#winged death

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

A Gift of Death (2023, oil on panel) - Kremena Chipilova

[fatchance]

Mug shot.

[howard-phillips-hatecraft]

I would like to complain about my least favorite Lovecraft work: Winged Death. (Technically Winged Death was co-written by H. P. Lovecraft and Hazel Heald, but if he was a co-writer then he was involved enough to earn some of the blame.)

Winged Death takes place in Africa (mostly near Uganda, though it ends in South Africa). It is, unsurprisingly, racist, but so is pretty much everything Lovecraft was ever involved in. More important for this rant, Winged Death asks the question, "What would be worse than death?" and answers, "Being turned into a fly."

I don't know about the rest of you, but if my choices were, "Die," or, "Get to live a bit longer, but as a fly," I think I'd happily take the fly option. I mean, at minimum I'd gain the ability to fly (kind of in the name), which is definitely better than dying. Surviving on rotting pieces of meat doesn't sound great, but that's because I'm currently a human. As a fly I'd probably think it was great!

And the worst part is that the story largely ignores the actually horrifying topic that provides the means for fly-ification: protracted, painful death by disease. See, in Winged Death there are these biting flies related to the tsetse fly that can give people this terrible fever. Death by the fever is a slow, involved process that sounds incredibly unpleasant and ends in paralysis. There's a cure, but since the disease is fairly obscure chances are if you get the fever then you're dead. The story touches on the horrifying nature of slowly dying from this fever, but its main focus is on the fact that if you die from the fever your consciousness is transferred to the fly that bit you (assuming the fly is still alive).

To make the wasted potential worse, the main character actually uses these flies as biological weapons! His final goal is to kill his rival, an entomologist back in North America, by sending him some infected flies labeled as harmless (which isn't the murder strategy I would have picked, but as a non-murderer I'm no expert). To get to that point, he spends a bunch of time experimenting on the locals, infecting people who trust him and then either letting them die or curing them as he pleases. He even uses the life-debt one of them owes him from curing the fever to catch more flies! That's horrifying! That's something the story could have worked with! But no, instead Winged Death frames becoming a fly as the real horror. In case you don't believe me, this is from the second paragraph of Winged Death:

"On the floor, uncomfortably evident amidst the stifling summer heat, was the body of a dead man—but this was not what the four were afraid of. Their glances wandered from the table, on which lay a curious assortment of things, to the ceiling overhead, across whose smooth whiteness a series of huge, faltering alphabetical characters had somehow been scrawled in ink; and every now and then Dr. Van Keulen would glance half-furtively at a worn leather blank-book which he held in his left hand. The horror of the four seemed about equally divided among the blank-book, the scrawled words on the ceiling, and a dead fly of peculiar aspect which floated in a bottle of ammonia on the table." (emphasis added by me)

0/10, would not recommend

[captainpirateface]

[shawnfreki]

Artwork by Dyllan Samuelson.

[swforester]

Here lyes the body of Capt Samuel Terry who deceased on Jan 2 1730 in the 70th year of his age. So he came to America sometime in the late 1600s. Wow that's a ways back. A winged skull decorates this early 18th century grave which of course was commonly called a death's head. This is probably one of the oldest stones here.

Enfield Street Cemetery 11/6/20

[medicus-mortem]

@braverygained​ asked: majestic burb, but with bat wings ! 

Terrible? Transformation Curses

Majestic birb: Now the muse has the power of flight with their own set of wings. Are they fluffy bird wings, leathery bat wings, or buzzing insect wings?

   All it takes is a touch and their foe can change everything, they don’t even have to touch skin. Usopp shouts a warning but it is too late. Law feels the push against his back, specifically on a shoulder blade. He stumbles forwards, a snarl on his lips as he turns to slice the fool to pieces, but then the pain starts.

   Law gasps, eyes going wide. He feels his shoulder blades buckle beneath his skin. They bulge and shift, pushing as if something needs to escape. Law doubles over, dropping to his knees as the pain becomes agony. Kikoku falls from his fingers, his Room vanishing with a splutter as his focus breaks. His shoulders twist at unnatural angles, body contorting to accommodate this change. His fingers claw at the ground, teeth clenched shut to fight off the scream.

   A sickening crack, bone breaking and warping beneath his skin. His back arches as a sharp talon pierces out from his shoulder blade, cutting through his shirt. An agonised scream tears from his throat and malformed wings burst from his back, forcing him to straighten with the pull of it. His shirt is ripped from his torso, shreds of it accompanying the torn skin and flesh hanging from the black, glistening additions.

   His pain continues for a few moments longer as the wings elongate and twist into shape, growing the leather-like membrane bats have to help them fly. It feels like an eternity to Law but in a matter of minutes those wings are complete. Law once more finds himself on his hands and knees, the pain ebbing as these new appendages settle around him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

   Hat plucked from the ground where it fell. The Surgeon of Death pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hat as he moves his new wings, experimenting with their motion. Interesting how the control is near instantaneous.

   “Wouldn’t call this a detriment,” he says, voice a little strained. He places his hat back on his head, a smirk sliding onto his features. Those massive, menacing wings spread out behind him, casting a terrifying shadow. “Sure, my back tat is ruined and I'll never be able to wear shirts again but ... I like it.”

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

Humana Fragilitas (1656) - Salvator Rosa