Archive for the ‘ Text Passages ’ Category

緋劇 Higeki—A Tragedy to be Avoided at All Costs (Excerpt)



I’m not exactly sure how I talked myself into this, but this is a follow up post to 喜劇 Kigeki—A Comedy Which Should Never Have Been which is a translation of a short excerpt from the second section (Higeki is the first) of Vita Sexualice’s レギオンの肖像 -Portrait de Legion-. The prose is… a far cry from the norm, and reading it can be a very mind-altering experience. If you can read Japanese, are not easily nauseated, and anything I’ve said has piqued your interest I suggest you read this review, which compares Umisawa Kaimen’s writing style to James Joyce’s. I am currently working on full translations of two of Vita Sexualice’s other novels, which I find tamer, and a little more accessible, but this beast in the corner still calls my name. I don’t know if I’ll ever translate more than excerpts out of it, but we’ll see. The convoluted events of this novel actually tie directly into Jane Does, so…

Content Warnings: [R-18G] (All Offensive Content Must Be Highlighted To Be Viewed)
+ Bestiality, sexual violence, incest involving minors (in appearance, not age), moderate general blood and gore (low intensity).
+ All sex acts in this particular excerpt are technically “consensual” even though they are violent.

緋劇 Higeki—A Tragedy to be Avoided at All Costs (Excerpt)

Due to Circumstances Involving the Proof of Girls’ Absence


Kirisame Marisa and Alice Margatroid stood at the gates of the Scarlet Devil Mansion and found the paper notice there on a spring day, the sky infested with grey clouds shaded like the underbellies of fattened larvae. Under the dearth of light and lack of contrast, the windowless scarlet-walled mansion struck Alice, with more force than usual, as a coffin. Was it always this bad? the puppeteeress thought, catching a few stray hairs blown loose by the wind and turning to her companion magician, who stood with her arms crossed, indignantly staring down the gate.

“So, what’s this all about?” Alice asked.

“It’s been like this for three days,” Marisa explained, the gate without its guard, not a word, not a sound. “It’s been shut this whole time.”

“I see.”

The gist of what Marisa said was summed up in her first few sentences; she need not have said more, though she did. Three days ago the sign appeared at the gate, and the gate had not opened since.

“So? What do you expect me to do about it?” Alice asked.

“I’ve just got a bad feeling, you know?” Marisa replied under her breath, re-crossing her arms.

Alice looked around to see if she could spot the usual guard, but she could not find her, nor any other—only an empty scene frozen under unsaturated beams of ashen light locked in the windless frame of silence surrounding the mansion. Even the lake in the distance bore not a single ripple on its surface, its mirror skin reflecting naught but a sky devoid of color. So the puppeteeress brought her gaze back to the building itself, drawing her hair behind her ears as she looked up towards the roof. The windowless walls…were the same. The mysterious black brambles, which Alice could not name, weaving their way about those walls…were not. It’s like the castle in that fairytale, she thought. The one with the girl, sleeping at the top of the tower. There she waits for her beloved to save her, but her beloved cannot reach her. The way is blocked by a witch’s brambles. But was there really a witch, after all? The only character in the story to witness the witch is the girl, and the witch’s actions are explained solely by her. The witch, and her own parents for that matter, exist only by her word. The inevitability of the brambles may be a mere stand-in for happenstance. In that case, what was she frightened of? What did she fear? What did she avoid? What did she push away? What did she run from? The story tells us none of those answers, for those are outside the story.

As her recollection came to its end, Alice brushed some of her fingers against one of the bars of the wrought-iron gate. It quickly swallowed up her hand’s warmth and vomited it out its end, leaving only a frozen rejection in her palm.

“So?” Alice asked again, “What do you want to do?”



(4 pages omitted: Alice and Marisa enter the mansion, and then part ways as two paths emerge. Marisa follows golden petals strewn on the floor, and Alice follows silver ones. The golden ones lead to the basement, where Marisa finds a locked door. After fiddling with the lock, she decides to destroy it, in the way she usually confronts large obstacles.)


The door held strong. A smirk spread across Marisa’s face. Considering the devil it’s made to keep in, I’d expect nothing less. But the brambles, the chains and the lock? The only evidence to suggest those things once stood in her way was the black smear painted across the otherwise flawless door and the heaps of ashes to either side. Only a few embers gnawed on the ends of the brambles near the bottom of the basement stairs behind her, but the levity she had picked up soon left with them.

I just hope Flandre is okay, Marisa prayed, as she placed her hand on the door.

With a loud creak, the seal on the enclosed space was broken, and wisps of acrid air thick with sweat gripped around her throat to greet her. The smell was pungent, and stung her eyes and nose as much as it choked her throat with its rot, but like an overripe fruit dripping with slugs plump with sweet poison, as quickly as the blinding urge to vomit rose within her, she felt the toxic concoction had easily slipped down past her defenses and seeped into her bloodstream. The sheer weight of the air passing by forced Marisa to close her eyes. She was loathe to do so, but at least, she thought, it offered some reprieve from the stinging. Stinging, like the barbs of the brambles from that fairytale—like the ones here. If I remember right, the man who came to the castle to save the girl lost his eyesight to those barbs in the end. Just like… ‘Like’, huh? Marisa chuckled under her breath. It might as well be the same! Only my damsel in distress isn’t a poor lonely princess but a lonely little vampire. But in that case, who does that make the witch?

The first sensation to breach the walls of the viscous world Marisa’s blindness had boxed her into was the sound of voices. However, the voices were more akin to unhinged roars, and their sound was paired with the sound of water, or something wet, colliding, or sliding past something else. Like a butcher handling meat on a cutting board, Marisa thought. She wrenched her eyes open. The film of tears coating the lenses warped her view, but she could make out the rough outline of a black, squirming muscular mass and something white pinned beneath it. What next caught her eye were seven-colored droplets dancing in mid-air.

It took a few moments for everything to come into focus, but there was no denying it. In a corner of the room, on the bare stone floor, there Flandre was, being fucked by a large black dog. She wore only a sheer pink camisole, and the claws of the beast sunk deep into her bare shoulders as it pinned her to the floor. When it speared its long penis into her vagina with weighty thrusts, the motions resembled a man stomping on a child more than a beast engaged in a pleasurable act, and the wet sounds came not just from the usual sources, but from the frantic rearrangement of organs as the bulging penis carved out its place in the devil-child’s unnaturally swollen abdomen. She had already been filled with more semen than she had the capacity to hold, as seen by the growing off-white puddle still spilling out of her. But whenever the penis receded, her red, swollen labia seemed to plead—to beg for it not to go, clinging to it as if coated in thick a sap. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, only its light sourcing the scene. As busy as the dog was with its thrusting, it opened its large, fanged mouth, so that its tongue hung lazily out, and lapped at her throat, rubbing itself against her.

“Nn— Ah— Hah… Aahn… Mmn—”

The dog’s thrusts were punctuated by short, hoarse moans, which dribbled out of Flandre’s open mouth like the strings of jolted drool that accompanied them. It wasn’t so much the difference, but the uncanny similarity between the two, slobbering and on all fours, that kept Marisa from shouting. Words were a forgotten mystery, and her knees began to shake.

Humans operate under the assumption of several underlying hypotheses, which state how things should exist in the world, and the stratified filter of those assumptions, shaped by our past experiences, in turn shapes how we view the world. However, that is precisely why—when we encounter something outside the scope of our learning, or something that wildly defies our expectations, or something that does not belong where it is—we experience fear. Marisa’s throat felt uncomfortably dry. The colorful musk-stench of the room grew thicker with every thrust. Semen splattered Flandre’s knees as another mass fell out of her into the pool.

“A— Ug— Guh— Kk— Huukh— Aahn… Aah!”

As the dog’s thrusts grew more violent, Flandre’s moans began to alternate in and out of coughs, gasps and gagging. Her swollen labia also seemed to have hit a limit in its abuse, spraying droplets of scarlet blood unto the pool of semen as it tore, leading to ripples treading the surface like dazzling crested pink ibises.

“Ahn… Ugh— Nngh— Hah… Aahn… Ngha…”

After an umpteenth vocalization of Flandre’s pleasure, the dog suddenly stopped thrusting. Her swollen belly drooped as it swelled to an even greater size, and a fresh stream of semen gushed out of her, washing the pinks out of the semen pool.

Despite the release, Flandre still looked pregnant, and her twitching jaw hung open as she moaned on in an incomprehensible babble. The dog did not release her, but held itself firmly locked against her blood-stained buttocks as it reared its head and mimicked her moan with its gurgling throat, dribbling drool down her back.

How long did this continue? With no clock to tell the time, Marisa’s grasp on time could only be subjective.

Flandre rubbed her face against the cool stone floor. Her lips, dripping with drool, already had a mind their own. She smiled. Three strands of her gold-blonde hair were plastered to her sweaty cheek. Her heavy breathing made the ends of her hairs dance. The semen had stopped dripping. The dog growled. It dipped its head down and rubbed its face against Flandre’s neck, and then—it snapped down on it.

The sound of the dog’s yellowed fangs piercing the skin and tearing the flesh of Flandre’s neck was not especially loud, but Marisa’s ears focused in on it, picking up each disturbance in the air. Droplets of blood rose out of the entrance wounds and flowed along the waterways laid by saliva and sweat until her entire neck was stained scarlet. The fangs sank deeper, and more blood vessels burst under pressure. Her skin appeared to fracture like porcelain, and as her muscle fibers tore, they popped violently.

“Ahh… Ahhh!!!!”

Flandre was being eaten alive. It did not make sense that it took so long for her to cry out, and it made even less sense that her screams screamed of a deep carnal ecstasy. She was smiling. However strange it seemed, Flandre was smiling. Under the faint, warm-colored light dangling from above, other details were lost. The profile of her face pressed against the floor looked like a cut-out silhouette, with its smile so deep it threatened the rest to be torn. So much blood had drained from her half-devoured neck that another pool formed around her head. Now two circles, red and white, encircled her body. With a crunch, the gnawing of the dog’s teeth briefly stopped. It had struck bone, probably. The dog scrunched up its face as it applied more force and jerked its head. With a loud crack the spine snapped. As the dog chewed on the bits of neck and bone, Flandre’s head dangled out of the end of its mouth, swaying back and forth. A fountain of blood sprayed out of the headless body. Flandre was still smiling, though the light had left her eyes. The dog gnashed its teeth. The last of the tissue holding the head aloft ripped, and it fell to the floor, into the pool of Flandre’s own blood.

Then, on only-a-head Flandre’s face, a crack appeared, and then another. They radiated from the bottom, as if her head were an egg cracked upon the floor. The fissures skated across her face, still frozen in her dead smile. Shards began to flake off and fall to the ground, one after the other. Out of the missing voids grew black brambles, and they twisted around the remainder of her face. The vines grew thick and fat with sharp spines, under Flandre disappeared beneath them. The next sound to fill the room came from the crushing of brain and bone as the brambles collapsed on the skull. The soup, which had forgotten its identity as a head, spilled into the neighboring pool of blood, while another set of brambles attacked the headless body, dumping its digested contents into the semen pool.

The dog growled. When Marisa looked its way, however, its outline began to collapse like a structure made of mud into a volatile mass of shadow. The shadow squirmed, and two tentacles extended from it. Slowly, the two tentacles took shape into humanoid arms. Those arms planted themselves on the ground, and after some shifting, the shadow appeared to stand up, like a person.

The shadow was overlaid with a bluish-white texture. The shadow, which was once a dog, was now…

“Remilia…Is that you?”

…Remilia Scarlet, the elder of the vampire sisters, in the flesh, and a black garter belt.

“Oh, if it isn’t Marisa. How do you do?” she said lips curled into a snicker.

“You…” Marisa wanted to shout at her, but she all she could do was shake. It was a miracle she was still standing. She did not even know what she wanted to say.

“What are you doing?” she said finally, her words reduced to dregs from the force required to release them.

“What are we doing?” Remilia replied, holding her smile, “We are in search of a happening.”

A what? Hers was not on the list of prescribed answers.

“A happening? That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m asking you, what did you just do?!”

“Oh, I know.” Remilia spread out both of her arms in an affected way, as if performing on stage, and raised them towards the ceiling. “The happening must be realized, for that signifies nothing less than a cultivation of the void.’

“Stop talking nonsense!”

“Which, in turn, is the most meaningless thing one can ever hope to accomplish.”

A explosion of the sounds of ripping flesh and cracking bone erupted from the bloody pool, as if mutilated and rewound, as two naked arms thrust themselves out of the floor. Those arms clawed at the ground and pulled the rest of a bloody black mess out from under the surface of the pool. Branched wings sprouted form the mass, with seven-colored droplets at their ends. It glowed with a misty light, and then out of the broken shell of caked blood, a girl emerged. It was Flandre Scarlet, and she wore the same sheer pink camisole as before.

“I enjoyed that, sister, but it’s your turn now, you know?” she said, throwing her arms around Remilia’s neck and pulling her close.

“I suppose it is,” Remilia replied.

“Hey, wait! Stop!”

“Hmm? Marisa?” piped Flandre. “You were here? Wanna join?”

“Why won’t you just explain to me what the fuck you two were doing?!”

“That needs explaining?” Remilia laughed. “Have you been paying any attention at all?”

“We’re sisters, and we’re fucking animals. What? No children are being made here.”


The following passages are excerpts from: Sound! Euphonium: The Kitauji High School Concert Band’s Turbulent Second Movement (響け!ユーフォニアム:北宇治高校吹奏楽部、波乱の第二楽章)

These excerpts contain content covered by the Liz and the Bluebird (which is an adaptation of parts of this novel), and so can be said to contain spoilers for it. You have been warned.

The excerpts chosen for this post are two prologues, printed at the beginning of each half of the novel, which describe Mizore and Nozomi’s starting points as they face each other in their final year in the band.

Please watch Liz and the Bluebird and read the Sound! Euphonium novels if you can.

Prologue (Mizore):

Her black hair swayed back and forth as she walked, her upper arms, perhaps because of the lighting, tinged a soft red under her short sleeves. Behind her, Mizore followed more closely with her eyes than her feet, watching the tips of her hair hanging from her high ponytail bounce as she walked. Her hair was much longer than it was in their middle school days. As she hopped up the stairs two steps at a time, her toned legs showed themselves under her dark blue skirt.

“Nozomi, wait.”

Mizore’s voice was like a whispered breath, a sigh she let slip, vibrating her vocal cords. This early in the morning, the school building was filled not with students but with silence. Mizore took a deep breath. The air felt dusty. Above her, Nozomi’s clamorous footsteps easily drowned out Mizore’s soft whisper of a voice. Why should I expect a voice like mine to reach her?

“Mizore? You still down there?”

Nozomi’s voice echoed across the narrow hallway and down the stairs. She must have gotten to the music room first. Mizore could no longer hear her footsteps. Mizore gripped the handrail and took each step one at a time. As she felt the cracks in the old wooden handrail, Mizore peered upward between the flights of stairs to the floor above, but there was no sign of Nozomi — at least not from where Mizore was standing. With no more reason to keep her head up, Mizore’s gaze naturally swung downward. She had just replaced her inside shoes for her third year of high school, and they were still bright white, without a smudge. They look like a first year’s shoes, Mizore thought.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!”

As soon as Mizore made it to the top of the stairs, Nozomi called to her, waving her hand back and forth vigorously. The light coming in through the windows lit Nozomi’s outline with a soft glow, and the large white ribbon at her chest swayed back and forth with her body.

She waited for me.

To hide the smile that started to spread across her face, Mizore pulled her lips back tightly into a horizontal line. Nozomi broke into a bright and carefree smile.

“I’m just so looking forward to practice, I must have walked faster than I usually do. I just really want to play!” said Nozomi, pointing to the lock on the door to the music room.

As soon as Mizore understood what Nozomi meant by her motioning, she froze up. She only waited because she had no choice. I should know better, she thought, ashamed of her giddy excitement just moments before.

“Unlock the door. Let’s get some early practice in together.”

“Yeah,” Mizore muttered quietly after a pause.

Mizore took out the key she brought with her from the staff room; a neatly written label dangled from it with the words, “Music Room”. Unlocking the music room every morning was Mizore’s job. It was an unwritten rule of the concert band — since when? Mizore wondered. Nozomi stood beside her with eyes full of anticipation. Mizore slid the key into the keyhole and shifted her gaze towards Nozomi.

“Nozomi, um…”


“Nozomi, do you…”

Mizore and Nozomi’s eyes met. Suddenly, Mizore felt as if she were suffocating. She pulled at her blouse, tightly at her chest, before silently shaking her head.

“Never mind. It’s nothing,” she said.

The door clicked as Mizore unlocked it. Nozomi hummed an audible response, but said nothing. She was smiled, but Mizore couldn’t help but think her smile was contrived.

“I am so ready to practice this morning!”

“You really like practicing, don’t you?” Mizore said, a moment later.

“What are you talking about? You’re more into it than I am,” Nozomi replied.

Nozomi threw open the door to the music room. The room was arranged so the whole band could practice together. There were far fewer chairs than last year. Without the slightest hesitation, flute case dangling in one hand, Nozomi waltzed straight over to a seat at the end of the first row and sat down. During a live performance, that seat would be the closest to the audience. It was a seat reserved for only the best players to sit. Nozomi flipped through the pages of her music binder.

—Liz and the Bluebird.

Through the clear vinyl of the sheet protector, Mizore read the title of the page Nozomi had turned to, the title of this year’s choice piece for the national competition. The piece was based on a fairy tale and composed for a concert band. Mizore swept her hands under her thighs to smooth out the pleats of her skirt as she sat down.

“This piece is kind of like us, don’t you think?” said Nozomi, holding up her binder in one hand and grinning a toothy smile.

What is that supposed to mean? Mizore thought. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? While those questions swirled around in Mizore’s head she said nothing.

“I guess,” Mizore said finally, her response far more cold and indifferent than she had intended. But Nozomi showed no sign of taking her answer in a negative way.

“Yep. I thought you’d feel the same,” Nozomi nodded with a smile, before turning to look at the room’s dark green blackboard.

Mizore followed with her eyes to the countdown written in a corner of the blackboard, marking the days until the competition. The white rounded numbers sentenced, without room for any doubt, a certain end to the dream-like days she still clung to.

“I can’t wait to perform this piece! I wish the competition would come sooner.”

Mizore gave a slight nod in response, willfully ignoring the voice in her heart exclaiming what she truly felt. If only that day would never come.


Prologue (Nozomi):

Nozomi looked at herself in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling together loose strands into a bundle she held with her left hand. She took the red hair band she had held in her mouth in her right, and fixed it tightly around her hair to make a ponytail. When she let go, her usual self looked back at her. Staring coldly at her reflection, Nozomi pulled the edges of her mouth into a smile, her white, freshly brushed teeth peeking through her lips. It looks like you’re having fun, she thought. It was a clear and fine morning.

“Good Morning!”

“Morning,” replied Mizore, after a pause.

It was the first day of summer vacation. While Nozomi marched onward in high spirits, Mizore wore her usual expressionless face. Nozomi traced the outline of Mizore’s face with her eyes, glancing over her pale skin, pale lips and emotionless eyes. Mizore’s eyes reminded Nozomi of the depths at the bottom of the sea. Whenever Mizore’s eyes, filled with stillness, were directed towards her, Nozomi felt her heart shudder. It was an unpleasant feeling, as if someone was rubbing a toothbrush raw against her instincts, and it ran from her chest all along her body, until she could not help but break into a self-deprecating smile. By then, Mizore had already looked away.

“Are you going to take any practice exams over the break?” asked Nozomi.

“Only one,” Mizore replied.

“Really? So you didn’t sign up to take any other exams? Taking at least three is almost an unwritten rule at a school like ours, but I guess that doesn’t really matter. Natsuki and Yuuko will be taking some too.”

“I didn’t know.”

Mizore turned the key in the lock and it answered with a resounding click. Nozomi took hold of the door handle and, like always, was the first to enter the room. Nozomi went straight over to a seat at the end of the first row — her seat. When she set her bag down she felt a wave or relief wash over her. Here she had a place where she belonged.

Nozomi took her flute out of the case she had brought with her, and glanced at Mizore. Mizore had laid her instrument case across her lap as she flipped through her music binder. The clear vinyl of her sheet music protectors stuck to her fingertips as she turned the pages.

“You’ve got another solo part this year, huh,” said Nozomi.

Nozomi scanned the measures of the competition choice piece, “Liz and the Bluebird,” with her eyes. In the third movement, there was a duet which consisted of a flute and an oboe solo. As the melodies of each instrument crossed each other, they expressed the thoughts and feelings of Liz and the bluebird. The tone of the oboe part had a clear determination to it, taken so far as to be painful, and this expression was complemented by the whisperings of the flute part, which followed in its wake. The first time Nozomi played this piece she was certain no one else but her could play it. The only one in this school who can support Mizore’s solo is me, she thought.

“Nozomi…” Mizore paused, collecting her words. “Do you like this solo?”

“Absolutely. I love it.”

Why wouldn’t I? It’s a flute solo! cried a voice inside Nozomi she wouldn’t let out. Someone like you, who plays a solo every year, could never understand how I feel.

“I mean I think it’s really great we get to play a solo together,” Nozomi continued.

Nozomi held a page between her pointer and middle finger and waved it about with no particular aim in mind. Light from the window reflected off the page’s clear protective sleeve and created a bright white spot, which flittered across the page, sometimes obscuring parts of the music. It was irritating, so Nozomi stood up, walked to the window and yanked on the curtain. A shadow swept across the room and dropped the lit room into semi-darkness.

“Me too,” Mizore said after a long pause. She was looking down and her eyelids quivered.

Nozomi sat down again, leaned against the back of her chair and made a bright smile.

“You know how we’re kind of like Liz and the bluebird in the fairy tale? When I first heard the duet of the flute and oboe solos, I was sure we were the ones most suited to play the part.”

Last year, Mizore didn’t quit the band. Even though I left, she stayed behind. Nozomi really wasn’t sure how Mizore felt about her. But since she always comes to practice with me in the morning, Nozomi thought, she probably doesn’t hate me, at least.

If I were the bluebird, Nozomi thought, I would visit Liz again. Even if it were impossible for us to go back to the way things were before, there should be nothing wrong with coming to visit every once in a while. There is no reason a tragedy must end forever in tragedy. At least that’s what I believe.

In response to Nozomi’s smile, Mizore’s eyes moved ever so slightly. Something, similar to a smile, crossed her face, before she turned to her music binder, flipping the pages, one after another. Nozomi blew across her flute’s mouthpiece, obliterating the dry sound of flipped pages with a high pitched shrill that sounded as if someone were screaming.

棄劇 Kigeki – A Comedy Which Should Never Have Been (Excerpt)


No one asked for it, and you aren’t getting any more.

This excerpt is from Portrait de Legion (レギオンの肖像) which comes in four parts, and this is from the beginning of the second part (written first).

Don’t read this book actually. I don’t recommend it, unless blood curdling screams, gratuitous sexual and non-sexual violence, torture and cannibalism are your thing. It’s also confusing as hell until you’re most of the way through. It does, however, provide the set up for the events of Jane Does, which compared to this, is very tame.

Portrait de Legion’s other subtitle is La Machine Infernale and Jean Cocteau is the poet mentioned below.

This excerpt is safe for work.

The Witch’s Bedchamber

The frivolous poet prince wrote: forever, you must strive to be drunk — whether your drink be a glass filled to the brim with wine, or the dried dregs of the opium poppy, a nauseating degree of virtue, or a fit inducing depth of immorality. Whatever it be, whichever it be, we all must strive to be forever drunk.

The witch lay in her bed, staring at the accumulated tobacco smoke swirling above her. A hookah sat at her bedside, quietly toasting the tobacco leaves in its bowl hardened with honey. She inhaled shallowly from a golden mouthpiece, holding the smoke in her mouth and letting it sluggishly seep down into her lungs. She rose partially out of bed and rested her back against two pillows laid behind her. As her right hand held the mouthpiece she tossed her left arm out towards her bedside table, upon which there was a single plate. Upon the plate were three jujubes, seven pieces of hard candy, five dried figs, and nothing else. As she exhaled, the smoke formed a ring as it drifted out towards the stagnant smoke above, mixing with it until you couldn’t tell which was there first and which was there last — nothing of it could be told.

The witch looked to a hourglass upon her vanity table. It was filled with dark red grains that continued to fall slowly through its center. Her exhaled smoke danced as if on stage, as it lost all rhyme and reason drifting to all four corners of the ceiling. Furrowing her brow, she then reached for a book that lay beside her in bed, and flipped through its pages. There were no details in its pages. It was a void of nothing, page after page, only formed into the shape of a moldy book.

If sometimes, the poet continued: you find yourself on the stone steps of a palace, or the verdant slopes on the side of a canal, or in a gloomy room filled with ashen swirls, and drunkenness, like an gallivanting energetic child dances right out the gate and away, I dare you to ask. Ask what? What time it is now.

The door to her room creaked open.

“Shall I say, as always? — or how rare?”

A sickly sweet voice tinged with night-shaded sneer, danced its way with spider’s feet into the witch’s ear, piercing its hairy needles through the skull to stroke the brain. It was awfully unpleasant.

With exaggerated motions, the devil slipped through the thin gap in the door and walked toward the witch. She fanned the butterflies of smoke away as she pulled an old round stool to the bedside, sitting down cross-legged. She rested her elbow on a knee and her head on her hand bending forward to look closely at the witch.

In the devil’s other hand swung a dark red pendulum — no, it was an hourglass. What should have been resting on the vanity, she had taken, and was now swinging in front of the witch’s face. She smiled — happily, joyfully, annoyed, sad, but smiling she swung it.

“Patchouli,” the devil said, in her sweet venomous voice, “soon Sakuya will die.”

“Again,” the witch replied, her voice low and hoarse. She turned a page, and then it was quiet.

“No, not yet, Patchouli. This play is always still beginning. Nothing will end, and so nothing will begin. Even so, this error-ridden love letter will continue, eternally. So we must end it. That is our promise.”

“No, it is a promise with you and me.”

“Patchouli, let us end this boring comedy, this idle tragedy, the kind of story no child would ever enjoy.”

The witch reached out to touch the devil’s face.

“Dying again, I see.”

Still dying.”

The poet wrote: so verily shall the flowing wind, the flying birds, the swaying trees, the open sky, all say to you: be drunk. Yes now, be drunk.


The Cast

  • Gramophone А: A Gramophone, broken eighty-one years ago
  • Gramophone Б: A Gramophone, killed two hundred and six years ago
  • Man: sitting for the past 19,683 years

Gramophone А, sits stage left. Gramophone Б, stage right.

Center stage, man sits in a chair. Beside him, is a puppet theater stage.

Man turns the crank on the side of the puppet theater stage.

Gramophone А and Gramophone Б start to sing.

Gramophone А: Koschei! Koschei!

Gramophone Б: Koschei the Immortal!

Gramophone А: Koschei! Koschei!

Gramophone Б: Koschei the Immortal!

Gramophone А: Koschei! Koschei!

Gramophone Б: Koschei the Immortal!

Gramophone А and Б: What do you see, in the depths of the skull, deep in the glass of your eyes?!

In the center of the puppet theater stage, a man and a girl dance, looking in different directions.

Man: Now shall we begin?! Will we begin? Are we beginning? Have we begun?! Now shall we end it? Is it ending? Has it already ended? Is it the beginning of the end? Is it the end of the beginning? Has it ended long ago?! Has it begun long ago?! What kind of story? That kind of story? This kind of story? Another kind of story? Do they want to hear? You want to hear? Yes? You want to hear? Am I telling you it? Are you already listening to it? Have you heard it long ago? What is it about? What kind is that? You want to hear it? Yes? You do? Shall I tell you? Yes I shall!!

Gramophone А: Koschei! Koschei!

Gramophone Б: Koschei the Immortal!

Man: He was sitting in that chair for forever, you see, without moving a finger, without turning his head! In a six-foot world he had been locked forever! All that was about him was rubbish, the kind of gorgeousness to make you doubt your eyes! You see he tried to reproduce the world, the flowing rivers and rotting apples and soaring wrens, the inversion of the hell living and eaten in the sea, yes everything! No, not a single thing! He tried to make a world, you see. Pipe organs, warped pearls, foreign mummies, living perfumes of rotten roses such a glorious scent as to wreck your nose, everything but that!

Gramophone А: Koschei! Koschei!

Gramophone Б: Koschei the Immortal!

Man: Now shall we begin?! Shall we end it?! Has it already begun, is it already over? Let me tell you a tale! One tale, no countless!! Or a hundred, if I may…"

The man’s hands stop.

Man: Because fairy tales belong to children!!

Comedic Mechanism: Parade of the Jane Does (Update)

Jane Does is available as a digital download in Japanese on Booth [link] for only 300 JPY. If you purchase the e-book, you should also have access to the theme song, which I’ve also translated (link at the bottom of the post).

If you plan to read my translation in English, please purchase the original first.

I am currently working on a revised EN version to be made available in .epub and .pdf formats.

In the meantime, here are the links to the first draft in installments.
The posts after the first have been password protected.
The password is the first French word on page 19 (case-sensitive), which should be easy to find if you have purchased either a digital or hard copy of the book.


[Theme Song]

Protected: Comedic Mechanism: Parade of the Jane Does (291/291)

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