#It's people commiting heinous crimes in the name of reaching something that cannot be reached that are bad

[lady12maiden]

a lot of people (not really alot, but like, I've seen posts saying this) say that a perfect world be unfulfilling & it's for the best that life has suffering because we'd all be meaninglessly be happy in boring fake bliss but at the same time, if a 'perfect' world would be unfulfilling, then how would it be perfect? Perfection is without flaw and unfulfillment is one of them.

OR would it be boring & unfulfilling because we are beings that have evolved and adapted into a fundamentally imperfect universe and being brought into a hypothetical perfect would drive people mad. Because problems in our own universe help us alot, they help us grow and humble as much as problems are horrid they can also be, in a weird way, uh... helpful? Like problems still are not 'good' but they can help... Sometimes

[nautiscarader]

Wendip Week 7 - telling the truth

I was unable to come up with a story directly about not being able to lie, so I decided to put a spin on it.

(Ao3)

===

As the thunder rolled through the dark, gloomy skies outside the cozy wooden house, the young woman standing by the windows felt the weather couldn't have been more appropriate for the situation. She turned around and began walking back and forth past the living room, where four other people have gathered, each of them following her with intense stares.

Knowing she cannot delay this any longer, Mabel grunted and addressed her brother and his family.

- So, you are wondering why I have gathered you all there... - Not really - Dipper's son interrupted her - You asked us to sit here so you can do your detective spiel. - Was that from a movie, or something? - Emma continued - Didn't you guys have a cartoon where you were younger, or- - DUCK-TECTIVE WAS NOT A CARTOON!

The girl shrieked when Mabel slammed her fist against the wooden coffee table, her eyes filled with anger.

- IT WAS A MASTERPIECE OF STORYTELLING AND ANIMATION, AND IT IS A SHAME IT WAS CANCELLED AFTER ONLY NINE SEASONS!

Seeing the sheer terror in both Emma and Tyrone's eyes, as well as a bit of it in Dipper's and Wendy's, Mabel leaned back, fixed her coat, and resumed her act in much more subdued tone.

- So, as I was about to answer, I gathered you all here because I'm afraid that there is a force out there, ready to destroy your family. Our... family... - she spoke under her breath, looking ominously into the raging storm outside - I am talking of course...

She turned towards the four and eyed them with icy-cold, piercing gaze.

- ...about distrust! The one thing that can break even the toughest of bonds between the loved ones. Husband and wife, mother and daughter, brother and sister...

Mabel pointed to each of the members of Pines family, disregarding Dipper's and Wendy's confused stares that appeared on their faces when Mabel jumped onto the table.

- Tonight I have been contacted by a daughter of yours, who would like to remain anonymous...

The three other members of Pines family all turned towards Emma, eyeing her with accusatory looks.

- ...regarding a case of missing cookies!

Mabel dramatically revealed an empty jar she has been holding underneath her oversized, brown coat. Wendy, Dipper and Tyrone let out a collective groan.

- Okay, in my defence, I didn't know what she was gonna do - Emma quickly explained herself. - Mabel, do you really think it's necessary? - Dipper asked his sister - Yes, brother. - she turned sharply towards him - In fact, your reluctance suggests I should start with you...

She grabbed a flash-light and shone its beam directly into Dipper's eyes, making him cower and cover his eyes.

- Mabel! - Admit it, brother! - she leaned against him - It was you! everyone knows you have a sweet tooth! You can ask me! I can ask me! I have whole life of evidence against you...

She turned towards Wendy, whose lips curled into a smirk.

- Yeah, she's got a point there. - Come on! You know I'm trying to control my weight ever since we stopped running away from monsters on a weekly basis. - Dipper grumbled back - Besides, what kind of parent would I be, if I didn't follow the same rules that we set for our kids? - Interesting... - Mabel pondered for a while. - Then the next in line is... Wendy!

Mabel jumped in place once more, pointing at her sister-in-law with vindictive glare.

- How could you betray our trust? I had you for a friend all these years... - she spoke dramatically, her voice quivering with pretence emotions. - Mabel, you do know I don't like sweets that much. And I especially wouldn't eat a whole jar of them. - she rolled her eyes. - Again, bad role model for the kids. - The kids!

Mabel turned her attention to the two youngsters sitting next to each other.

- After your father, you are the most suspicious ones here... After all, all kids like their sweets... - Wow, we are honoured to be interrogated by the most brilliant of minds here. - Dipper rolled his eyes. - Hey, not your turn. - Mabel barked back - I'm gonna come back to you.

She pointed her beam at the red-haired boy.

- Tyrone, we all know you stay up late, don't you? Those late night gaming or study sessions make you hungry, don't they? - Well... sometimes... - Ah-ha! And here we have, an irrefutable proof that it was you, Tyrone, who ate the chocolate chip cookies! - Except we don't. - Emma added quickly.

At once, Mabel looked down at his sister, who interrupted her speech.

- We don't. He doesn't like chocolate chip cookies. He prefers hazelnut. - Is that true? - Yeah. I-I thought you knew. - the red-headed boy shied away.

Mabel scratched her chin, contemplating her next move.

- Hm. Now that I think about it, there is one more potentially guilty person in the room... - Mabel turned around, only to spin back and point at Emma - It was you! - Me? - Emma flinched - I was the one, who complained about lack of cookies! - Precisely! - Mabel spoke triumphantly - By drawing attention to it, you thought you could absolve yourself from any suspicions. You thought you could fool your own aunt, young lady, but alas! Your plan has been foiled... - Yeah, it has. Cos I wasn't even there.

Once again, Mabel has been thrown off balance by her suspect and looked at the cross-armed young girl.

- I've spent the whole day with you and aunt Pacifica! - she roared - We came late, I went to the kitchen and that's when I found out someone ate all the cookies. That was less than hour ago! - Well... looks like we have an impasse...

With a half-defeated expression on her face, Mabel turned around and began circling the family. And though her antics were over-the-top, every person in the room followed her, and listened to her words, as she clearly had an ace in the sleeve of her sweater.

- One of you have committed a heinous crime, yet no one of you would admit it... And this is why I brought this!

With a sudden turn, Mabel slammed something onto the coffee table, and only when she uncovered a box-like object, covered in vertical and horizontal labyrinthine-like patterns that began glowing as soon as light began shining on it. And while the kids were surprised and naturally gravitated towards it, Wendy and Dipper were utterly shocked.

- What the heck, Mabel? - Mabel! Where did you get it? - Oh, last time I was in California I might have visited a certain family that had magical connections... - Mabel smiled - And honestly, Star didn't really need this anymore, I mean last time they interrogated someone with it, and that was it... - Mabel, this is too much - Dipper interrupted her - This is Truth-Telling Box, I'm not gonna let you use it, especially with kids! This thing nearly destroyed those, who used it, because Star was too afraid to admit she has a crush on Marco! And honestly, I think you are making a mountain out of molehill. - Okay, enough!

Suddenly, Wendy's usually calm voice interrupts the quarrel that was about to engulf the twins. Mabel and Dipper looked at her, and after a while of uneasiness, Wendy spoke out, in a slightly quieter voice.

- Alright, I admit, it was me. - Whaaaat? - Emma and Tyrone exclaimed - You ate all the cookies? - But you said it yourself you don't like sweets that much. - Yeah... I usually don't...

Wendy looked away for a moment, and the rest watched as her cheeks turn crimson almost matching her auburn hair, while her lips curl into a soft smile.

- But you didn't notice the pickled jalapeños were missing as well.

She looked at Dipper, and as she spoke, his eyes grow wide and he dashed towards her, embracing her with a tight, long hug.

- Why didn't you tell me sooner? - he asked with a tears in his eyes - I wanted to be a surprise, especially for kids, you dork.

When he let her go, Mabel joined them with an even more expressive and tear-filled hug, leaving the two kids utterly dumbfounded.

- Uh, can anyone explain us what is going on? - Emma exclaimed - And why jalapeños are important all of a sudden?

The three adult chuckled, and Wendy reached to embrace her two kids, giving each of them a soothing kiss.

- You see, it's a bit of an old wives' tale, but it is sometimes true. If a woman has sudden taste swings, it's a sign she might be pregnant...

Only now, the siblings exchanged stunned looks and swarmed their mother, exchanging cries of joy. The two spoke over each other, asking if their mother knew if it was a boy or a girl, and already coming up with names, while Wendy tried to calm them down.

- Alright, alright, kids, it's still a long time until we get a new Pine in our tree. - she chuckled - Why don't we start planning on the details tomorrow, huh?

She turned towards Mabel and Dipper, watching her with the kids still by her side.

- And yeah, sorry for not telling you.   - That's alright, that kind of surprises are the sweetest.

Dipper reached and kissed his wife, a gesture that for once did not result with their children sounding like they were about to puke. Dipper broke off the kiss and waved at Mabel, so she could join the enormous Pine hug-pile, and she eagerly jumped into the mix, enjoying the warmth and comfort of her extended family. At least until Dipper spoke out.

- Seriously, though, Mabel, what the heck was with bringing a MAGIC ARTIFACT to find missing cookies? - Oh, relax, don;t act like you haven't done something equally weird. - THAT IS TRUTH - spoke the Truth-Telling Box.

[youreawizardharr]

A Guide to the Chapman's Traditions and Trademarks

An event I shall be participating in. Get ready to have my trash in your dash. I still have other things to work on, so look forward to that. This time I will pace myself and not work on a million things at once like I have.

Image used was edited by Tseon.

Tagging: @cradlesonanetwork

Eirene | Arion | Chapman History | Andrasta

Warning: I cannot use the Read More option, please forgive my long post in your dash.

Side Note: I hadn't realized this event happened last month, so excuse me for doing this a month later. I hope this is okay

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1. Beauty Mark

Anyone born into the Chapman family will inherit the beauty mark that is always seen on the left-hand corner of their mouth. It never appears in any other spot on their face. This is the only visible trademark anyone can easily distinguish a Chapman.

This gene seems to be a dominant trait. For instance, Eirene, despite being conceived by someone from the Land of Reason, inherited it from her father. Even her daughter, Andrasta, inherited this same beauty mark.

2. Angelic Magic

Those who possess this ancient magic are held in high regard. The Chapmans consider this as a "rite of passage." The family holds a ball in their honor, whether they permitted other noble families to attend is uncertain. However, Eirene was born years after the Chapman Massacre, so she never received this honor after showing signs of magic use.

The Archon Seal: the seal on their upper back is the proof that these members can harness this powerful magic. Unlike ordinary magic, Angelic magic doesn't chip away the user's lifespan, which is the very reason the Magic Tower was interested in studying this magic and wanted to conduct experiments.

Angelic magic stems from the Grace of the Angel within the user. These Angels can fall from Grace, most likely due to their host. For example, Arion committed a heinous crime that involved murdering the Chapman family, their blood stained his hands, thus his Angel fell from Grace, becoming a Fallen Angel in the process.

3. Grandeur Balls

The Chapmans always invited nobles from all across Cradle to attend balls they hosted, regardless of where they come from. Their fatal mistake is inviting the head of the Magic Tower and his only son, Amon Jabberwock. The two forged an alliance with the previous King of Hearts, as well as Hephaestus and his own son, Arion Chapman. This lead to their early demise.

The balls the Chapmans hosted were always exquisite, always living up to the expectations of the elites. They relished their standing in society, but were never ones to flaunt what they had. When Erza took the title and throne after the death of his father, he continued hosting these balls to honor the Chapman family name. Eirene was far too young to remember the one she attended as a toddler, nor the fact that she had already met Ray, Lancelot, Jonah, Luka, Sirius, Fenrir and Harr. The only one who suspects the toddler was Eirene is Sirius.

4. Raw Talents

The Chapmans weren't talent crazed as the nobles from the Red Territory, as they were more interested in the Magic that runs in the family. However, most members proved to be skillful in the arts, such as playing instruments, jousting, singing, painting, etc.

Erza Chapman was skilled in everything, but he wasn't one to boast about his efforts. After the Chapman Massacre, he was well known for his handyman skill. People of Cradle appreciated everything he did for them. What Arion lacked in raw talent, he made up for by mastering Angelic magic, advancing himself in the Telesmic stages.

5. Magic Competitions

Rather than focus on raw talent in the arts, the Chapmans placed their efforts on honing their magic. Once a year, they hosted games for all of Cradle to participate in. However, one game, in particular, is what they're most famous for: Magic Competitions. People who were born with magic were allowed to enter, regardless of what their status was or where they came from. Arion Chapman was considered a prodigy by the Chapmans, and was revered for how powerful his magic was.

6. Holiday Celebrations

The holidays were very important to the Chapman family. The most notable ones they celebrated were Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years. They hosted extravagant dinner parties during these exact holidays, being all about family.

Regardless of their royal status, the Chapmans never thought they were better than anyone else. They often lowered tax rates, something Hephaestus didn't approve of, during the holiday season as a gift from them to their people. Erza would buy dinner and ingredients for unfortunate families, or he would join them if they refused his offer.

7. Birthdays

Birthdays were celebrated for intermediate family members of the royal family. Only they were permitted to attend these private parties. When he was younger, Arion spent the last birthday he celebrated in the Red Army Headquarters. Ever since the Chapman Massacre, he doesn't celebrate his birthday anymore. He's repulsed by this day.

In her case, Eirene attends balls that the Red Army arranges for her birthday to continue the Chapman tradition. Loki always manages to convince Harr to go as her date (much to his embarrassment). Lancelot always ALWAYS grants permission for the Black Army to attend for Eirene's sake.

8. Wielding Holy Artifacts

The Chapmans who were born with Angelic magic weren't able to advance themselves in the Telesmic stages, thus were unable to conjure the Holy Artifacts their Angels wielded. The ancestor of the family was the first to accomplish this feat and save Cradle.

The second was Erza, who advanced himself to the Gnosis stage, conjuring the Holy Sword Excalibur. However, he never had the chance to complete the Gnosis Overload stage for Amon extracted the Angel within him, ultimately killing him in the process. Arion mastered all of the Telesmic stages, conjuring the Holy Artifact that his Angel wielded. People have often gossiped that Erza could have easily defeated him in battle, which angered Arion even more. Eirene was able to accomplish this feat with the help of the two armies and the neutral party. It took her longer to advance through the Telesmic stages due to lack of experience, but she was able to achieved the Gnosis stage before her battle with Arion.

9. Chapman Emblem

Emblem of the Chapman family resembles the Telesmic stages of the Archon Seal. From the time of their ancestor up until the generation Erza was born into, the Chapman emblem has stayed the same. Eirene made the decision to keep the emblem as it is.

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Additional Information

Eirene and Arion have nothing in common. Neither of them knew the other existed until Amon informed him of a mysterious girl with the surname of Chapman. Arion has wanted to rid the world of the Chapman name, thus he commanded Amon to make a secret meeting and force Eirene to attend, so he can meet her without the armies interfering.

Upon their first meeting, Arion physically tormented Eirene. Her emotional and physical distress caused her magic to spiral out of control but Arion easily subdued her.

In the Garden above the Civic Center, Arion threatened to slaughter Harr right before her eyes after deducing that she was in love with the wizard, thus her magic went berserk and she very nearly destroyed the entire building and surrounding areas. It took Harr to reach her with his voice, bringing her back to consciousness. Eirene refused to let him go.

[jlndlphk]

On Empathy for those who do not Deserve it

I suspect this is not going to be a popular post.

In light of the recent scandal involving now former Disney Channel actor and director Stoney Westmoreland, who has been accused of attempting to solicit sex from an undercover cop whom he believed to be a thirteen-year-old boy, I would like to talk about empathy.

First, let be me clear about what I not going to do.  I am not going to try to justify or excuse Westmoreland’s actions, because they are unjustifiable and inexcusable.  I am not going to preach to you about how you should feel about this situation.  What I am going to do is talk about how it is possible to have empathy for someone who doesn’t deserve it and why I personally cannot help but to do so.  If for any reason you feel that you cannot even engage with the idea of having empathy for a would-be child molester, I will not in any way hold that against you, but I will ask you to stop reading and refrain from commenting on what you have read so far.

One of my favorite novels is Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.  I am aware that to bring that novel up in and of itself is to open an entirely separate can of worms, since Card is a well-known homophobe. As a gay man, I certainly don’t condone his views on that subject, or really many of his views on any subject, but I cannot deny that Ender’s Game is, perhaps ironically, one of the most powerful treatises on empathy that I have even come across.  

The titular character involved as the battle against an alien race known as the Formics which has already invaded Earth twice and massacred thousands of people both times.  Almost nothing about the Formics, not least their motivation is, understood.  Thus, they have become a pure and simple monster, something for humanity to hate freely and without second thoughts.

Fourteen-year-old Ender ends up unwittingly committing “xenocide,” the authors ad-hoc term for the destruction of an entire sentient race.  He is celebrated as the hero of humankind, but feels guilty nonetheless.  Eventually, he discovers a single survivor of the Formics, a pregnant Hive Queen, who reveals to him the reason for the invasions, and he resolves to both restore their reputation and to find a home for this survivor to restart her race. To the first end, he anonymously pens a thin volume based on what the Hive Queen has told him which subsequently becomes a best-seller.  Despite the fact that it is interpreted as a work of fiction, it so moves the people that as Ender embarks on near-lightspeed travel from planet to planet in order to escape political turmoil back on Earth, his reputation slowly but surely changes from humanity’s savior to a despicable war criminal.  Ender has become the monster, and the Formics an innocent victim.

This gets the heart of the issue that Card, despite his flaws, sheds a spotlight on so skillfully.  When we are faced with a person committing a heinous and despicable act, especially if we have previously viewed that person positively, or at least neutrally, our natural reaction is to declare that person a monster.  The actions are evil, and therefore the person who has committed them must be evil as well.  Card also shows how the winds of time so often reverse course so that heroes are declared villains and villains declared victims.

There is much food for thought here.  But the most memorable quote from the novel, at least for me, is this line from the Ender: “I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves.”

Have you ever stopped to wonder why we are so quick to declare certain people monsters?  I think that quote illustrates that we do so in order to avoid understanding them. Because if we understood them, we would not so easily be able to separate ourselves from them.

I am a Buddhist, and I would like to relate a story that a teacher of mine once told me about the Dalai Lama when he visited the former concentration camp at Auschwitz.  Upon reaching the entrance gate, the Dalai Lama suddenly knelt down and clasped his hands in silent prayer.  Later on, one of the monks accompanying him asked him what he had been praying about. The Dalai Lama responded, “I was praying that I should never be involved in perpetrating such an atrocity.”

I’ll bet that’s not what you were expecting.  I know it certainly wasn’t what I was expecting the first time I heard it. Why would he think that such a thing was even possible for him?  Does the Dalai Lama harbor some secret genocidal tendencies?

No, of course he does not.  Rather he has recognized one of the teachings that all Buddhists strive to understand and embody, namely the understanding that there is no such thing as a good person or an evil person, merely good actions and evil actions, and the consequences therein. Each and every one of us is, given the right circumstances, capable of making heroic sacrifices and committing depraved crimes.

If you truly reflect, there may be something about yourself that if others found out about might lead them to declare you a monster.  And if there truly isn’t, then I guarantee there is something that I find personally even scarier: The potential to do such things.

That’s why I cannot consider Stoney Westmoreland a monster despite the fact that I can and do consider his actions to be monstrous.  Because despite the fact that I don’t want to believe it, I know that I, too, am capable of monstrous actions.  We all are, whether we are capable of admitting it or not.

But the lesson here isn’t to raise our esteem for Stoney Westmoreland or anybody else who has committed atrocities.  After all, despite loving the Formics as they love themselves, Ender ultimately destroys them (save the one Hive Queen he is unaware of at the time), albeit unwittingly. In turn, Westmoreland deserves to punished to the full extent the law provides.

No, the lesson is about ourselves.  Because if we call Westmoreland a monster, we implicitly deny that we are capable of monstrous acts, and that is often how they happen.  I’m absolutely sure that Westmoreland convinced himself that what he was doing wasn’t wrong or at least not that bad, and we are perfectly capable of doing the same.

If you are still un-swayed, I will offer up one more perspective.  Many people have been talking about the effect this must be having on the cast, but most people, including me in several pervious posts, have focused on the sense of betrayal and disgust they must presumably feel as a result of these revelations.  But I implore you to look at this from their perspective: try to imagine if Westmoreland was a great friend of yours, someone you had worked with for several years.  Given that context, do you think you would so easily be able to dismiss him a monster, separate from you in every way? Westmoreland also has a family, including a son in his twenties.  How is that poor boy supposed to feel about this?

This is one of those cases where the difference between empathy and sympathy is critically important.  You don’t need to feel sorry for the man, although I admit that, seeing this as partially a mental health issue, I do feel a bit of sympathy for his internal issues, even though they are absolutely no excuse for his external behavior.  The only thing I suggest you try to feel is empathy, not to exonerate or lessen his actions, but to try to ensure that this doesn’t happen again.

I know this is a tough topic.  I don’t expect everyone to agree with me.  If you’ve made it this far, please feel free to comment with whatever opinions you might have.  Dissent is welcomed and encouraged, but rudeness and abuse are not.

[mind-of-a-tool-heart-of-a-girl]

@skullheist As promised, after school Peko made her way to Shibuya and the arcade. She kept adjusting her shinai shoulder strap, almost subtly making it wave as a signal in case the person the Phantom Thieves sent was behind her somewhere. She didn't bother hiding her hair or her eyes, or even really disguising herself; it was amazing what people would ignore when a person made themselves look busy. Peko knew how to blend into a crowd even with her odd looks. She ducked into the alley spotting a tall figure, face hidden by the hoodie. She understood the need for secrecy. She was always operating similarly after all. How strange that she was so comfortable with this. Perhaps because some yakuza business meetings were like this. She glanced at the note, a screencap of her letter to the Phantom Thieves and recognised her words. Was it just her or did this person sound vaguely familiar? Hm... Nope. Just her imagination. She nodded. "Yes that's mine. I won't push. I have no desire to anger the Phantom Thieves or be discovered doing this." She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. With a few taps and swipes, she was able to pull up a picture of her target. The man was dark eyed and strong jawed, looked like a seasoned fighter and the photo showed the top of his kendo uniform. Dark hair, kept very short on my made his jaded gaze look darker. "This is the man, Jounouchi Kageyama. Mid forties. Runs a kendo school here in Tokyo and has several other branches under his name around the city. He is also a contact for a yakuza clan. He was hired to train me privately so I could protect and serve the clan's heir. His methods are... questionable. I thought he would only ever use them on me but I have seen evidence of him using them on some promising young talent at the local kendo school." She flicked to the next image, showing a younger student looking a little glassy eyed after leaving his office. Peko's own gaze lowered a little, her voice becoming soft and sorrowful. "The technique was supposed to bind my loyalty to the clan... not that I needed it. They did raise me after all. He hides subliminal messages in various meditation tracks. Over the years, he's gotten very good at what he does. The meditation is a sham, he just needs a relaxed open mind to mould for the sake of the clan. No one has realised and this is the only case I know of. I cannot stand against him, I would lose my position and my home and possibly even my life. Besides, it's too late for me; I've been warped and molded for too long. My sense of self; my identity... I don't have one. I am a tool to the clan and it's heir. But I cannot allow someone else to fall to this. My classmates, my young master, they are working tirelessly to help me be human again. I can't stand to see someone else losing their humanity and free will to this... this monster!" The more spoke, the louder and more passionate her words became until she realised this and took a breath. A finger rose to her face as she felt something damp running down her cheek. "O-oh... I'm getting emotional... the young master would be proud of me." She returned her gaze, sad and desperate, to the figure's face and put her phone back in her school bag. "Please... pass that information onto the Phantom Thieves. This monster cannot continue to commit such heinous crimes."

[pennsylvaniaprelawland-blog]

A Look Back At Roper v. Simmons

Calvin Wirfel, Dickinson College Class of 2021

January 31, 2019

The status of juvenile offenders in the criminal justice system is often murky and unclear. In the vast majority of cases, those under the age of 18 are tried as minors and are processed through the juvenile criminal justice system. The juvenile criminal justice system differs significantly from the adult system, as it places more emphasis on rehabilitation and education [2]. This is aimed at granting offenders a better chance to move past their crimes and back into society. While the juvenile criminal justice system certainly provides an opportunity for minors to rehabilitate, often the offense or collection of offenses are just too serious to allow them this benefit. In these cases, minors are ‘tried as adults’ at the discretion of a judge. They do not face charges in a juvenile court, but rather in the adult criminal justice system. Many factors contribute to the judge’s decision, such as the age of the minor, the seriousness of the offense, past criminal history and the brutality of the crime [1]. This has led to many juvenile offenders facing penalties as harsh as execution, the most recent being the execution of Scott Allen Hain in 2003. Hain was 17 at the time he committed capital murder and 32 at the time of his execution [3]. Situations like Hain’s have raised concerns among both the public and those in the legal community over the ethics of juvenile sentencing. Starting with Roper v. Simmons in 2005, there have been several landmark cases on the matter to date and it seems as though the legal system has attempted to address the ethical misgivings of harsh juvenile punishment.

On September 8, 1993 in Fenton, Missouri, Christopher Simmons, along with a younger accomplice broke into the house of a 46-year-old woman named Shirley Crook. With the intent of both robbery and murder, the two boys cased the residence, bound their victim with duct tape and threw her into the back of a minivan. They drove to a nearby railway bridge and after gagging the woman, dropped her off the side and into the river where she was found the next day [5]. The crime was done without passion, and premeditation was all but obvious. His accomplice testified not only that the murder of Ms. Crook was planned with precise care, but that Simmons boasted about the crime afterwards. The premeditation of the crime ensured a capital murder conviction, but it was its brutality which caused jurors to seek the death penalty.

After numerous appeals and subsequent denials, Simmon’s case eventually reached the Supreme Court. At the time, it had already been decided in Thompson v. Oklahoma that that “our standards of decency do not permit the execution of any offender under the age of 16 at the time of the crime.” [6] While this was the case, several years later in Stanford v. Kentucky it was reiterated that the same standards of decency cited in Thompson did not forbid the execution of juvenile offenders over the age of 15 but under 18. [6]. It was in Roper v. Simmons that this would be challenged.

Justice Kennedy delivered the opinion of the court; that the death penalty was to be probated in cases where the offender was under the age of 18 at the time of the crime [6]. Kennedy cited the 8th amendment in the first portion of his argument, much in the same way it was used in Thompson. Kennedy stated that “The prohibition against “cruel and unusual punishments,” like other expansive language in the Constitution, must be interpreted according to its text, by considering history, tradition, and precedent, and with due regard for its purpose and function in the constitutional design.” [6] Kennedy asserted that our society had reached a consensus on the issue of executing juveniles, saying that though it was not as rapid as in cases abolishing the death penalty for the mentally retarded “we still consider the change (in societies views) from Stanford to this case to be significant.” [6].

In the second portion of his argument, Justice Kennedy echoed sentiment from past cases; that the death penalty should only apply to a narrow category of offenders convicted of society’s most heinous crimes. He used this precedent to insist that “Three general differences between juveniles under 18 and adults demonstrate that juvenile offenders cannot with reliability be classified among the worst offenders “. For the first difference Kennedy points out something obvious to most people, that in general minors lack the maturity of full-grown adults. He cited several studies, including one indicating that juveniles are most often overrepresented in many forms of reckless behavior. He also argued that this claim is already baked into our laws saying, “In recognition of the comparative immaturity and irresponsibility of juveniles, almost every State prohibits those under 18 years of age from voting, serving on juries, or marrying without parental consent.” [6].

For the second difference, Kennedy again used psychological studies to justify something that could be considered common knowledge. In this case it was that youth are more susceptible to negative influences, like peer pressure and a need for acceptance. The study he cited found that “minors, [juveniles] lack the freedom that adults have to extricate themselves from a criminogenic setting” and thus lack the culpability of an adult offender.” [6] Without this culpability, the death penalty is without ethical standing and cannot be applied.

The third difference Kennedy cites is the lack of a stable personality, and the fact that the “personality traits of juveniles are more transitory” [6] meaning that juveniles lack the character and self-conception necessary for a conviction such as the death penalty. He informs the reader to examine E. Erikson, Identity: Youth and Crisis (1968), and concludes that “These differences render suspect any conclusion that a juvenile falls among the worst offenders.” thus disallowing any justification for the use of the death penalty for such offenders.

The use of the 8th amendment along with the citation of studies highlighting the differences between adult offenders and juveniles was enough to justify overruling Stanford and eliminating the option of the death penalty for those who committed their crime while below the age of 18. This ruling has had far reaching implications, as it not only cancelled the execution of over 70 offenders but prevented countless others from ever being placed on death row. The ruling is still with us today and was only the first of a series of landmark cases handling contentious issues involving the status of juvenile offenders.

________________________________________________________________

[1] https://www.criminaldefenselawyer.com/resources/criminal-defense/juvenile/who-decides-try-a-juvenile-adult

[2] https://jlc.org/youth-justice-system-overview

[3] https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/execution-juveniles-us-and-other-countries

[4] http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A62584-2005Mar1.html

[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/17/magazine/too-immature-for-the-death-penalty.html

[6] https://supreme.justia.com/cases/federal/us/543/551/

[ecotone99]

[SP] Part 1- You Won't Believe What My Job Is

Date: Unknown

Time: 22:52-standard time

Location: Sunny Hillside State Psych Ward

The night air is warm and muggy due to the storm coming in from the east. You can see the dark, heavy storm clouds rolling from atop the hill, encroaching on the little town of Sunny Hillside. While others might dread or fear the downpour to come, Sunny siders embrace the weather with gratitude. The farmers do, at least. There has not been a drop of rain in the sunny town for three months, and the farmers at the base of the hill are starting to feel it. For the farmers, rain is not destruction, or a bad omen for the harvest to come. It is, in fact, the opposite. The growling, ominous storm will bring growth, abundance, and above all else life.

You stand at the peak of the hill, the small town of Sunny Hillside facing your back. In front of you is the state psych ward filled with all sorts of wonderful oddities, each brimming with chaos and ill conformity. It was tempting, really tempting. But you hold yourself back. Tonight’s undertaking is called Regina. Regina, you know, could be a bit of a wild card from what you could tell. In her life she committed many, many heinous crimes and was committed to Sunny Hillside once someone was finally able to catch her. What she was committed for you are not really sure. They don’t tell you that. You know it was bad enough to get her in a straight jacket and put is a nice padded room with no window and one very well-hidden door.

Regina was always mental, which is why she did whatever it is she did. A case of disbelief really. Born into a wealthy family, there was no possibility that something could be wrong with their perfect daughter. Their only heir to the family name, born only to retain their wealth. Regina was troubled indeed but time would prove just how much trouble she could be. It stared with one incident, then another. Their butler tripped down the stairs. An accident really it could have happened to anyone. Oh, and poor Spot. Mauled by a bear he was. Tragic really. It happened to be the only time a bear passed through Sunny Hillside and would be the only one ever, really. What a shame that poor Spot was the only one to see it. Tragic.

As time went on, Regina passed through boarding school, university, taking over whatever it is that her family had all their money from. Every couple of years, “accidents” surrounded our poor Regina. Heartbreak, death, destruction. Regina just couldn’t escape it, that’s just how she was. Mom and dad always told her she was so special, and she should never change. They would always chuckle when they said that. It must have been so funny, mom always had tears streaming down her face.

Of course, mom and dad came to and end as well. They were due for their accidents in time. When mom and dad finally had enough accidents to handle, they disinherited their dear Regina. Big mistake. Upon going to bed mom and dad suddenly lost their breath, never to return again. They say sleeping face down is dangerous. Who could’ve known it was deadly? But our Regina made a big mistake as well. She was vulnerable now. She had no one to protect her. Oh god, how was she supposed to explain why her parents haven’t left their bed in a week and why she never told anyone. People visited, asked about her parents? How is she supposed explain anything?

You can probably guess what happens next, right? This is how our dear Regina ended up at Sunny Hillside Psych Ward, clearly mentally unstable but dangerous non the less. You are not supposed to know this. They don’t like when you have a biased opinion about the assignments. But what are you to do when this information falls into your lap? Ignore it? Or embrace it?

The lamp post twitches bringing you out of your thoughts. You make your way into the ward. Automatic doors open before you as you embrace the scent of sanitizer and sterility. There’s not too much too see, really. A few fake potted plants frame the doors of two elevators on the right-hand side. Looking straight is a long corridor with hallways branching off to different wards. The emergency stairs are located at the end of the corridor, across from a seldom used water cooler. You pass by the front desk, waving your hand at the nurses busy with, what were they busy with? Oh yeah, nothing. At this time of night there are seldom visitors and only the prospect of a prison break keeps them awake. Security is stationed by the door in case an excited patient tries to check out earlier than intended. As you make your way, the nurses and guards pay no mind to you.

You make your way down the corridor to the stairs and ascend to your assignment. You count your step until you reach the wall. 33 steps. Same as always. To your left is the water cooler and to the right the stairs. You take a step and pluck a fresh cup from the holder and pour yourself a crisp, refreshing cup of water. Best to hydrate before an assignment. After discarding the cup, you turn to your right and start climbing the stairs.

The building has 12 floors plus a basement, and you are headed straight to the top. Elevators, great if you’re into that, but they are dirty and crowded. Not ideal for someone like yourself. You like the stairs, maintaining yourself in the shadows, away from prying eyes. A job like yours needs preparation, dedication, and time. Stairs give you two out of three. You have time to contemplate what you are about to go through. You can prepare your mind for the journey you will take with your assignment. The best part is, you have never run into anyone while taking the stairs to your assignments, so you are certain you will have no disturbances. Twelve flights will be just enough.

You start you climb, step after step, thinking about Regina. Where will she go once this is all over. Can she really be blamed for her actions when her parents never got her the help she needed? Does she know the extent of her actions and just how bad they were? You try to guess where she’ll end up, but you are stuck in an ethical dilemma. They will be able to forgive her and send her up. Right? Although, the things she did were pretty horrible. Maybe they’ll have no mercy at all, and she’ll go down. You enjoy guessing where your assignments will end up, but you can never be sure. They don’t tell you that either. Even after your job is done, it would mess with your unbiased opinion. You do think it’s fun to guess, though, if they end up upstairs or downstairs. Sometimes you get some insight where a couple of your assignments ended up. You’re usually able to pat yourself on the back for being right.

Stairs come and go, time ticks by, thoughts run through your head. You look at your watch. 10:52pm. You are making great time. You reach the landing of the twelfth floor and take in your surroundings. In front of you is the door to the corridor that will lead you to the patient’s rooms. Looking around, you kneel down to tie your lace that came undone after climbing all those flights stairs. You’re dressed in plain jeans and a casual shirt with a logo from a band that was popular in the 90’s but became cool to wear again because tragedy sells, and drugs sell tragedy. A chunky cardigan hangs off your shoulders and plain white trainers decorate your feet. These are the clothes you’ve been in since you stumbled upon this job. Most of your assignments think you look very welcoming. You have a kind look on your face, even when you don’t smile. The only odd part of your attire is the wide brimmed black hat you wear atop your head.

You make your way through the door and make a right following the lights of the corridor. Walking, one foot in front of the other brings you to dear Regina’s room. Room 12-018. You turn the knob and enter the room. There is a small bed in the middle of the room, a side table on one side of the bed, and a wooden chair to the other. You walk across to the chair and take a seat. To your back is a window, unable to open, looking out onto the town of Sunny Hillside. The storm clouds are painfully visible, waiting to release their burden. You pay no mind to the storm and focus on your task at hand, your assignment.

On the bed in front of you lay Regina. Last name is unnecessary, or so they tell you. Regina is not how you pictured in your mind. She has extremely long, black hair ending at the base of her waist. It is loose underneath her body, as if nobody has cut or brushed or braided it in the time she has been in the ward. Her skin is an ungodly pale, having not seen sunlight in years, glistening with sweat. Yes, sweat was drenching her from head to toe. What nobody knows is Regina is fighting for her life against pneumonia, not being treated because nobody knows she’s ill and, quite frankly, nobody cares. She was dying, suffocating to death, and nobody cares. Who would care about a psychopath whose dead parents hid her murders, then died at her own hand? Who would care about a murderer dying alone in a place where nurses and doctors are paid to pretend to treat them, when really it is just a purgatory between life and death? Who would care about dear Regina?

You grab Regina’s arm and begin her descent.

/

/

/

/

Regina opens her eyes. She realizes she’s standing in a gigantic train terminal. Grand Central Station. At least she thinks it’s Grand Central Station. She’s never seen it like this before, completely and unapologetically empty. She looks around for the sign of anyone or anything remotely close to normal. Frantically, she runs straight trying to find someone when a loud bell chimes. On the wall to her left where the train destinations and times are normally located is a gigantic flip clock. It reads 3:00:00. BOOM. 2:59:59. BOOM. 2:59:58. It’s not a clock at all but a countdown… But to what. Where is she? What is that clock counting down to? And why is it so loud? She covers her ears but cannot escape the sound of the BOOM BOOM BOOM she can’t help believing is counting down to something terrible. She crouches down and covers her hands over her ears to stop the god-awful booming. Regina gasps suddenly when she feels something touch her.

You grasp her arm gently but firm, warning her that you are present. She raises her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. To your surprise the person in front of you is not the same Regina that you saw sweating in the bed. She is wearing the same white medical gown but that is about the only similarity. No, this Regina is a small, scared child. A figment of what she once was. You expected something like this would happen. Rarely do villains keep their form when they are about to depart. It is a mechanism of sorts. One does not need to lie when they don’t have anything to hide. Regina is a monster. One that likes to hide under the bed.

You crouch down and look at her once innocent face, not fooled by the façade. You snap your fingers. The clock continues to count down but the booming stops. Regina is relieved. You help her to her feet and give her a warm embrace. It is your job, after all, to help assignments feel comfortable. The hug lingers for a while, as if dear Regina missed the sensation of human touch. After the embrace you look at each other. You raise your left arm and hold your watch up to the count down on the wall. Somehow, they are already in sync. You turn away, walking toward a corridor. Regina did not follow. Does she not get how this works? Well, some don’t pick up on things too quickly. You keep your feet planted and turn your top half about a quarter to the side, waving Regina to follow. She scurries to catch up with you. Once she is a few steps away you start walking slow enough for Regina to keep pace. Soon you are met with a dark walkway, leading you somewhere that is close to Regina’s heart. You hold hands. A wind blows both of your hair back, you are holding your hat closely to your head. You walk through the walkway together.

You are standing side by side in a well-lit room. At the far side of the wall is a small, circular window divided in four by two pieces of wood. The room is quite peculiar, to say the least. You find yourselves in an unfinished attic with a slanted roof, supported by beams of sturdy wood. The room was littered with antiques, mannequins half clothed in garb as old as Regina’s mother. Boxes filled with books and ancestral goodies lined the walls, an old locked chest stood heavily next to an ancient radio consisting of only a speaker and two dials. Other artifacts filled the attic space with family heirlooms from the decades Regina’s family lived there. How far back Regina’s heritage went in this mansion was unclear, but you knew it was long enough to breed a Regina.

Hillside Estate was established when the first settlers came to the US. Regina’s ancestors, as the story goes, were gifted the land by the natives as a peace treaty between the two cultures. The natives enjoyed the bountiful new treasures the settlers brought from the new world, while the settlers appreciated how the natives showed them the ways of the land. This was, by all means, untrue. Regina’s ancestors seized the natives land after a brutal argument between the rivals. On the ground that Hillside Estate stand today was the sight the bloody battle between the natives and the settlers. Naturally, the settlers won. Guns and plague are no match for bows and arrows. A war that gruesome seldom leaves without residue. Echoes of death stained the land even after the blood washed away. The settlers were cursed whether they knew it or not.

The settlers were ignorant to their wrongdoings, living their life prosperously. That was, until the harvest. Though the land on their plot was the most fertile in the town, their first year of crops did not bear. The leaves were black with spots and the husks were dry as hay. Any crops that did appear were sour and rotten at the core. Their tobacco crop was plagued with insects, eating it from the root up. The residents of the estate had worse luck than the crops. Each member of the family died a painful death, under extremely bizarre circumstances. Family members were dropping left and right. One by one, the family died off, leaving only the children, caretakers, and estate staff to take care of the residence. The cycle continued for each generation to come. Once and heir was born, the parents died of in strange and bizarre ways, leaving the children to face the same fate. Our Regina, on the other hand, was not a result of the curse, but the embodiment.

Today, Hillside Estate not on the hillside at all. The estate is actually not located in the town of Sunny Hillside at all, what with county lines changing and other government standards. Now Hillside estate is just on the outskirts of Sunny Hillside, away from the farmers and residents and other disturbances. The estate consists of 15 acres of land, equipped with horse stable, guest house, and open fields for… well, nobody really knows what they do with the rest of it. The only people allowed on the estate were the staff, a few invited guests, and the family to whom it belongs.

The foyer of the Hillside mansion was as grand as expected. A massive staircase welcomed anyone entering the home, branching off into two separate directions leading up to the second story of the house. The windows framing the large mahogany door lit the entryway with beautiful natural light, highlighting the fresh flowers decoratively placed on the center table. The room was filled with other lavish items, like the Persian rug lining the floor or the marble statues standing on either side of the stairwell. From any perspective, Regina’s family was clearly from old money, and they wanted it to stay that way.

There was a knock at the door. The ill-fated butler opened the heavy mahogany door only to show a mother and young son. The mother looked to be about forty-five with her grey roots showing and signs of wrinkles emerging around her smile. Her eyes were covered with large, round sunglasses and her ears hung low with heavy pearl heirloom earrings. She might have been smiling, or maybe she felt indifferent about the situation. It was hard to tell if her face was stuck like that after going to the doctor or if that was just her expression. Her body was adorned in a hefty fur coat ending mid-calf and her feet sported simple black heels with a red sole. The boy at her side was about Regina’s age, maybe seven or eight. He had bright blonde hair that might sprout brown when he aged. His eyes were a deep brown and freckles speckled his nose across to his cheeks. He sported a strapping peacoat, grey slacks and black oxfords. One would not guess he was dressed for a play date.

The butler welcomed them into the home and showed them to the garden where Regina and her mother were waiting. It was a crisp spring morning, perfect for brunch and mimosas. While the moms ate and drank and gossiped, Regina and the blonde boy wandered around the grounds to play. Regina was not fond of the blond boy, or any other person that she met. She felt that she needed to become someone else when she played with other kids. They did not laugh at the same things, enjoy the same games, or find joy in the same pass times. The kids were by the koi pond counting fish. Surprisingly, Regina was enjoying herself with the blond boy. Each time they counted the fish the resulting number was different. The fish were so fast, and they were always moving, how on earth were could the get the right number? The kids got distracted and started chasing each other, playing some sort of mix between tag and hide and seek. This was the first time Regina was actually enjoying herself with another child. The blonde boy was growing on her. He was open to her ideas of fun, played along with her games and never complained.

Sometimes, situations are too good to be true. Just as they were having fun the blond boy tripped and fell over some vines by the trees. This resulted in a broken ankle just as the moms came to check on their children. They were excited as they heard screaming, hoping it was the children having fun. To their dismay they walked in on a scene that looked like Regina purposely injured the blond boy. After that was a mess. The moms did that thing adults do when they think they know exactly what happened, so they talk over and reprimand their children, not letting them speak or expect them to tell the truth. The blonde boy tried to defend Regina too, he really did, but it was to no avail. Regina and the blond boy would never cross paths again.

Regina’s mother was furious. This was the fourth time Regina scared off a “friend” and this time it ended in injury. Regina’s mother grabbed her by the hand, quite literally, dragged her into the house. Regina knew exactly where she was headed. This was not the first time she would be locked in the attic and she knew it would not be the last. Her mother flung her up the stairs and Regina landed with a thud. She was not sure if it was the anger or the mimosas, but her mother was especially feisty. Her mother shut the door with a thud and the clinking by the knob confirmed it was locked.

The attic was Regina’s time-out room and time outs could be long. Sometimes time out was going to bed without supper and wake up the next morning long. Other than the hunger she did not mind it too much. There were plenty of things to keep her busy and distract her from her punishment. A family of birds built a nest between the support beams on the ceiling and tweeted sweet melodies from time to time. The solitude could be quite pleasant.

Regina was mad. She was more than mad, she was furious. None of this was her fault at all, she was actually getting along with the blonde boy, everything was going so well until he tripped on those vines. She was pacing the room breathing short and heavy. Her vision was blurry, with tears or with anger or with both she was not sure. The birds started tweeting at the disturbance in the attic. Their once sweet melodies sounded sour in her rage. A bird swooped down in her direction and Regina’s limbs went flailing in defense. She felt that the bird was trying to heighten her range by attacking her, so she swatted like her life depended on it. She hit the bird with her hand, and it landed with a thud.

Now in a calmer state, Regina went to check the bird’s condition. She did not mean to injure it; she was just protecting herself. The sad bird was twitching on the floor, close to death but not quite there. She held it in her hands unsure of what to do in this situation. She watched the twitching bird dying in her hands. Finally, she decided. With a swift flick of her wrist she put the bird out of its misery. Regina was silent for a while, absorbing the events of the last few minutes. Regina did not feel sad or angry or remorse. No, those feelings could not justify what she was feeling in that moment. Regina felt something she’s never felt before. She felt power. She never tried to befriend anyone again after that, she merely made her own.

Regina kept her bird friend along with the others that as time went on. She would lay them out in a line in the light of the sun from the round window, admiring her handywork, remembering how it felt. When she was released from the attic, she would roll up her friends in a felt cloth and hide them for the next time out.

You watch Regina as she takes a rolled-up piece of felt out from a hiding spot in the corner of the room. Her long black hair cascades around her waist, contrasting the paleness of her face. You crouch next to her as she unrolls the fabric in the light of the sun. She caresses her friends and lays them back on the fabric, smiling from past memories. Your watch ticks on your wrist. You pat her back and take her by the hand. Walking side by side you descend down the stairs of the attic toward the exit. Regina glances over her shoulder, then walks with you through the door.

Part 2?

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[yeshuah-yahveh-blog]

In Wrathful Waters - Chapter one: Noah’s Flood.

The rain poured down without any sort of mercy when Detective Daniel Hamworth arrived at yet another murder scene, the fifth one in a week, and it was only Friday. As the stereotypical cynical, old man that he was, he just let out a heavy sigh filled to the brim with the burden of his work as well as a touch of self-martyrdom. Even if the caseload has been on par with the labours of Hercules, there was a bright side (except for the occasional coin that filled his purse due to all the overtime) was that the four previous murders were solved pretty quickly. The culprit in each of those cases were arrested within a day or so due to all the concrete, as well as, the circumstantial evidence that was left behind for the police to collect. Detective Hamworth has long ago stopped being surprised by the stupidity of many, if not most, criminals’ intelligence.

  But, then again, only the, what he termed, “Criminal Failures” were apprehended, or even suspected. The Masterminds were never even considered during the investigation of a crime, at least according to him. That even includes the cold cases being reopened. Detective Hamworth had an eerie feeling about all the murders he had investigated this week, and this fresh one peaked his uneasiness. There was something that did not quite add up. What, though, Detective Hamworth did not know, but he knew that, despite being viewed as an apath, he would not be able to rest until that enigma had been solved. The murder victim, a boy that could not have been more than ten years, were positioned on a wooded chair in the middle of a filthy alley. The quick assessment that Detective Hamworth made when he first saw the corpse was that the boy had been beaten to death, by an adult if he had to make a guess. More to the point, Detective Hamworth suspected that the father of the child was the culprit, and a slimmer of something darker and disturbing quickly ran through his head so fast that he did not have to consciously register whatever information this stream-surfing fish of a thought brought with it in its waves.

 As he stood there, dressed in a cheap, grey suit, beige trenchcoat and a pair of worn out, darkish shoes that could not possibly be identified as this type or that, an apocalypse of divine proportion descended upon him. A conclusion composed by innumerable unconscious thoughts from cases past, resulting in something anyone who did not receive this epiphany would consider a conspiracy theory. “Oh fuck” Detective Hamworth said to himself with such a loud voice that the five police officers and his partner, detective Bryan Eastport, heard and reacted to.

“Why the fuck do you stand there screaming fuck for the world to hear, Danny B?”

Said detective Eastport with a tone filled with annoyance and spoiled youth that Daniel Hamworth truly thought that living is Hell, post death oblivion is Heaven. While detective Hamworth lost faith in humanity as it stood, as well as feared the diabolical level the coming generations of naïve, spoiled and good-for-nothing pieces of scum that would be born into this world during his twilight years and after his life has come to an end, he could not contain the excitement that boiled inside of him. Just like when a pot filled with water, placed on a stove, starts to boil, you know that this wrathful water (within both you and the pot) cannot be contained for much longer before chaos seizes control and Entropy becomes Lord and God over the domain of water and the surrounding realms.

“I have never met a person less deserving of life than you, you Hitler-loving, boat fetishist!”

These words poured out of the mouth of detective Hamworth while he, on the edge of breaking with ecstasy due to the revelation he was about to reveal to his clueless partner.

“But, I have to say, despite hating you to my very core, that I have solved five fucking murders at once! Or, at the very least, if one wants to be empathetic, saving imprisonment of the innocent.”

The silence that fell upon the crime scene was so apparent that even a deaf man would pick up on it while being out of eyesight. Finally, the silence were broken by detective Eastport:

“What the fuck are you on about, Dry Bones?”

The voice on which the words surfed out of the mouth of detective Bryan Eastport consisted entirely out of curiosity, resentment, ignorant youth and incredulity. Before detective Hamworth answered the 20 something spoiled, wealthy, daddy’s boy, Sherlock Holmes-wannabe, he tried, come hell or high water, to contain a hysterical, maddening laughter of which he never had the insanity of letting escape from his mind and mouth throughout his entire life, though, sadly, he failed. After Hamworth’s maniacal laughter, making the mad god of the sea proud, he finally, after much effort, managed to convey, more or less, his apocalypse:

“You know those murder cases we’ve had the enjoyment to investigate this week? Have you noticed something that ties all of them, and this one, together? Something that might shed light upon our useless investigative abilities?”

There was a moment of contemplation before Bryan Eastport impatiently said:

“Yeah? What of it? Get to the point before you die, old man!”

There was a part of Daniel Hamworth that wanted to slap Bryan Eastport across the face with a silken glove, or the like, and demanding a sword duel, but he knew that he had to tell someone about this revelation given by God before he drown it in oblivion with alcohol later that day. Ignoring the hurtful statement by Bryan, Daniel continued:

“I truly hope that you are not as clueless as you seem, nevertheless, I shall tell you. Every single one of these murder cases has three things in common; they were all found on a chair, all were beaten to death, and finally, all these murderers has apparently been apprehended, thus case solved. Every single one we’ve been arresting this week was so because of all the concrete and circumstantial evidence that we found on the scene of the crime and throughout the short investigations we led. So obvious, in fact, that we should’ve noticed how convenient all of the evidence were, and I fucking bet one thousand dollars that this case will be solved in a similar way.”

Once again silence reigned over this extremely small part of the planet, at the very least for a minute or two, though it felt like an eternity in eternity. Finally, Bryan Eastport, standing there with his short, pink-dyed, spiked hair, wearing a blue T-shirt with a symbol Daniel dared not think about, though the letter ‘H’ plagued his mind while he observed detective Eastport, and the mysterious, purple pants and the pair of outworldly ugly sandals, that Bryan wore appalled Daniel to the point that he, in all honesty, thought that the Witches in Roald Dahl’s book really should’ve focused on the youth belonging to the teenage years and early twenties, at the very least, answered:

“You’ve been smelling the sealed vodka bottles, haven’t you?”

Before Daniel Hamworth could answer the slanderous accusations of Bryan Eastport, the reporters began gathering around the murder scene like thirsty antelopes around a pond after running from lions two entire days in a row. Before Daniel even could react, his feet began to make its move. He walked towards the horde of reporters, and while he did that he decided that he should give his thoughts to the reporters, whether anyone on the police force, or he himself, liked it or not. When he reached the vultures called reporters and journalists, he felt that maybe what his unconscious mind had decided for him was probably not the better path to walk. His inner instincts conquered the brain, so that detective Hamworth was left completely helpless as his mouth began to spew out his apocalypse to the starving hyenas.

“This week we have investigated five murders, including this one, and before we were assigned this one we thought that, due to the strong evidence we gathered, we had arrested the men responsible of these heinous crimes, though this day has proved us wrong. I believe, in my very bones, that all these five murders were committed by the same culprit, in such a way that other people were arrested, on good grounds, for the murders. That is why I, detective Daniel Hamworth, has decided to name, until now unknown, serial killer ‘The Red Herring’. That is all I have to say, thank you.”

When he walked away from those media butchers, the realization began to descend upon Daniel that he really should not have done what he did. What is done is done, thusly the extremely confused, and (truth be told, God damn Bryan) slightly drunk Daniel Hamworth accepted whatever may come, and began constructing his move against this serial killer, real or imagined, that he had named “The Red Herring”.

[planar-echoes]

The Face of War (Alara) By Jenna Helland (4/14/09)

The Riftclan Tol Breot was lost in an unfamiliar land. They had been camped in a rocky enclave in the Rift Valley when suddenly the world shuddered, twisted, and then blasted them into this fetid hellscape. Half of their clan had simply vanished. In the confusion immediately following the shift, rot-skinned ogres assaulted them and slaughtered several more before the warriors killed them.

Now they were surrounded by grey, fleshy ground where nothing grew. There seemed to be no creatures of any kind save walking bags of bones that shambled past—easily killed, but providing no meat. The clan's chief, Breot, wouldn't let them eat the dead ogres because of the weeping sores covering their carcasses. Very soon, hunger would be their enemy.

Breot sent out a hunting party to look for familiar landmarks, but by the time they returned, half the clan had fallen ill with a horrible pox. Had they still been in Jund, they would have left the sick behind to make it easier for the healthy to survive. But Breot made the unexpected decision to keep all the survivors together and nurse the sick. No one questioned him. This land was too ominous and wretched to leave anyone to die. There wasn't even wood to build a pyre to honor those who had been killed. With a growing sense of unease, the clan stayed close to the camp, watched the sky for dragons, and wondered how they could return to the world they knew.

Greasy black clouds were rolling across the horizon when a black-haired boy stumbled into their encampment. He seemed barely human—the scrawniest grub of a child any of them had ever seen. One of the young mothers took pity on him and offered him some of their remaining tukatongue nuts. His dry lips cracked and bled in his effort to chew the hard shells.

"Where are you from?" Sonara asked the boy, clutching her own baby to her chest and passing him a bowl of rank water.

"Torchlight," he answered. When no one replied, he finished chewing and wiped the blood from his bone-white chin. He gazed intently around the fire circle through eyes that looked much older than they should. "You must flee. Quickly."

"The Riftclan does not flee," Breot informed the strange child, who stared back at the imposing chieftain without fear.

"Then your heart will be torn from your defiled body," the boy replied.

Had they been at home in Jund, Breot would have killed the boy instantly for such an insult. But the pale child seemed almost like an apparition, and his voice was so disconcertingly calm that Breot hesitated, his hand on the hilt of his obsidian blade.

And then they heard it. A rush of desperate, forlorn voices swept like wind through the camp as thunderous footsteps shook the ground. The clan's members staggered to their feet. Hardened and ferocious, the Riftclan were no strangers to death or suffering. They had seen their kin slaughtered by tooth, claw, and sword. But what swept over the ridge was beyond their realm of knowing. This was terror embodied, clad in spikes and standing over seven feet tall. Leading swarms of undead, Thraximundar charged down the hill and cut Breot down before the chieftain could raise his sword or utter a single word. As undead minions engulfed the clan, the boy scurried into the darkness, spreading news of the carnage like a plague upon the land.

Valeron, Bant

 He cannot be killed. He cannot be stopped. He is coming. Frightening tales passed through the line of refugees clogging the roads toward the Sun-Dappled Court. Where are the Knight-Captains?What is to become of us? Won't anyone help us? Weary and frightened, the refugees trudged forward because they didn't know what else to do. Late one afternoon, a battle-stained regiment of knights galloped through the stream of refugees. One of them proclaimed the good news of the battle of Tower Stele. A warrior-mage decimated an entire army of the hellish invaders! She will slay Thraximundar.Our borders will be safe once more!

Late in the afternoon, a caravan of Balmgivers from Topa reached the refugees with food and healers. That night, the name Elspeth was spoken around campfires and inside healing tents. She is as powerful as the angels. She will lead Bant in its time of need.

The next day, a black-haired boy appeared. The child moved between families, asking for a bite to eat and sharing harrowing tales of flesh-eating monsters and flesh-twisting necromancers. In hushed tones, he warned of the coming of Thraximundar: You would be better to cut your own throats than become one of his undead minions. Every kill just makes him stronger.

That evening, he shared soup with a blacksmith and his family who had escaped from the ruins of Giltspire.

"Knight Elspeth will be at Sun-Dappled Court," the blacksmith told his wife excitedly. "She's bringing an army of elves and catfolk. They will assault Thraximundar before he ever reaches Valeron."

"Thanks be to the angels," his wife Elleta murmured, followed by a chorus of their children's voices," Thanks be to the angels."

But the little boys narrowed his eyes. "Do not entertain false hopes," he told them quietly. "I was at the battle of Tower Stele, and Elspeth will not save you."

"Elspeth will save us," the blacksmith insisted. "She is the hope of our nations."

"Elspeth is gone," the boy replied, with a slight sneer on his lips. "She saved the Tower Stele, but committed a heinous crime in the process. Death was the only honorable course of action."

"Speak clearly, boy," the blacksmith boomed, looking into deep pools of black that were the boy's eyes. "What are you saying?"

"She threw herself on a pyre and scattered her essence to the winds," the boy replied. "I saw it myself."

The blacksmith turned to his wife, who sank to the ground and covered her face with her hands.

"You should tell everyone," the boy said sagely. "Before the false hope gathers in their hearts as well."

Dragons besieged Antoris City. It was an infuriating situation, but not one that the mechanists and mages couldn't handle—at least so far. Around the clock, they kept a spell-wall around the city, which kept the marauding viashino away from the gleaming buildings and monuments. But the skies were more difficult to guard, and a broodmother and her young whelps had discovered that there was easy prey on pristine boulevards. Esperites were forced to keep to their houses during daylight hours. At night, the scullers from Darkreach District were enlisted to scour blood and rubble from the streets. But most citizens simply pretended that their city hadn't emerged on the side of a volcano and kept to life as usual.

As an arcanist, Lifris was more suited to the library than to guard duty. But all mages were required to man the spell-wall, so he did what was required of him. He paced back and forth along his section, wondering if the mage council had advanced beyond discussion to action. Someone had to figure out how to put Antoris back in Esper where it belonged and out of this dreadful lava pit. Still, the council was better than nothing. The mages had never agreed to work together before. They'd even pooled their etherium resources. It was quite remarkable, really. Despite the dire situation, the people of Antoris cooperated in a way Lifris never expected.

Something moved outside ethereal wall. At first Lifris thought it was a big cockroach—he'd see insects the size of boulders skittering around out there. But this creature didn't skitter, it crawled on its hands and knees. Then he saw pallid skin, black hair, and sad little eyes of a child.

Lifris should have consulted someone before he let the boy in, but he had a soft spot for children, and wouldn't want to watch anything suffer the filthy, bestial world surrounding Antoris.

"Gather all the mages," the boy told him. "Something wicked is coming. Your wall won't be enough to stop it."

Lifris stared at the boy, who looked so pitiful but spoke in such dulcet tones. He made sense, Lifris thought. Suddenly fearful, Lifris sprinted for the mages' tower, forgetting entirely about the spell-wall. When he was gone, the boy tapped the wall with his grubby finger, and a tiny rift opened in the shimmering barrier. By the time anyone noticed the break in the wall, the mages were too embroiled in argument to pay attention to the scullers who tried to warn them.

The boy watched from the hill, until the smoke rising from the city blocked his view of the destruction. With each life taken, he could feel the Maelstrom expand with more energy—just as he wanted. Of course, there would have been easier ways to accomplish such destruction, but it would haven't have been nearly so whimsical. Besides, Thraximundar was such a beautiful creation, so perfectly suited to mindless carnage, that Nicol Bolas didn't mind letting him run wild as he pleased—with just a gentle nudge in the right direction. The dragon let his illusion of the little boy evaporate into the acrid air and resumed his natural shape. The planeswalker Elspeth wasn't really dead, but she would cause him no more trouble in Alara. With Antoris a smoldering ruin behind him and Thraximundar sweeping toward the green jungles of Naya, Bolas spread his wings and soared into the darkening sky.