#and that's why we have the 'don't like don't read' sign taped on the fence

[rabbitsonthemoon]

Void Rants About Writing

Life is too fucked up and short to not write whatever's in your head. It's fictional. It's yours. Go nuts. If someone gives you grief about it, block them. You don't owe them shit. If it makes you happy, if it makes life pass a little more bearably, if it helps you feel safe, just write it. I know exactly where the shame in my head comes from and those traumas can fuck right off. Fluffy, smutty, gory, whatever, I won't be shackled by the fear that I'm somehow lesser or wrong for expressing my creativity in a way that doesn't appeal to everyone.

I know who I am. You know who you are. That won't change because we enjoy writing things a little fucked up, or a lot fucked up, or weird, or strange, or so damn niche that there's only 12 people in the world who'd understand it.

This isn't judgment day, it's fiction. Take a chill pill and stop listening to the people who want you mad and upset and feeling like there's a threat when there really, really isn't. Writing is an amazing outlet and people should feel safe exploring their perceptions, thoughts and ideas. Creativity is a neutral force and shaming it sucks. Shitty people are going to be shitty people regardless of what is and isn't considered acceptable. They can't handle taking accountability for their own decisions so they blame other things, people, and influences. I promise that books do not do that, any more than video games make people violent or playing DnD will make you sell your soul to the Devil. Being under the thumb of people who think that way absolutely sucks and being free of their influence feels like rediscovering breathing.

Making it out to be some measure of morality is such a shit lesson to teach someone.

Do me a huge solid and block me if you have a problem with that. This is a hill I'll die a hundred times on. If that makes me wrong, I never want to be right.

[bardsoftheuncannyvalley]

[4: Echophones]

I do actually remember this one being filmed; it was late march after first seeing the wood walkers. Tragedy had started showing me the odd disappearance rates around corvid park. in other areas the rate is more around 1 to 2 people usually go missing around like every year. But oddly corvid park had around 10 people going missing. Yet there seem to be no panic for it. Neither tragedy or I know why.  

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“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, when memory plays an old tune on the heart!” ― Eliza Cook  The video starts in the parking lot, the camera aimed down at sneakers covered in dirt.  Tragedy: got it?  Comedy: Yeah... you sure this is safe?  Tragedy: No, but you wanted to see them.  The sneakers move slowly the two footsteps moving as one. The gravel path eventually morphing into the trail path.   We walk the trail for about five minutes before finding a blocked off path with a sign reading “No passage past this point. This trail is closed.”  Comedy: The past is closed off, is it cause of the missing people?  Tragedy: yes, but the park won't admit it, at least as far as I can tell.  The camera is passed over to other hands as a figure walks into frame.  Comedy: you're not going over it!?  Tragedy: I'm not going far.  The figure, tragedy, is thin and lean. Pale olive skin under a dark grey hoodie, zipped open to see a white band tee. Dark blue jeans are muddied just like the grey sneakers. His shoulder length brown hair is pulled up into a messy man bun. His face is covered by not only a black medical mask but a low tipped black baseball cap. He jumps the fence and walks through the tall grass a couple feet peering into the trees. Something pitch white hangs from his hip but is hard to make out in the intense sunlight.  Comedy: your insane.  Tragedy: only little.  He chuckles as he walks back.  Tragedy: just thought I saw something.  Comedy: So you walked towards it?  He walks back over before starting to walk down the trail, as he walks his head snaps to branches and bushed like he expects something to jump out at him. We walk for a while the afternoon sun shining heavily down. We walked for about five more minutes till suddenly a womans voice called out.  Woman?: Hey  Tragedy holds his hand out and slowly raises a finger to his masked lips. Both of us stop for a long moment nothing happening for a long moment.  Woman?: Hey, come here.  I glanced the camera around looking for anything the forest now eerily quiet.  Woman?: Hey..... Hey..... Come here  I turned back to Tragedy just in time to catch him signing to follow him. He then started to walk down the path. As we walked away the voice got quieter and quieter until it suddenly stopped. Th two of us walked for a couple minutes in silence until from somewhere down the path.   Woman?: Hey  Tragedy jerks to a stop, rapidly spinning around and motioning to me before pointing his fingers at each other like a top and moves them in a twirling motion like a tornado.  Woman?: Come here.  The voice is angrier as suddenly us two bolt out the park taking the path out. It take sa few minutes but we manage to make it back to the parking lot.  Comedy: what was that?!?  Tragedy is to busy panting to speak but he takes his hand and holds it like a phone, taping his chin before in arch motion brings it away from his face. 

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Echophones are... well down right horrifying in my option. They have the ability to mimic the sounds they hear and love to mimic people. Specifically, the last words of people, like a sick twisted ploy. Unlike woodwalkers these things actively get people lost in the woods, luring them deeper into the woods to never be seen again. Tragedy has compared them to snakes and I hate to know why cause they don't really look like snakes. They look like people, short, sickly thin and pale people. 

[arizonagirldiary]

KITTYGATE: A True Crime Story

THE CRIME

It all began on a warm autumn day. Summer stays around for a long time here in Arizona and it was over 90 degrees before noon that day.

That morning, to be precise.

I awaken slowly in the morning. I'd had a few cups of coffee, played on Twitter, and I really don't remember why I decided to walk outside of the back of my house where I have a small patio and a carport.

The patio is fenced in and I could see a plastic storage bin tipped on its side on the other side of my gate, with its top tightly in place. It was clear plastic with a white top. The type of container you might pack Christmas decorations in. I could see fabric, blankets, something that had fallen to the bottom when the bin was placed on its side.

“What the holy hell?"

I opened the gate, righted the tub, and pulled off the lid. What happened next sent me through so many emotions at one time that I decided I would first just scream and then sort things out afterward.

Inside the storage bin were 11 kittens. Later I would find out that they were two different litters. Seven two-week old and four four-week old kittens. The bin was swelteringly hot and the kittens were limp from the heat and no air. At this point I had stopped screaming and was now crying while hiccuping nonstop oh-my-Gods.

I knew, that if I had walked out my back door—perhaps five minutes later--this story would have a very different ending and I would never be telling you about it because I refuse to listen to or tell sad animal stories.

With all the commotion I was making, my across the alley neighbor, Gladys Kravitz, came running over to find out what was up for her bulletin reports to the neighborhood. Little did she know I was going to feed her enough info for a newsletter throughout the weekend.

As I mentioned, I was overcome with so many emotions. Fear, not understanding, confusion, maternal tugs, and looming above all others was a big grey cloud was an anger that stayed for days over this outrageous animal cruelty.

As I began to gather clues and witnesses for later reference for Kittygate, I noticed a note inside the bin which read:

"Dear friend,

Thank you so much for agreeing to take these kittens. We know you are the perfect person to take care of them."

Unsigned, of course.

THE SUSPECTS

Interestingly, my first suspect, Gladys Kravitz, who in addition to being the block gossip, is also known as The Cat Lady because she takes in the pregnant abandoned cats in our condos and finds homes for the kittens. A worthy deed. Indeed.

I knew.

I absolutely, unequivocally knew.

That the bin of kittens was accidentally left on my carport instead of Gladys's.

And so did she.

The proof was in her disappearing immediately. I could not believe it. All those litters she raised and no offer of help? My anger cloud grew, loomed and seethed. But I had no time to make a small doll and stick pins in it. I had 11 new children and not a clue of what to do with them.

There is also an older red-headed woman (a man I know says red hair is a sign from God) who is quite nosy, complains about the abandoned cats, and frequently walks by my house. Suspect number two.

THE CARE & FEEDING OF ROGUE KITTENS

I didn't know much about kittens but I did know they had to be in a safe, cool, place and must be fed. I make a 911 call to my sister-in-law, also a Cat Lady but much younger and nicer, to help me with these poor babies. She was over in 10 minutes. We corralled them in their first temporary home--a pillow fort in my bedroom. Cross that off your list as a good place for kittens. The older kittens immediately found delight in climbing over the pillow barriers and scampered all over the bedroom. Apparently the cooler air gave them a second wind. The smaller ones just piled on top of each other and slept.

My sister-in-law, who knows about all things feline, sent me off to a feed store for kitten formula and a stop by CVS, to get teeny plungers to feed them with. When I came home, my very wise sis-in-law had moved them to the bathtub where the porcelain walls made escape impossible. She asked if I had anything soft to put down on the bottom so I ran to raid my closet.

I returned with nearly all of my cashmere sweaters and scarves. I had just moved back to Arizona from California. A tank top and flip-flops are winter wear here. Sigh. I knew I'd never wear cashmere here. Might as well donate them to kittens in need.

As it turns out, kittens require nourishment every two hours. Thoughts of newborns did cross my mind. Especially thinking of waking every two hours and the idea of lack of sleep. Fortunately, my sister-in-law is a bonafide card-carrying Cat Lady. She not only feeds her own cats, but every stray within blocks of her home. She has a heart of gold and is one of my favorite relatives. Her daughter, Sara, is a Cat Lady-in-training, and was soon called in to action to join Kittygate. Between the three of us, we turned my bathroom into the perfect kitten feeding station.

YOU’RE ALL ON NOTICE AND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE

I took the note taped to the kitten’s bin and spewed venom all over a large note and pinned it to the back wall of my condo. Well, it might even qualify as a sign, I suppose. I accuse whoever left the kittens that they had left them at the wrong house, I was not their “friend,” and furthermore they nearly killed the kittens locked in an airless bin. Outraged I was. I wrote that I was going door to door (not really) to find the perpetrator.

ANIMAL CONTROL

This was a strange plot twist, but the next day Animal Control left an unsolicited note on my front door wanting details of Kittygate. Did I know that whoever left the kittens had committed the crime of animal cruelty? Hah. You bet I did. A copy of the Animal Control note was pinned to the ever expanding, okay it is a sign, on my back wall. Jail. I wanted jail time for these murderous fiends. I contacted Animal Control and told them what little information I knew. They even wanted the bin the kittens were left in, as well as the note. My kind of bureaucrats.

DAY THREE

By now, the four older kittens had figured out how to scale the Mt. Everest bathtub wall and were wandering around the toilet area. Kitty dorm had now became two separate areas. Which, in a way, was good because the older ones were now eating soft kitten food.

I have a cat, but have never had a kitten. I assumed they were born knowing how to use a cat box. Um, no. They were very adept at pooping next to the shoe box top litter boxes I made, but never quite hit the target.

It was time to find a place for the kittens to go—as much as I wanted 11 new pets. Of course, my sister-in-law had called every cat rescue in town. Cats are impossible to find homes for, and if you bring them to the city shelter…well, it's not good news.

THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER

BUT. Wonderful sis-in-law found a shelter in Phoenix that would take all 11 kittens if I would pay for foster families to care for them until they were six weeks old—an adoptable age. And the very best part, they were a no kill shelter.

So we bundled them up in cashmere-lined boxes and drove to Phoenix from where I live in suburban Mesa. Only when the intake person made up cards for each kitten did I truly believe there was really going to be a happily ever after for my precious kittens.

I made my final entry on the Kittygate sign and left it up for one more week before I took it down.

Total cost, kaching = $256.00 you heartless (x-rated words)

SOLVING THE CASE

A bright spot to come out of this whole debacle is that most of my neighbors are now afraid of me and no one talks to me. As I prefer. My brother Danny claims that everyone is afraid of me due to an incident with my mother's gardener. I rather like it this way. Fear me. Even Gladys Kravitz returned her spare key to my house. A guilt offering, no doubt.

I suppose I'll never find out who left the kittens at my door, upended my life for three days, and cost me the $256 I really didn't have to spare. But I can tell you this much…

My neighbors now all believe I'm BADASS.

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This true story is dedicated to Allison Pecallier.