Posts Tagged ‘ Vita Sexualice ’

The Portrait of Legion 『レギオンの肖像』(Taconaguri Review)

The Portrait of Legion
by Umisawa Kaimen (Vita Sexualice)

Review by Yuuki Ao.

Original article: [link(JP)]

There is a ton of kanji1. There are so few line breaks and so many words that the pages are more black than white. It is difficult to read. Not only are the sentences and words themselves difficult, many use characters that no normal person knows how to pronounce.

There are several words and phrases that hint at a deeper meaning, but no more insight is offered throughout the entirety of the book—if a deeper meaning is truly intended, I do not understand it. Frankly, it is gross. Grotesque depictions make up the better half of the novel, and the remainder consists of impossibly abstract musings that I cannot wrap my head around. The word choice is unique and stands out, but there is so little variation throughout the book that it quickly becomes a bore. You can tout with examples the beauty the word-smithery has distilled out of the Japanese language, but to the layman the language is overly decorated and needlessly verbose.

If I were to spend this article berating Umisawa Kaimen’s novels, the above should give you a fair hint of what that would look like. Not only is the above representative of some of the criticism leveled at Umisawa Kaimen’s works, it would be hard to argue that such criticism is not valid.

The target (or rather victim) of this review is Umisawa’s The Portrait of Legion (レギオンの肖像), released at Winter Comiket in 2013 (C85). Despite being a doujin novel, it was released as a hardcover-bound book—which on its own was enough do draw widespread attention. However (returning to our berating mode for a moment), what use is there to bind a doujin novel as a hardcover book, other than to serve to inflate the ego of its author? Do not most readers of doujin novels just want to read about their favorite characters doing this or that in a novel setting, without giving two cents about the outward appearance and design of a physical book?

I would say so. Other than a small subset of self-professed binding fanatics, most readers of doujin novels do not care about a books binding or how much it cost to produce—at the very least, such matters are secondary or tertiary to its contents. Moreover, you could say that a work whose contents is rubbish despite all the effort put into its binding is much more of an eyesore than great content barely patched together. Following that logic (and again excuse me for continuing this beratement), one might say that The Portrait of Legion is an egotistical production of value only to its author and a small subset of otaku who never learned to grow up, and that is that—but is it really?

The answer to that question is a resounding no. You cannot write off The Portrait of Legion as such.

It is true that this novel, as I have stated previously, is frustrating in a variety of ways, but even with that in mind, it has value.

One source of value may be found in the extreme nature of its contents: In The Portrait of Legion, Marisa (to center on one example), is subjected to a broad spectrum of sexual violence and dies ten times. She is raped and bleeds out. She has her internal organs ruptured. She has a glass bottle forced into her vagina and shattered. She has flies’ eggs implanted in her womb, whose hatched maggots eat and tear at her internal organs. It is…a lot.

And this abuse is not limited to Marisa. Every other cast member dies, and often in the most gruesome possible way. While of course, killing Touhou characters off does not itself make a masterpiece, when it is done this thoroughly, and this meticulously, it is only human to want to invite others to share in your reading experience. What I mean to say is: Such extremes get people talking about the book. It sparks conversation.

From my perspective at least, the ability of a work to become the topic of conversation is immensely important. Especially given the ability of such notoriety to breathe new life into the genre. Although fans of Touhou-derived doujin novels know that there are many interesting titles to be found, doujin novels as a whole are a rather minor subset of the doujin works more generally. There are multiple reasons for this, but for one, sales probably will never approach that of doujin manga.

When the publication of a work such as The Portrait of Legion, endued with such seeds of notoriety, sparks conversation of Touhou-derived doujin novels outside of the usual circles, I think it is fair to say that it contributes a considerable amount of life-force to the entire industry. Therefore, whether you are a fan of the actual content or not, I think you must admit that the direction of Umisawa’s works as a whole, has merit in and of itself.

A second source of value may be found in that “overly decorated and needlessly verbose” language I mentioned earlier, which is to say, the intrigue inherent in Umisawa’s writing style.

I am not pivoting away from my previous statements to say that Umisawa Kaimen’s writing is beautiful, or inspiring. However, it is clear that Umisawa fully indulges themselves in their writing style and that a significant number of fans praise the result. Such writing demands a closer look.

Umisawa Kaimen’s novels, generally speaking, do not contain much of what we might traditionally think of as a plot. They begin without providing the reader any sense of what is going on, present layer upon layer of bodily destruction in exorbitant detail and end without providing any clear answers, leaving the reader no less confused than they were at the beginning. The Portrait of Legion itself has some kind of arguably logical conclusion rushed at the end, but not in any sense that should count. It would be generous to call it more than an afterthought.

But Umisawa Kaimen’s readers do not read these novels for twists, hidden subplots, overall composition or the sense of catharsis that comes with a satisfying conclusion. The simple truth is, Umisawa Kaimen’s readers read these novels because they want to read the prose contained within the work.

To understand why that might be the case, let us put aside Umisawa Kaimen for a while and look more generally at two categories of novels.

Anthony Burgess, the author of A Clockwork Orange, once separated authors into two distinct categories in one of his essays on James Joyce.

The first category of author, he wrote, strove to use language as a transparent tool, used only as a means to craft the worlds of their stories. On the other hand, to the second category of author, the words themselves were the object of their obsession.

This does not mean to say that all authors clearly fall into one category or the other, but for instance, one would not argue that J. K. Rowling or Sakaguchi Angō clearly fit in the former category, or that James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov or Anthony Burgess fit in latter. Umisawa Kaimen, without a doubt, also belongs in that latter category.

In Burgess’s essay, he referenced the opening lines to James Joyce’s Ulysses, and pointed out that it was not, in fact, the kind of flowing prose that ought to win awards. Instead, it was incredibly shaky, even clumsy — what normally would be offered up as an example of how not to write:

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.

The very first word ends abruptly with a comma, followed by a triple alliteration of the same vowel. To English speakers, reading these first four words feels like stumbling, and then hopping three times in an attempt to regain balance — according to Burgess.

After these first two lines, a confusing conversation immediately begins without any context, filled with omissions that might otherwise provide it. Only later does the reader finally get a sense of the scene.

Burgess proceeded to take these opening lines and rewrite them in ordinary style of the “type 1” author.

His rewrite began by setting the stage: a scene of morning light dawning upon Dublin, of women gossiping amongst themselves before his literary camera zooms into the tower where Buck Mulligan and Stephen Dedalus make their entrance, quickly introducing the two. Their conversation is filled with context, and every aspect of the opening is made clear to the reader in easy to read prose.

After presenting his rewrite, Burgess says this: “If Ulysses were written like this, surely it would have no literary value.”

According to Burgess, Ulysses has value not because it has beautiful imagery or awe-inspiring prose. Nor does it have value thanks to a realistic depiction of its characters’ struggles or a critique of societal problems. It is certainly not due an exciting evolution of its plot. Ulysses has literary value only because it does not fit into the former category. It cannot be adequately described in pictures because its “poor” prose lacks the necessary clarity2.

Why though, should a lack of clarity be valued over the clear writing of the “type 1” author? Ultimately, a novelist who uses their words only as a transparent tool cannot win against other mediums, such as television or film. No matter how vividly detailed their depictions of scenes or people are, a visual will have more impact. In this sense, Burgess writes, novels have no future. From the perspective of a multimedia consumer, visual media will deliver more to them at a lower cost (of their investment in terms of time and energy) than the prose of a “type 1” author. In this day and age, we even have virtual reality. In terms of simply crafting a world, words are simply not as strong a tool (and so, the percentage of readers in the younger generations continues to decline).

However, what about “type 2” authors? What about those authors who write nonsensical sentences you can hardly wrap your head around, who trip you up and make you stumble as you read, who leave you feeling off? What about the puns, the sounds of the language, the rhymes, the play on words, the fetishes, the adherence or non-adherence to form? More than the surface level story, sometimes these elements are more important, at least in poetry and strange prose. It is in these elements, Burgess argues, that you can find value unique to the medium of the novel. Authors who lean into these elements accomplish what only writers can. Can film or television accurately portray the stumbling feeling inherent in the first four words of Ulysses? Surely not.

Not that I mean to say that “type 2” novels are vastly superior. If there are people who like puns, there are people who do not. I am sure they exist out there, somewhere — the pun-haters. I would not bet my life that they do not exist, at least.

At the end of the day, it depends on what your preferences are. I am sure there are people out there who claim that those who do not grasp the value of Ulysses (or Jean Cocteau, if we want to lean back towards Umisawa’s writing) are idiots—but they are wrong. Different people respond differently to different aspects of any work.

However, a reader who responds only to “type 1” works will probably eventually stop reading novels, because for them, reading a novel must eventually feel illogical. It would be easier to watch a movie, or television, or an MMD video on Nico Nico Douga and obtain the same experience they sought from “type 1” novels.

Let us follow Anthony Burgess’s example and rewrite an excerpt from The Portrait of Legion.

The Portrait of Legion is split into separate sections with relatively distinct tones, but for the purposes of this demonstration, I settled upon a passage from the beginning of the first section, Higeki (Tragedy), where Marisa descends into the basement of the Scarlet Devil Mansion.


The stairwell leading to the basement, decorated in chains of bramble vines, conjured memories of peering deep into the depths of a witch’s cauldron. A faint light ignited with magic in the palm of her hand, the magician slowly lowered her foot upon the first step and shifted her weight onto it. The surface of the step made uneven by the bramble vines caused the stairwell, already steep by any measure, to appear as a trap laid before her very eyes for the purpose of dragging its unwilling victims into shadows reminiscent of the blackness of night, even as she traversed each subsequent step cautious, but allured by the path’s gold flowers, such that her deep in her throat she could not help but mutter voicelessly: This mansion has always been sealed shut in such a way that one could never expect to feel a breeze. That I know. However, there still used to be a clamor to the air… in stark contrast to the current stagnancy. In taking care to not trip over the undulating surface of the steps, she would have liked to reach for support from the wall, but there as well the brambles had spread, preventing her touch.

At the terminus of her laborious descent—ahead: she lifted her magic light to glow upon the doorway she knew almost too well. Countless times she had witnessed the flecks of rust about its metal frame and the ineffable deep red material constituting its doors, but in the midst of this familiarity, one object cast an uncanny shadow: the doorknob, whose purpose was to open the way forward. Upon it, something was hanging that hitherto had not existed. What first reached her eyes, reflected in the faint flicker in her hands, was… silver and gold. Gold chains without the faintest hint of tarnish wound in countless layers around the doorknob, creeping over the surface of the doors before becoming lost in the walls’ black brambles. Upon all this was a silver lock. With her free hand, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around the lock. The clear and cold rejection characteristic of metals bit into the skin of her fingertips. With a not insignificant proportion of her strength, she yanked upon the lock, but the firmly locked silver ring did not budge, not offering even a few millimeters of give.

“Damn it, what is going on here?” she spat in irritation. (p.12)

Before we continue, I want to make clear that I do not assert that the above excerpt is poorly written. Many, I am sure, would call this prose elegant and masterful. However, it is inarguably not the kind of easy to read prose expected by most readers. There is an inordinate amount of kanji3. Words like “hitherto” are used in place of simple alternatives4. I doubt most people can read the word “clamor”. Writing out many of the words in phonetic hiragana alone would would make a world of difference.

How would this passage read if it were written by a “type 1” author?


The stairs, which led into the basement, were so overgrown with bramble vines, the stairwell was reminiscent of a witch’s cauldron. With a faint magic light held in her hand, Marisa slowly descended the steps.

It was very dark ahead, the shadows of the furthest depths shaded with the black of night. Although the stairs had always been steep, the unevenness of the brambles made them feel even more so, and it was very difficult to walk. The very passage felt like a trap meant to draw Marisa into its depths. Still, Marisa continued to follow along the same path of gold lilies she had followed from the entrance of the mansion, but deep in her throat she grumbled.

The mansion had always been kept shut, so there was never a breeze inside. However, even with that in mind, the air felt even more stagnant than before. While she took care to not trip over the bramble vines on the stairs, Marisa had reached for the wall, hoping to steady herself, but there were vines on the walls as well, so she was unable to use the walls for support.

After a lengthy descent, Marisa finally reached the end of the stairs. There was a deep red door, made of a material beyond her knowledge. The frame of the door was rusted.

Marisa had seen the door countless times before, but this time, something about it was off. Something was hanging from the door knob. Lifting her light to look closer, she saw gold chains wrapped around the doorknob, which extended from the doorknob over the surface of the door to wall beyond it, with the ends buried in the black brambles of the walls, out of sight.

Along with the gold chains, a silver lock hung from the doorknob. Using her free hand, Marisa touched the lock. It was cold, and gave off a metallic feeling of rejection as the difference in temperature bit her fingertips. Marisa tugged on the lock, but it would not budge—not even a few millimeters.

“Damn it, what is going on here?” she spat in irritation.

This is how I would expect an author who puts a stronger emphasis on clarity to write the scene. Which style is preferable is entirely up to the reader’s preferences, but I can say for certain that Umisawa Kaimen’s readers do not want to read something like what I have written. Umisawa’s fans are fans because they they respond well to the style of the original.

There was a doll—at least, it seemed fit to describe it as such.

However, this “doll” had no head. In its place, was only a birdcage. As she approached, she saw that there was a single chair placed opposite of it—facing it. Alice sat down in the chair, crossed her legs and crossed her arms. She then rested her jaw in the palm of her right hand and stared.

The lower half of the doll was not visible, for the area below the waist was covered with a crinoline frame—absent any external clothing. Yet the frame’s interior, wide as though the mesh was, held countless heads—crowded to the point of bursting. At first glance there was so spaces between them, such that the heads melded together in continuity, yet upon closer inspection, what small gaps were there were filled in with black brambles. Yet it was not that which bothered her. Each of the heads emanated an inharmonious air, for none of them had eyes. Where the eyes should have been were dissected columbines. They filled in each socket, without exception.

The doll’s abdomen was swollen, as if impregnated. Yet—from the upper ring of the crinoline frame, down across the navel, the abdomen was split vertically open, the fissure resembling an engorged vagina. From this opening it was clear that the doll was stuffed with countless eyes. Each adjacent eye’s iris was of a different color: accounting for slight variations in hue, not a single eye was the same, despite their number… From time to time, one of the eyes would tumble out of the opening and onto the ground, but Alice was confident the doll would never be emptied.

The doll’s arms were raised toward the ceiling. Upon the palm of its opened right hand lay an old hourglass, its crimson stand trickling down without interruption. Upon its opened left hand rested a severed head, from which draped long scarlet hair. Alice recognized the face, with its eyes closed. The head belonged to the familiar of the witch who resided in the mansion’s library. Although she had never once learned her name, she knew of her existence. (pp. 20-21)

Here is another somewhat graphic scene, where its obsessive level of imagery transcends into something beautiful: it exposes the reader to the vivid, grotesque and abnormal in such a way that they could never experience in a normal day-to-day life. Personally, I am a fan of this aesthetic, but let us take a look at another passage.

The poet once wrote, whilst sublimating the pain of a certain skin-devouring mold with the intoxicants of opium:

I ponder this mold.

They too must ponder me.

They who mask half of my face.

With every fetal movement, my consciousness is torn asunder. My blood has turned to ink. This I should have avoided, at all costs.

Then, the poet wondered:

We ponder God.

God ponders us.

Yet God surely does not do so for our sakes.

The witch removed her lips from the hookah’s mouthpiece, and exhaled slowly a bluish white plume of tobacco smoke. On and on the smoke lazily continued to flow. Upon the plate above the long and narrow body of the hookah rested a bowl shaped not unlike the body of an hourglass.

Inside it, gelatinous brown clumps engulfed in blue-white flames were slowly stripped of their mass.

Droplets of smoke fall…

…down towards the base of the device, an almost spherical glass cistern.

Water resided in its depths, filled halfway, while its upper story was claimed full by blue-white smoke.

The room was vacant, but for a single bed, a single desk and a single rocking chair…

…in addition to a single small round table beside the hookah, upon which was a plate with two jujubes, three pieces of hard candy, and a single fig.

The witch returned the golden mouthpiece to her lips.

“The investigation into the actuality of the statement, ‘We exist,’ is a difficult one to be sure, but it is very much like the smoke of tobacco. For the soul is like a kind of gas escaping from an eudiometer. We continue to die. My arms, my abdomen, my legs, the tip of my tongue, my sex, my eyes, my hair… everything that constitutes who and what I am, every part of this material body of mine fated to be disintegrated cries, writhes and kneels, pitying the dying other, my material brothers and sisters. However, my soul, my still ever captive soul, upon witnessing those others disassembled on the occasion of their death, my soul is filled with envy—from the deepest depths of my being.”

An expectorated huff of smoke spun a snail’s spiral.

Such are leaps of life.

Dancing in a spiral, crossing the stage, in a leap somehow refreshing, the smoke left the witch’s lips to find its destination somewhere about the windowless room’s ceiling…

…to the ceiling but no further.

As tightly as the doors were shut it had nowhere to go, like the stagnant empty breath of a bird who missed its chance to hatch, bound by its egg’s unbroken shell. Children boiled alive have no other option than to desublimate.

Existence solidifies…

…not unlike ulceration.

“What are you talking about, Patchouli?”

“Death, Remilia.”

(pp. 134-135)

“What are you talking about?” indeed…

I doubt anyone would read that passage for the first time and respond with, “Exactly! That’s so on point! I was just thinking the same thing!” If they do, they’re either being sarcastic, or trying to play themselves off as some elite (idiotic) intelligentsia. Patchouli can say “Death” like it is some sort of answer all she wants, but I still do not get it. I don’t even know how to read the word that comes just before the end! (It’s “ulceration”, I looked it up.)

However, setting aside the subject of understanding, I am sure that quite a few people out there will think the passage is at least interesting, or intriguing—and it is not necessarily the meaning of the passage that makes it so, but the rhythm, the conjured up images, how those images are connected, the ambiance created by the unfamiliar words, the lack of a distinct singular meaning, how that lacking diversifies readings, and so many other experimental excursions that rely on words for words’ sake, that—like Burgess asserts—could not survive in another medium.

When evaluating Umisawa’s writing, these aspects must not be ignored.

To be clear:

Up until this point, the argument that I am trying to make is not that “bad” or “extreme” or “experimental” writing should be praised simply because it is experimental. I am only arguing that such an axis of value exists, and that, whether by intention or not, Umisawa Kaimen’s works lend themselves to an evaluation on that axis.

Because of how Umisawa’s works are read and perceived, one must consider whether that work succeeds or fails according to those metrics. As for The Portrait of Legion, I would like to leave that determination up to the reader.

However, simply offering my honest opinion, without praising or denigrating the work: as much as it feels Umisawa is only writing for themselves, I find the prose fascinating—although the more I read the more I feel my stomach turned upside down. But I would not pin that feeling down to “bad writing” or even to the obtuseness of it, but to that feeling of getting pummelled with meaning that almost, but not quite makes sense, similar to the murkiness of meaning found in Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Still, as much as I keep saying “I do not understand,” at every twist and turn, I think it is time to touch on at least one thing I can say I understand: The characters of The Portrait of Legion, especially Patchouli, clearly are written with meta-self-awareness in mind.

“A happening must be realized, for that signifies nothing less than a cultivation of the void.”

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

“Even so the man continues to fantasize, of girls dying blissfully. Yes, only for that purpose—for that itself is a happening. A happening must be realized, for that signifies nothing less than a cultivation of the void.”

“We exist. However, that existence is nothing more than a cycle locked in a loop of us all. By repeating our acts we give those acts meaning. By creating in a mutual environment we exist not as one but as an aggregation.”

“This story.”

“I am legion, for we are inflated self-consciousness. I am legion, for we are many.”

All of these lines and phrases level self-referential criticism not only at the novel as a whole, but at the entire ecosystem of Touhou derivative works, and they repeat and carry on throughout the novel as an undercurrent, not unlike a pedal tone, serving as one of the story’s few cohesive elements.

Therefore, it is possible to read the work with that in mind, and possible to write a view centered on that aspect alone. However, I was unable to do so. It did not feel like the main point to emphasize, at least not in comparison to Umisawa’s writing itself.

That is why I focused on Umisawa’s writing style for this review, but I am not sure how it has turned out in the end. The review ended up longer than I expected and am frankly not confident anyone will make it to the end. I claim it to be a review of The Portrait of Legion, but I have hardly (if at all) touched on its contents, and do not feel that I can call myself a “good reader” when it comes to Umisawa’s works. I’ve only read three or four after all.

Furthermore, I get the feeling that Umisawa’s readers look for something more poetic than prosaic in a novel such as this… Therefore, from the perspective of Umisawa’s fans, this review come off as unsophisticated and unrefined.

  1. Chinese characters↩︎

  2. Vladimir Nabokov, among other readers, might disagree. He famously made students of his lectures on Ulysses track the progress of the characters on a map, and argued for an attention to concrete details.↩︎

  3. The kanji usage in this excerpt is reflected by the usage of less common word choices.↩︎

  4. I translated this sentence into an analog which matches the translation, but specifically the reviewer is talking about using kanji for words such as “this” and “that”, which is exceedingly rare in modern texts.↩︎

The Gymnopédies Never End (Gymnopedie ga Owaranai)

Download the e-book (PDF:JIS-B6) [here] for free!

(Use this link for a more updated version with some typos fixed: [link])

Support Us!

If you would like to support the author, please buy the original story (if you haven’t already) in Japanese [here] for 100 JPY. (Booth allows for an extra “boost” to be sent as well).

If you would like to support me, please use this [link] to donate. (If you include “Gymnopedie” in the donation message I will send half of the amount received to Umisawa.)

If you happen to be in Kyoto, the full text of Gymnopedie ga Owaranai is being re-released in print as part of ジムノペディが終わらない-Re:Medianoid- at the Cafe Terrace event today (11/17) at 部-27 for 800 JPY.


Secret Sealing Club members Usami Renko and Maribel Hearn visit an abandoned amusement park, seemingly as part of their usual activities, but Renko cannot shake the feeling that something is controlling her. When a strange girl—or thing—invites them on a ride she calls “The Circus” Renko is forced to confront the forces that drive us all mad.

Vita Sexualice’s seminal 2011 short story, The Gymnopédies Never End, will be sure to turn your mind and your stomach as you search for answers, even after you are done, to the parasitic nature of life.

Content Warning:
(Mild) Depictions of non/dubiously-consensual sex, suicide (aftermath only) and murder, with a touch of cannibalism and body horror.

Image Song:

Don’t forget to check out RD-Sounds’ tribute to the story!
“捧げられたイメージ/Sasagerareta Image” [lyrics]

In lieu of an afterword:

First of all, I would like to thank Umisawa Kaimen for their support. When I got the green-light to go ahead and translate Vita-Sexualice’s doujin novels I was ecstatic. It took a while to get to this point, but I’m happy to share the un-healing. I probably would never have translated this story (and others) if not for a minor stroke, seizures and considerable other brain wreckage, but deep dives into the stories and hacking away at the translations really helped me, so it’s weird these things work out sometimes.

Jane Does is still in the works! Expect it!

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.”

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]