up cultivating an affect for those not-so-rare moments of movies when a character, most notably the protagonist, imagined in some Christian way of the good samaritan, acts selfless and seems so nonchalant about it - as if it is something natural to them. He grew up trying to find the right spot to act in the same manner and feel a mirror to the world, someone not preoccupied with his many thought pattens but with acting right, cutting the chase. He saw many opportunities and acted accordingly, but something they don't teach you in the movies is that time is a differential: differently from those characters, who do something and months pass on a blink and they seem to not have changed a bit, when you do something selfless, you are faced with the passage of time until you begin doubting your actions.

Here comes THE IMMANENT OCTOPUS OF PRAXIS, watch him go, look at him

Pothole ~ ### Potboiler ~~ ### Holeboiler

Hollowpot ~ ### hollowboiler ~~ ### Hollowhole

a little monster that feeds off of sperm lurking in the corner of your room

a soup of conceptual necessities

thinking -- ### thin king -- ### fatking -- ### hefty(k)ing

I was that guy that sees what you're searching for, picks an ad designed specially for you and puts it in your video, your page, your porn, and whatever else. I was the enemy. It's that simple.

Like a frog in a monocycle inside the mouth of a golden baby.

I need to unironically vape right now

Everyday, after a good shit, I go scavenging my poop searching for gold. There never is any. So I grunt my way to work.
Parasytes that come at night, enter your open snoring mouth and chew the insides, causing mild pain and a bloated uvula that may incapacitate speech.
She rather dreamspeaks sometimes
when an apocalyptic-proportions catastrophe comes out, has to, because of the sedentary ways he was living, become more accustomed with 'real' life by rationalizing his time and rate of 'exercise' - imagine how I would have to think if aliens or zombies invaded my city out of nowhere and I was living like I am/was in the year 2017.
Nothing more extraordinary could be in the little park, besides two adult women, fences, fresh grass, and two kids.

Time passed slowly and the temperature fell nicely,

the trees swayed

Their mothers chatted joyfully. They didn't.
The first gaze was kind of weak, by the corner of the eye; just a glance.
Territory dashed with rustling leafs
Matter of a moment. A second. An encounter. One charm.
how morbid how lovely
Continuously echoing Hemlock
like chemotherapy: it's poison, but can help against the cancer.
festering growth of a structure
apenas suor amargo expelido junto do café processado e pensamentos nervosos de um ser neurótico e quebrado que não sai de uma cadeira há dias — chorando its way out of suicidal thoughts.
Vampiros, mas vampiros treinados pra temerem a noite. Reciclando seu próprio sangue inexistente enquanto o verdadeiro banquete gargalha às suas costas.
O canto dos grilos ao meu redor, o cintilar das estrelas na distância, vistas pelo escopo sujo de minha visão míope. Cheiro forte de vegetação, mijo e bosta; produtos bovinos, equinos e humanos alike. Tudo atrás de cercas mal-feitas e desgastadas pelo tempo. O relinchar de um burro ou jumento com um perturbador barulho de arame farpado sendo brutalmente torcido e pisado. Tudo ao meu redor, tudo na distância. Enquanto imagino o pobre animal lutando pela sua ingênua noção de liberdade, minhas pernas dormentes se arrastam pela areia. Quentes, efervescendo em cansaço de um logo dia que passou num piscar dos olhos de um cego. Minhas inúteis pernas livres contra a areia fria, areia essa que não sinto por baixo da sola de meu sapato, nunca senti. Mas que sei, de alguma forma, possuir imenso frio; pelo menos por essas horas. Sozinho, fones de ouvido enfiados até o interior do crânio. Música ambiente alta sob as estrelas à minha volta, como sempre, voltando do trabalho. O pensamento de tirar a música ambiente artificial e simplesmente ouvir o ambiente ao meu redor nem me passa pela cabeça; No seu reino de vegetação vasta, com incontáveis acres das mais coloridas configurações: fertlidade é a palavra de seu Aeon. Sofás, almofadas, colchonetes... todas as formas fofas e confortáveis são os assentos mandatórios do povo; e nem sequer um mendigo vive sobre o chão duro e frio nem sob pontes metalicas mofadas... o Green King me aceitasse em seus pastos secretos, eu não estaria batalhando por significado nas minhas diversas reconfigurações dentro do quarto: onde sentar se não em uma de suas almofadas santas? Mas só tenho esse chão frio e um corpo suando por um motivo que certamente irei inventar mais tarde."
People will be born from giant wombs - collectivelly, somewhat of worshiped. They were initially artificial but being biologically engineered, evolved;
Papel em mãos, deslizando como água. Nada como a sensação de ter riscado todas as tarefas da lista de afazeres diários; nada mais a fazer hoje, resto do dia livre. Que horas são? Posso ter emendado no dia seguinte sem sequer ter percebido mais uma vez (não é incomum). Hoje fiz muitas notas, notas me deixam desconfortável, ainda mais quando são tantas como hoje. Seria isso mais uma nota? Quem poderia ser?
Preso em si mesmo, absolto de pecados mecânicos, um espelho que aponto pra outro espelho: Eu sou o mundo, o universo. Eu sou o buraco negro fora do tempo — Aquele possuidor de tudo, luz e espaço e flutuações quânticas. Tudo é em mim... (This is Hemlock echoing, trying to reach Lis) "E eu não sou nada sem você..." (This is Lis responding) Shut up. (Hemlock responds).
Hemlock is the villain and the goo interactions with the drugs makes him not see clearly focusing too much on himself, but the 'magical realist' side of the story is like a corner of his mind trying to dissuade him from his own narcissism, trying to make him see something other than himself and his own problems.
Make people notice Hemlock's convulsions. He doesn't, but the reader needs to. And since we're using this, make sure that in the parts where he is most lucid, he'll think clearly enough to make the reader understand what is happening, for example, he'll think about his money problems and his freelance practices, also, we can add character dialogue and interactions when he is convulsing and lucid to showcase the difference (also, more characters besides the rambling Lis/Hemlock would do good and make it more well-paced, not just a long stream of consciousness, else the reader would feel too claustrophobic trapped inside a constant barage of obscure terms.

Hemlock is a modern Jonah, only the whale is dead, the fish is rotting on the ground,

and its smell, its ghost, is lurking in the shadows, in the corner of his awareness. He has a two-way condition: the anxiety of waiting for that whale to come and the paranoia of suspecting being already trapped inside a dead fish. There is no Whiteness of the Whale, the Whale is not the ghost of anything, it is dead, and its ghost is not white but invisible with momentary flashs of hollowed transparency.
Maybe we can touch nicely on this with an event happening on the beach, first only mentioned by the scant corner of Hemlock's awareness, but later expanded upon when Hemlock goes to see the suicidal whales dying on the shore (as many people are also there, as previously mentioned).
Translators have to make themselves invisible too.
Panta is living in Brazil, but he, being a parasite of the English-speaking world, thinks in English admixtured with Br. People around him, at least most of them, talk normally in Portuguese.
Rabid foaming mouth, whirling colorful anime eyes.
Sit down!
If you're struck by lightning, you have no choice, there it is all flowing through your body, your bones, your blood. Your brain spasming with the twisting of your fingers and the burning of your pores, scorching hair all the way to your soul and back by the foaming mouth. You can't even scream as your larynx is too hot to work. So you accept, it's the only thing you can do, else you're dying from psychological stress besides the already unbearable physical one. It is after, after you accept it, as well as after it is gone seeping through the ground, that magic first reveals itself real, alive. You learn to see fire in everything, coming from your mouth as you speak and your tongue shimmer's ghastly, burning inside your eyes, bursting to meet other's and from them to yours, everywhere; but again, you have too, else you'll be locked in an asylum. You wake up in the night with images flashing so strong in your mind you think they're coming out of it, materializing by way of fire, exploding from your ears, eyes, mouth, oozing from your nostrils and destroying your skull on their way out. And when everything is fire, you don't know how to feel heat anymore, you're either always very cold or insufferably hot.
Hemlock's hollowed, tired to a pulp on the ground, he moves pryapic as a dick, a vectorr, a Mickey Mouse, being each time more penetrated by everything. It is when you're most gone, blending in the background, that meaning most reveals itself as you yourself, faded, chasing your own tail, blending in the background, disappears on repeat.
Hemlock is a metamorph as well as Lis, we can denominate in the text them by this name multiple times, be it one calling the other this or each calling themselves this. Such as "Me, the metamorph" or "You are a metamorph".

It was in his suppurating hate inside that bus, looking at all those people chattering or

evicting each other, wanting them all to disappear with the smog filling the smoky grey sky that a foreshadow germinated in the belly-mind of interactions that formed ‘him’. For there will be a time of non-human verbosity, a time of critical access, of epiphanies inside habits and habits out of improvisation. But now, first, the hate has to almost consume him as millions of virtual needles pierce his anxious skin. There, in the future, there is no skin – only the needles. But Samsara is law and you must survive; or maybe die – depends on the view and the date in which karma passes, if it will. Now the needles pluck and the pores ooze prickling goo turning black in the way out like caviar gushing out of a big-ass fish.
He saw no difference in reading or writing. In fact, he saw no difference in creating and consuming. Fucking or being eaten by the maggots. If it exists, it is to be cherished somewhere and to die later, and if it doesn't, it eventually will. No time for fame, prestige or power. He got sick of power from the moment he lacked the choice to be born, when he first realized he was going to die no matter what. It had happened by chance, and he didn't know how he felt about it. Nothing is of anyone, he thought once, nothing is for anyone. We simply are the things we like, we are the things we create and do. We've got only so much time, so let's just enjoy who we are and be until we can.
As if you were a dog, imagine that. A strange hand comes out of nowhere to surprise your ear with the most sweet of warm scratches. It feels good like that. Careful who you throw a bone to. If it still has some meat, worse. If you're going to throw it anyway, at least clean it cautiously.
Can you see the machinations yet? The white cold skeleton, the still meatful skull. Do you want to lick it? Just touch it, maybe. At the very least sniff its putrid coiling

A story about someone that made a treatise on why a new conception of magic would be to

our benefit and serve as unifying mode of living in a plural society with plural values, much like some people think that tools like category theory are for the benefit of science and plural ways of interpreting the world, much like, also, a method of translation without, despite being sharp, being cold. But, in the story, this someone dies before having to publish or disseminate their message. This someone could be related to Hemlock and he could be the person tasked with guarding this manuscript or set of manuscripts. He might decide to let it die with him, only trying to live by these rules and show rather than tell people how to behave. Mirabella, a possible name.

Hecate might be Hemlock. We need to try and keep this nuanced enough for a reader to question

this possibility. Hecate is a strange name and Hecate is only seen by Hemlock, when he is alone. Since Matilda is very smug, this is possible, and she is the only other who claims to know Hecate. Hint to this in two points in the narrative: first when they're talking with Nicolle, in her apartment, where Hemlock is to burst goo out of some places and pores (of the skin), and begin to seizure and incorporate Lis' personality, voice and possibly refer to himself as Lis, also at the end when Hemlock is to assault the guy on the beach covered in dying whales (nuance it enough for the reader to find it strange how much Hemlock is taking it personally, it could be because he is feeling righteous, because he hates these types of men and/or because he is Hecate.) It is a great idea to make Hemlock incorporate Lis because now we can expose some of our passages and sentences in Lis' voice that we previously didn't know how to insert diegetically.
If you leave it unchecked, life will conquer all. It's too expansive for its own good. I find it exaggerated.
Her lungs probably looked like that lichen-covered wall, all mossy and disgusting, yet somehow inviting, hopeful. She often punched her chest to unglue the phlegm, imagine the boogers falling and sedimenting in the bottom until she could not breath. That was the situation of the forest. But she was not desperate. We were. Run for your lives, we scream everyday, when she patiently tread what will eventually catch us. Our plump lady.
There once was a planet infested with trees infested with humans infested with political issues in the making.
And I found myself in the center of a hollow pan full of holes.
Ill-illuminated excuse for a city.

The story could begin, rather, with Hemlock not already in the car but in the park (My park, o parque da cidade). Then, after

some alone time there, he goes in the car. This could be the perfect moment to make more explicit what is happening, what is his motivation going to club God, why he is nervous, and to show his first seizure of the day, a strong one, before the other small ones througout the day. We can well-contrast the initial scene, if it is really to be the initial scene, with the final one on the beach. This could serve as somewhat of an opening artistic prologue in dominant third-person voiced by Lis and sprinkled with Hemlock's gapped thoughts. As a Jonah in a dry field, this is perfect to incorporate some Lis narration, also serving as juncture point with the later scene in Nicolle's house, the manifesting of Lis.
half-blind barely visible visionary

The first moment in the park, when Hemlock is almost to have his first seizure lying down

in the grass, he sums up, in an almost modernist way, the entirety of his nostalgic sensation regarding his region (Cariri). For example, our floods, our energy outtages, our smells in different seasons, etc. For the major public, that are outside this unique place, they can only imagine approximations of these sensations. Hemlock is absorbing the world, he is projecting forth all his memory, until the ceiling (the sky) begins to oscillate and turn gray, making everything around seen homogenized in a cloudy mass (a mess, also). This is our "half-blind barely visible visionary" moment.
It might be more comfortable to live in the dark. Not to have to open your eyes, adjust to the light. Turn off your lights, sit tight, close your eyes and wait. Maybe put on some music to help. Medicate yourself, self-convince you're not cut to a good life, to endure the struggle. The best you can do is rest there, waiting for the end. It is not really bad, just bittersweet. You had your share, you have good memories. You lived. That has to count for something, right?
enhancing transmuting manipulating conjuring specializing doesn't make you special emitting
I just wrote a research brief on how to take care of raccoons, and it was the high point of the night, at least I felt like I helped someone. Better than a market sizing and trend analysis of the lice treatment market.

As Hemlock is walking the streets, he feels as if he is losing weight, and he doesn't know

if it's because he is disappearing or because his money is flowing through the holes in his pockets. Either way, the result is the same. For whatever practical purposes, he is losing himself. He wastes away through his pores, black goo trails about soiling everything like fresh oil.

When having a small seizure, Hemlock sees everything and everyone as if smiling our of

nowhere, smiling so strongly to almost rip apart the skin, so strongly that the eyes curve and seem to disappear in their own slits. He also can feel like spinning, Two of my images that, again and again, ask to join my fiction.
@@@ Sing all the trees and musks. Lichen, algii and funghi alike. Be alive or no more. Sing now, no more whispers. I am here. I am yours.
Finally sober of myself. (Seizure, and the blue that is leaving)

What if the girl cooking across the sreet is somewhat of a witch, at least in Hemlock's

goggles? How could we subvert the 'witch appearance in magical realism' trope? Maybe showcase more of my culture, Bruxas intead of Witches. Bruciare, coming from brucia, meaning something similar to burn. Bruxa derived from a term that meant to burn before it actually had connections to dark magic. It is as if people wanted to burn someone and later, coming back from the ecstatic stupor, began to rationalize a way out of their guilt, trying to justify their blind rage. This girl is not a bruxa, a witch, but she is a brucia, she is burning. She doesn't have any sign of connection to the dark magics, no evil intent, yet she burns behind invisible bars, as if in an abandoned waterless aquarium close to the stove. Her aura burns, flowing our of her pores in combustion. Phaethon.
Disease everywhere. Even the spork's handles are diseased.
Story title: Fkoon (The alternative for Spork)
Each passing year, old Disney's movies get creepier
"Pook" as some character's surname
Should I put "Sugondese" in the text?
My fiction up until now, at least Hummanence, is filled with liminal encounters and climaxes, where people arrive, through confusion and ecstasy, to a magical stupor of realization, epiphany and liminarity
Things that are too true need not be said. Fiction is lying.
What is the significance of water to my writing? This theme birthed itself just now while I formulate the beginning draft of my "Floods" essay.
What about sugar cane fields here in Barbalha? They just suggested themselves while I wrote the beginnings of my "An Ode To My Wart" essay.
While this new epiphany of having what I know and where I live represented in my fiction needs to be applied as of now, we need that transition to be effective: the short stories we're developing right now need to gradually show more of this until it is something common. For example, Pantagroreille will talk a lot about this, more than something like Chimerality, but neither of them can rely too heavily on this as something that comes later.

Nicolle, representing our mainstream view of science, the new "regime of signs" that opress

Hemlock's loose canon of understanding, that involve magic as developed by Mirabella, is a force that stomps Hemlock, pressuring his weakened state to break and give rise to a realized Lis. For this to make sense, Hemlock's scene at the park when the story begins need to somewhat imitate Walt Whitman's celtic style, magical, contemplative. This will make the reader more familiar with this particular theme, this clash later on.
About the scene later on, relating to Hecate, where Hemlock is to confront the possible man (or men, a group) that supposedly tried to hurt Hecate, how does it also relate to B.? Think about it, who is B.? I didn't expand on him or his whole plotline. What about this organization lurking in the shadows of the city and relating to Eli and Matilda? As previously thought out, they could be people coming from foreign lands such as Sicilia and the Balkans, influencing and participating of criminal activity with big money and big risks on the table.
Why don't I develop Hemlock's passion for the nightsky? His fascination with the stars and everything heavenly.
old anime vibrating eyes
undying sick man
Mickey mouse dick, when you squeeze the mouse so much go pee drink water pee again squeeze water pee squeeze until it becomes Mickey when you hallucinate Disney's old movies. Your dick alive, self-detached clicking eveywhere. (develop this passage).

What if we go into a long sequenced soliloquy about forgiveness and order and how Hemlock

should ignore the assaulter and let it be, since he is possibly related to his sister, a teacher or something. Only to, after a long walk full of internal thoughts, the guy says something (or does it), so shitty it makes Hemlock get in position to jump over him (much like Pitou), to smack the guy so hard-- Maybe what the guy does is try to joke (or even touch) a random woman/trans person on the street (that finally has Hemlock forgetting that whole talk, as well as being a metacommentary on our "though" generation, that attacks rather than ignore). Violence can be good.
I have too many ideas for Panta, so we need to pace it naturally not to allienate the reader. Also, so it can all flow better, else it would be too dense. That's a reason the story is growing out of the previously thought word count.

Make Hemlock meet a person on the street while he's having a seizure, and this person is to

ask if he is ok and whether he needs help. This might be one of the first expositions that can make the reader go "something's not right here".

Noy only with words and phrasing, but also play with punctuation. For example, if Hemlock

usually should end his internal questions with a period (as in What could it be doing here., when referring to the black plague doctor), make Lis end hers with normal question marks, as if she is asking Hemlock about stuff. Also, make Hemlock/Lis react to every time the word Lis appears, even when in longer forms such as "Listen" or "Capitalist".
Olivia feels like peeing each time she thinks too hard or after concetrating too much
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2019.08.19 23:23 DarthSatoris Reading New Testament For The First Time #4: Baggage City

Apologies in advance that this is way late, and that I haven't been able to keep to a schedule of one novel a week. Life has been hectic, work has been life-draining, and sometimes you really just need to play a series of long sessions of video games to cool off. That also may have taken up so much time that I kinda lost track of time.
Needless to say, I am finally back with one of these, so I hope my tardiness hasn't been too much trouble.
Volume Arc Page count Publication date
NT4 Baggage City 267 March 12th 2012

The Story

The titular Baggage City is a place somewhere in Eastern Europe where it is cold as fuck. The "Natural Selector" tournament is held so that the separatists from Academy City can get a load of their own super powered humans. Or so it seems. But that really doesn't matter in the end because Academy City sends a bunch of Kihara family members to Baggage City to act as some major party crashers. Aaaaand then it all goes to absolute shit. Buildings are destroyed, people die, Academy City also sends in the Five_Over robots and their supersonic bombers to just bring the point home that you don't fuck with Academy City. A bunch of new faces come out of the woodwork, among those are a few new Gremlin members, as well as a bunch of Kiharas we've never seen before, as well as the Tsukuyomi Komoe version of a ninja, and the Ty Lee version of a french maid. Kamachi has built up quite a roster of interesting personalities, and I have a feeling he's by no means done yet. They all run into each other at various points, and some of them are eventually saved by a dude in a helmet. Now, who is this mysterious person? Well, that mystery is not allowed to linger for very long, because he almost immediately reveals himself to also be a Kihara. Later on, we're once again introduced to the girl in overalls and glasses named Marian, and I honestly had no fucking idea how deranged and psycho this girl could truly be. When the last novel ended with her threatening the other Gremlin member with turning her into a table, she meant it. Shit, fuck, oh my god, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS GIRL??? All her "works" read like something straight out of the SCP Foundation or some HP Lovecraft horror novel. After her run-in with a Kihara in a transforming wheelchair, she bumps into Ninja-Komoe and Monkey-maid, and she is ultimately defeated because Ninja-Komoe fools her by imitating her ally's voice.
Later in the story, a young Kihara starts to brew a biological weapon, and Ninja-Komoe and Monkey-maid are sent to thwart that plan. It works, but not long after that, Wheelchair Kihara and Helmeted Kihara decide to duke it out and they ultimately kill each other, but for Helmeted Kihara, that was the whole point. Marian, fearing defeat, decides to pull a trump card, a sword that can kill people just by looking at it, and tries to kill everyone present, but not before our lovely hero Kamijou Touma steps in and starts to fight her. She is ultimately defeated, but it doesn't take many moments after that for a new adversary to show up, and this time it's an adversary we've heard mentioned by name a few times before, but never seen in the flesh: Othinus. She is far too powerful for anyone, and she utterly destroys Touma's right hand and even gives whatever it is that resides inside that hand a run for its money. But before she can do anything to further harm our dear hero, an old foe of hers shows up, Ollerus, who was introduced in Index SS2 and had a small cameo at the end of World War III, who manages to ward her off.
And that's where the story ends this time.

New Characters

Fuck me, where do I even begin? It seems like we got an entirely new set of characters to follow here, so I'll only write a bit about those that survived the ordeal.
  • Kumokawa Maria: We've seen a few glimpses of her sister before, Kumokawa Seria, so I wonder if Maria will have anything to do with Touma in the future. I have a feeling both Maria and Seria will return in bigger roles in future novels. Maria seems like a bit of an edge-case. She's very "proud" but at the same time, she has no qualms about flaunting her undergarments. Her interesting fighting technique also seems to be a bit of a unique way of doing things. I've certainly never heard of it before, and I can see in Kamachi's afterword that she uses dance moves as combat styles. While I can see the idea behind that, I must point out that "break dancing" and other such dance moves are made to be flashy, and really aren't meant to be useful as a martial art. But then again, she has an esper power to boost her skills, so I suppose it could work, given the right circumstances.
  • Shuri Oumi: The Kouga ninja clan is once again afoot, and this time it's Oumi Shuri, who appears to be 10, but is 30+ (sound familiar?), who has infiltrated Baggage City for reconnaissance on enemy tech. Outside of her physical appearance, and her somewhat lackluster skills with a kunai, there wasn't much to her character to really shape a picture of what she's like as a person. She can handle herself in a fight, sure, but we don't really get to know her, if you know what I mean.
  • Marian Slingeneyer: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU SICK, SICK GIRL??? Fucking hell, I can't get over the fact that such a person exists in the Toaru universe, but I really shouldn't be so surprised, seeing that already in OT2 we got to experience poor Stiyl getting ripped to pieces by Aureolus Izzard, and that Academy City doesn't even blink and eye at killing 20 thousand clones in fights to the death against an unbeatable opponent. But seriously, Marian is something far beyond that kind of horror. Anyone she doesn't see as an ally or friend is just a piece of construction material to her. Poor Cendrillon getting turned into a table, like Marian said she would in the previous novel. But despite her absolutely deranged interior decoration tastes, she does seem to have something resembling a soul, seeing how she really liked Kihara Kagun, and wanted him to survive the ordeal. I hope her furniture designs don't catch on, because I really don't want to know what else she might come up with.
  • Othinus: We've known since the very first novel that Magic Gods are insanely powerful and are almost unrivaled, even by saints. So when this character finally shows their face, after being teased so often in previous material, you're not really sure what's going to happen. And I definitely did NOT expect her to wrangle the dragon or whatever it is inside Touma's hand like an unruly dog and make it cower in fear. Just how powerful is this person? And if she's so powerful, how come no one has done anything to try and hunt her down and defeat her?

Recurring Characters

There are really only a minor set of recurring characters this time around, and they hardly have a role in this novel, so I'm going to skip this bit. Talking about Touma (again), Fiamma (who hardly says anything) and Ollerus (who at this point has only been showcased as Anti-Othinus) isn't something I can make entire paragraphs about, so I'm not going to.

Notes on the Novel

TOURNAMENT ARC!!! But no. No, if only we were so lucky. I would've liked to see an actual tournament arc in this series, since something like that would be a welcome breather between the dread and terror we've experienced so far. But the Kiharas had to be a bunch of spoil sports and ruin everything, eh?
While this novel certainly has a lot going on in it on the smaller scale, there doesn't actually seem to be much going on in the larger scale. From beginning to end, the entire novel is just Baggage City getting destroyed by Academy City's invasion force, and nothing beyond that really seems to happen. There is that one small bit at the end where Brunhild meets Birdway and some new saint we haven't met before, but that hardly counts as it was only a few pages in the epilogue. I think we'll see what the consequences of the destruction of Baggage City entails in the next novel, but we don't get to see it here.
On the other hand I thought it was quite hilarious that Kamachi himself made his afterword extra long to properly introduce us to all the new characters, most of whom are already dead again, or at least it seems that way based on the images in the novel.
Overall, a riveting, if a little cluttered and hard to follow novel. These many perspectives from brand new characters we've never seen before didn't help, either.
Once again, apologies for the delay, I wanted to finish this yesterday, but lady luck didn't smile upon me yesterday, and a lot of things just got in the way. But now it's done, and I can give it to you fine people.
Oh, and one more thing: I've also bought a book that I think would make me appreciate these novels a lot more if I read it first: It's a novel by Neil Gaiman called Norse Mythology, and it tells most of the stories from that mythology in an easily readable format. I keep seeing hint after hint that New Testament has more or less completely replaced Christianity as its base for magic powers, and replaced it with Norse Mythology, so I am inclined to read up on those particular stories, so I'll have more "I know that!" moments than "what the fuck is that?" moments going forward. It will likely eat into my reading time for New Testament, so don't expect NT5 to arrive on Sunday, either. Maybe later that following week.
submitted by DarthSatoris to toarumajutsunoindex [link] [comments]

2017.12.10 00:54 Tetizeraz Jecas, preciso da ajuda de vocês. E eu não brinco quando o assunto é copypasta.

Eu lembro que a um bom tempo atrás, eu fiz uma adaptação de uma copypasta, Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks.
Zaporozhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!
O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil's kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight are thou, that canst not slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.
Thou Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, pig of Armenia, Podolian thief, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, an idiot before God, grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig's snout, mare's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!
So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. You won't even be herding pigs for the Christians. Now we'll conclude, for we don't know the date and don't own a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year with the Lord, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!
Alguém consegue encontrar a copypasta traduzida? Pois traduzir novamente seria triste. É isso, abraço aí.
submitted by Tetizeraz to circojeca [link] [comments]