#but the entrapment line comes from a place of fear based on the fact IT HAD ALREADY HAPPENED TO HIM

[captainsantiagos]

The way I’m maybe one of five people that wasn’t blindly furious about the entrapment line because??? It’s happened to him before like he almost WAS entrapped with Marina. Of course in that moment it feels like it’s happened again?

[21-torpedo-salvo]

Cylinder-fed

You hope it isn’t obvious how closely you’ve been watching him. You hope your line of sight is obscured by the stale mug of coffee you drink deeply from, that the fog on your lenses is enough to distract from you tracking him in your periphery. Yet, despite the anxiety, the fear of being caught, you cannot bring yourself to look away. This was your first time seeing him in a lab, after all, and the difference was… startling, to say the least.

You knew, on some level, that he was more than hot air, but his bastard-like demeanor compelled you to discount him on principle. He was abrasive and cruel at times, wielding his words with a sharper intelligence than your second other, and that did not completely go away as he rounded on Dr. Magnusson with a vengeance. Your eyes linger on the way his muscles bulge underneath the lab coat, the white fabric pulled taut as he gesticulates broadly at a whiteboard.

Eventually, he ceases shouting, quieted by a smug contentment curling his scarred lips into a smile. He takes his scattered array of papers into his arms and leaves, but his eyes narrow on you, tension snapping back into his frame. He stalks toward you, purposeful and intent. You feel lightheaded with how the world suddenly locks back into place.

“Hey, hey, what are you lookin’ at? You’ve been staring at me all day, Freeman. What’s with that?”

You flounder for an answer. Of course he’d have noticed-- he was paranoia given body. And you didn’t bother to think of a liable excuse, so now you’re just staring at him, throat burning with the aftereffects of a too-big gulp of coffee.

“Oh, I get it,” Freemind says, eyes sparkling. “You want a piece of me. You think I’m hot when you’re not calling me an insufferable asshole, right?”

“You’re a dick,” you sign, suddenly exasperated. Paranoid and egotistical. How could you forget?

“And yet,” Freemind laughs. “So what have you been working on, Freeman?”

You step back as Freemind shifts his weight, conspicuously arranging his broad frame across your one exit. Your mind flashes to the crowbar slung at your hip, hidden beneath the lab coat, and the gun hanging heavy in your right pocket. There’s a dozen different solutions to your entrapment itching at your fingertips but you execute none of them, opting instead to stare blankly ahead, wound up like a snake.

It works, after a time. Freemind has the grace to look apologetic-- or something approximate-- as he leans to the side, arms crossed against his chest. His brow is still cocked expectantly, but his expression is softer. You relax.

“We’re still working on long-distance teleportation,” you say carefully. “It’s easier now that we have a target. But the recipient is using a Combine teleporter that they’re having trouble with.”

“That’s a shame. I’m guessin’ that’s what Alyx got roped into working on?” Freemind asks. “Man, we were havin’ fun stealing antlion grubs.”

You shrug noncommittally. You think the friendship he and Alyx have is strange when Freemind can barely interact with Barney. Besides, she was far more useful teaching the rest of humanity Combine tech than messing with antlions.

“Even less talkative today, then,” Freemind says after you fail to respond. “Well, I’ve got shit to do. See ya.”

With that, Freemind leaves, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he goes. You watch him walk past his desk and out of the lab entirely. Yet, before he’s out of sight, he twists on his heel and flashes a sign at you. The universal gesture for “follow.”

You take a deep breath. Did Freemind look disappointed just before he left? Did he want you to elaborate on your work? No, it couldn’t be that. He already knew your work-- he made it a point to keep up on it, even as he focused on something else entirely. Something else was up. You wanted to know what.

Leaving your coffee behind, you gather up your things and make for the door, pushing your glasses up your nose as you do. Freemind is lingering at the end of the hall, chatting loudly to a guard. When he sees you, he claps their shoulder and disappears around the bend, forcing you to chase after him. Somehow, he manages to always stay just out of sight. You’re following his raucous voice more than his ponytail.

He strings you along the network of guards stationed throughout White Forest. You pass the cafeteria, where you see him walking out with a handful of headcrab jerky, a strip dangling from his mouth. He flashes you a toothy snarl rather than a smile as he forges on, back into the complex. You wonder why the hell you’re following him.

It’s not like you care about his antics. He’s mean, unruly toward even Dr. Kleiner, and does things that would have gotten him arrested should things like formal law still exist. He’s not even that pretty-- musclebound, sure, and tall, with a mouth full of sharp teeth he won’t share the story about. Maybe he has a pretty green eye, but so did you, and if you keep thinking about this you’re going to feel like one hell of a narcissist.

Maybe that was your problem. You were just a narcissist.

So deep in your thinking, you hardly notice that the trail’s gone dry-- superheated into nothingness by Freemind’s presence. He’s lounging on a bench, a revolver in his hand-- empty, if the row of bullets arranged nearby are any indicator-- and belt already undone.

You stare, bewildered. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he shucks off his lab coat and folds it neatly on the other end of the bench, laying it over the discarded shells. The shirt he’s wearing is a little small, riding up to reveal his stomach with just the leaning motion.

Then he talks.

“Good job! On following me this far, that is. Honestly, I’m a little surprised you even did,” he says, smiling. “I’ve got a proposition for you. Well, not even that. I had this wicked dream last night that’s been bothering me all day. Do you want to help me out?”

Huh. Wait, huh?

You try to say something, but mostly just wave your hands around, signs aborted before even coming to fruition. In the end, you just gesture at him forcefully, hoping the heat in your face isn’t noticeable.

To your surprise, Freemind seems to take pause, chewing on his bottom lip in the way he does when he’s doubtful on something. Then he licks his lip, gnawing on the inside of his cheek before apparently finding his words, eye flicking up to pin you down.

“I—” Freemind raises the revolver by the barrel, waving the butt-- “am going to use this to get off. You’re welcome to watch, if you want. That’s how the dream went.”

Oh.

You’re not sure what else you were expecting. You stare at each other for a long moment, the silence suddenly thick and tense.

“If you don’t want to watch, then you can leave. I am going to get myself off right here no matter what you choose, though, so… Your loss, really,” Freemind finishes.

With that, he raises his hips, sliding his pants down until they bunched around his ankles. You’re more surprised than you should be by the fact that he’s gone commando, and is apparently already soaked, if the state of his cunt is anything to go by. He makes a low sound as he takes the head of his dick and rolls it beneath his thumb.

“I’ll stay,” you sign, though you’re unsure why because he’s already gotten this far and you haven’t left yet. He knows you’re staying-- he knows it because he’s arching his back and exposing more of his hips and grinning at you luridly beneath hooded eyes.

Freemind doesn’t stifle a groan as he slides his free hand further down, shoving his fingers without preamble into his cunt. He shifts his hips, settling forward so that they sink deeper inside him, tongue hanging past his lips as they move wordlessly.

Your face is burning. Your hands shake as you slip off your own lab coat, letting it fall gracelessly onto the floor around your feet. This wasn’t how you were expecting your day to go, but you’re also not against it. Freemind looks good, fucking himself on his fingers. He even looks relaxed.

When Freemind removes his hand, it’s coated. He licks it clean, slipping his tongue between his fingers, saliva glinting in strings off his tongue and lips. A dark flush has started to creep across his neck, darkest where his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His shirt rides further up his torso, exposing skin marred by HEV lines and old scars.

“You look like you want to help,” Freemind says roughly. “Or touch yourself. Ohh, I’d love that. You should touch yourself, Freeman, while you watch me get off. That’d be hot.”

Your hands tighten into fists, twisting up the fabric of your pants. You do think about touching yourself-- about fishing your cock out from your pants and bringing it up to full hardness, about finishing on Freemind’s face while he fucks himself on his revolver, while he says stupid shit-- oh, you could shut him up for once, if he just put his mouth on you.

“Don’t be shyyy about it,” Freemind drawls. “Come on. I can see your cock. Those pants don’t hide much, Freeman.”

Your skin prickles with something like irritation. Roughly, you unzip your pants and yank them down, boxers and all. Your dick is already plenty hard-- standing at attention, leaning a little to the left, flushed pink. Freemind whistles.

“Touch yourself,” Freemind says, and it sounds like a command. “And don’t take your eyes off me. Eyes up.”

You wrap your hand-- tough, calloused, scarred-- around the base of your dick, squeezing gently. You do look at him, much to your chagrin, and gape openly at the sight. He’s got the gun grasped by the barrel, the grip wedged between his legs. There’s a practiced ease in how he slots the weapon in himself-- a relieved, desperate sort of sound that leaks out of him as he pushes it further inside.

“That’s it,” he grunts. “Eyes on me. Follow my lead, Freeman.”

Using the bench as a stabilizer, Freemind rocks himself over the handle, thighs visibly trembling with the effort. He’s shameless in his motions, making them full-bodied, and unabashed with his noises. It seems he’s vocal, no matter what he’s doing.

The thought makes you stroke yourself faster. You take a step toward him, shuffling so as to not trip over your own pants. When he doesn’t stop you, you continue to approach, fixated on how red his lips are against white teeth.

“This is even better than the dream,” Freemind moans.

The gun seems to disappear deeper inside him with every rock. Freemind moves faster, chasing the rush of impending orgasm with a vengeance. His expression is twisted, face flushed with exertion.

Your own pace is growing erratic. Follow his pace, indeed-- you reach out to grab his head and dig your fingers into his scalp, eager to hold onto something that isn’t yourself for balance. It brings your hips to eye-level; you make a show of thrusting into your fist.

“Oh, much better,” Freemind says thickly. “Look at you... You’re that hard for me. Looks like I’m not the only narcissist here, eh?”

How can he talk so much? You growl in the back of your throat and grab a fistful of his hair. His confidence turns into shock as you grind your cock against his cheek, smearing pre-cum into his beard and eyepatch. Then he grins, a shark’s caricature, and licks a stripe up to the tip of your dick.

He takes it into his mouth of his own accord. You thrust forward, not wanting to give him time to adjust but he adapts to it, slackening his jaw and following your meter exactly. His eye rolls back at one point, a muffled, heinous moan sending vibrations to the base of your cock as he grows overwhelmed by you and the gun in his cunt.

So badly you wish to talk, but your throat doesn’t make noise, so you dig your fingernails into his scalp and keep his head in place. The bench creaks ominously as Freemind moves even faster, eye screwing shut, so close to climax. He seems to gag a little, your rhythms’ falling out of sync, but still he doesn’t stop.

You’re getting close yourself-- you can feel it, coiling tight in your belly. Your muscles are aching from holding yourself like this, but you ignore it. Freemind’s mouth is hot and wet and finally silent as he sucks you off. Looking down on him, he looks utterly blissed out, and that fact alone is enough to make you cum.

Your only warning to him is a broken keen and erratic thrusts down his throat. Judging by how he grabs onto your hips, fingernails dragging into the flesh, he must have already came himself-- and is eagerly swallowing yours, mewling as he does so. When you finish, he slides his mouth off with a wet pop.

Excess spit dribbles past his lip and hangs from a string between your cock. It snaps a second later, becoming a glistening wet trail down his chin. Panting heavily, Freemind leans against the wall, the gun laid flat beside him.

Messy, is the only thing you can think. And way too fucking good. You grab his shoulder as you drop down onto the bench beside him, squeezing tightly the muscle there.

“That,” Freemind starts, “was fucking perfect.”

You snort, but nod in agreement.

He turns to look at you. His expression is… unreadable, an unfamiliar sight. It’s softer, maybe. You realize why when he leans in close and presses a short kiss to your mouth.

“Thanks, Freeman,” he murmurs. “Let’s try that again sometime.”

You nod, caught off-guard.

[lightchildofthespring]

Episode 1: Anne or beast / Best fronds

Season 1

Episode 1-A: Anne or beast

“You're not a beast at all! You're a hero! An ugly ugly ugly hero!”

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Amphibia pilot is how the story is told from the frogs' point of view. Usually in stories where human protagonists go to a different world we see how they got there and how they react to the place. Although we see Anne and her friends opening the box in the opening theme, we first see our main character from Wally's point of view, when she's mistaken by a monster lurking in the woods. And I love how the cartoon makes Anne into a scary shadowy-figure in her very first appearance, instilling fear in the heart of the frog. Amphibia wastes no time in establishing Anne as not your usual isekai main character.

The next morning, we're presented to Wartwood, a small village of farming frogs where one can be kidnapped by a giant bug in the middle of a date (that poor dude is going to be in the air for at least a season). We're introduced to the Planters and have some characteristics established: Hop Pop as the responsible grandfather, Polly as the tough little sibling and Sprig as the kid who doesn't think a lot before doing things and ends up causing lots of trouble (or maybe “yesterday” really had been a bad day) but still wants the approval of others, be them kids his age or his grandfather, who thinks he's irresponsible. And what better way to prove that you're responsible than hunting the horrible monster lurking in the woods that had scared Wally so much?

When Sprig falls in a trap, Anne emerges from the woods and, wow, what a first impression! The girl is dirty, has a long pointy stick and is ready to take care of whatever had been entrapped. We immediately realize that Anne had been on Amphibia for a while and that she had been fending for herself, trying to survive in a world where uncountable animals had probably tried to eat her. In the episode, Anne at first thinks that Sprig is following her, and Sprig thinks she's the beast. After starting to clarify the misunderstanding, we hear the sound of a large animal from which Anne had been trying to escape for a while. At first, she's ready to escape by herself, but comes back to save Sprig.

This defining moment does more than just earn Sprig's trust. We are shown that Anne, despite her flaws (mostly things that will be brought to light in future episodes, like impulsivity, stubbornness and some selfishness), will do the right thing, even though it's difficult and puts her in danger. We see that Anne is a brave and kind person who willingly puts her life at risk to protect other people. And just like that, simply and brilliantly, the episode makes us root for Anne.

After escaping, Anne isn't too sure if she can trust Sprig (she risked herself to save someone that she thought could turn against her!), but it doesn't take long for them to connect. Then, the other frogs arrive and tie Anne up, not listening to Sprig trying to explain that she wasn't a monster. When the giant red mantis appears, Sprig frees Anne and is ready to fight the giant bug. Once again, Anne has the option of running to save herself. She considers it for a few seconds. And then she decides to save Sprig, fighting the very thing that had been trying to eat her for days. Anne and Sprig take the mantis down, but the frogs still aren't willing to accept Anne, with one exception.

Hop Pop is impressed at Sprig's bravery for standing up to a mob in defense of a creature he had never seen before (for what we know) and promises to help Anne and keep and eye on her. At first, Anne just wants a map to get out of that place, but is dissuaded when Hop Pop explains that she wouldn't survive trying to cross the mountains at that time of the year. Therefore, Anne has to wait at Wartwood for two months. Thankfully, the Planters let her stay with them. Anne isn't too happy about her circumstances, but appreciates Sprig's warm welcome. However, that appreciation doesn't translate into complete trust. It will take a while for her to trust the Planters enough to tell them about the box that took her to that place.

Observations:

Did Anne not try to open the box again until she was at the basement? Did she try it before, it didn't work, but she kept trying it anyway?

Anne with blue eyes! For an entire season, the fandom discussed whether that had been an animation mistake or if it meant something. In the end, it meant something huge! This show doesn't play around with lore!

Episode 1-B: Best fronds

“Because if you don't, they might not want to be your friends anymore.”

Amphibia is fundamentally a show about friendship and growth. But it's not just about the healthy friendships that help you become a better person. This episode shows us that Anne had a distorted understanding of friendship, a result of growing up with someone toxic. Despite appearing only in a flashback and then in the final scene, Sasha's presence looms during this entire episode.

Anne said that she's lost without her friends, showing the first signs of a codependency problem in the group. Sasha's controlling nature kept Anne in line, attending to the blond girl's every whim, even if it meant stealing the magical box that would take them to another world. But Anne didn't blame Sasha for their fate in any moment. On the contrary, Anne was shown to be a firm believer that you had to do everything to please a friend and that when you had a friend by your side, anything was possible. When a person has had this mindset for so long, how much can we blame Anne for applying the same logic to Sprig when he offers to be her friend?

When Anne encourages Sprig to disobey Hop Pop and go to the lake, she's trying to follow in Sasha's footprints. If a good friend has to do everything to please another friend, then, if Sprig didn't go along with Anne, he wouldn't be a good friend. Flawless logic based on things the girl had been saying to herself for a very long time.

Anne didn't want to listen to Sprig's concerns about the “don't swim” placard and insisted on entering the lake. When it seemed that he was going to ditch her there, she didn't try to dissuade him to the same extent Sasha would've. That shows that, although Anne tries to emulate Sasha at times, she can't fully commit to it. Deep down, Anne knows that Sasha belittles her and forces her to do things she doesn't want to do, but she shuts down that knowledge in the name of the sacrifices one must do for friendship. Sadly, it doesn't occur to Anne that Sasha never did the same for her.

When Sprig left, Anne was upset but accepted his choice. And then, she was surprised that Sprig decided to stay in the lake with her. When the snake appeared, Anne realized that she had put her new friend in danger and that she should've listened to him. Feeling guilty, she urged Sprig to save himself and leave her behind. Everything had been her own fault. In Anne's mind, Sprig had every right to leave her. But Sprig doesn't do it. Instead, he cooked a plan to save them both.

This episode is the first step for Anne to realize that friends are supposed to support each other, listen to each other, respect each other and bring each other up instead of down. The moment she received the friendship punch, Sasha's clutches on her began to lose effect.

But the show wouldn't let us believe that Sasha was simply a villain. In the last scene, we're shown that she had been taken prisoner by the toads and had been lying to them in order to protect her friends. Despite her toxic ways, Sasha cared about Anne and Marcy and did what she believed to be best for them. And just like that, in a few seconds, without even hearing her voice, we were presented to Amphibia's most complex and fascinating character.

Observations:

If Anne has flip-flops, why doesn't she wear those all the time? It's better than having one shoe!

Hop Pop was reading a book called “So you're a failed actor.” Who would've imagined that would be the first seed of one of the funniest episodes of season 2?

Sprig thinking that Anne steals people's souls when she takes photos would be funny enough on its own, but the fact that he doesn't mind that because he looks so incredible turns a good joke into a great one.

Sprig said he didn't have friends before Anne showed up, but wasn't he friends with Ivy? Am I forgetting something? And even though he wasn't close to Maddie, she still liked him (although it'd be fair to assume he didn't know that). We also see later in the season that other adults usually like Sprig.

The first thing Anne does when she thinks Sprig died is to scream “vengeance” and attack the snake with a branch. I'll probably repeat myself many times during these reviews but... I really love Anne!

How did Anne recover her phone from the bottom of the lake? I need to know!!

[corruption-spreads]

The Catalyst of Horror: H.P. Lovecraft

In February of 1928, the magazine Weird Tales was the first to publish “The Call of Cthulhu,” the now profoundly influential short story by Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The story is told in three parts through the eyes of Francis Wayland Thurston, an anthropologist from Boston, with much of the story being Thurston reading his grand-uncle’s notes. However, the story did not initially carry the legendary status it has now. When Lovecraft first submitted the story, it was rejected by editor Farnsworth Wright of Weird Tales. Likewise, Lovecraft wasn’t exactly a fan of the story either, describing it as “rather middling – not as bad as the worst, but full of cheap and cumbrous touches.” Lovecraft died in March of 1937, poor and nearly impoverished, with no idea of the weight his name and stories would eventually hold among writers of horror. H.P. Lovecraft has inspired countless stories across various mediums, going so far as to even have a genre named after him, dubbed “Lovecraftian horror.” His themes of cosmicism, misanthropy, and hopelessness act as groundworks for similar themes found in modern horror. More specifically, the themes found in tales told by Stephen King, John Carpenter, and many other works of popular film and literature.

John Carpenter is a critically renown filmmaker and composer in the horror movie milieu, who takes clear inspiration from H.P. Lovecraft’s works. Carpenter himself once said “A master craftsman, Lovecraft brings compelling visions of nightmarish fear, invisible worlds and the demons of the unconscious. If one author truly represents the very best in American literary horror, it is H. P. Lovecraft” (Lovecraft, Dream). Through the way he talks with reverence for Lovecraft, it’s shown that Carpenter’s admiration runs deep; furthermore, many of the philosophies and themes found in Lovecraft’s writing can be found reflected in Carpenter’s own work. Lovecraft is quoted saying that “the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown,” and Carpenter takes this to heart (Lovecraft, Supernatural). An obvious example of Lovecraftian influence in John Carpenter’s work is in his film The Thing. In The Thing, a group of Americans become entrapped in a research base in the Antarctic. On this base, they discover an otherworldly creature with the ability to almost perfectly mimic humans, including their personality and appearance. Throughout the movie, characters are killed, unable to comprehend and come up with a method of defeating this seemingly unstoppable monster. This causes them to turn on each other, suspecting the others to be the creature. This movie reflects on Lovecraft’s themes of misanthropy and hopelessness. With the characters unable to discern who the creature is mimicking before it’s too late, they begin to resent and doubt each other, isolating themselves mentally from their fellow survivors, making it nearly impossible to work together in order to defeat it. Throughout the movie, the characters are kept on edge, unable to feel safe and relaxed. This is very similar to another one of John Carpenter’s movies, Halloween. Halloween focuses on a babysitter by the name of Laurie Strode, and an escaped inmate from a nearby mental institution. As the movie goes on, the inmate, Michael Meyers, shows many odd characteristics that one wouldn’t expect a human to show. This includes the ability to teleport, as well as a seeming imperviousness to bullets or other harm. The latter ability is magnified at the end of the film, where Michael is shot six times in the chest and falls from a second story balcony. However, it’s revealed that Michael survives this ordeal. This touches on cosmicism, with Michael seeming to be an unstoppable force of nature, rather than an actual human being. When reviewing the original script of Halloween, Carpenter can be seen referring to Michael simply as “the Shape” a total of 95 times, further amplifying this idea that the killer is something larger than life. Through these two movies, it is understandable that H.P. Lovecraft and his themes heavily impacted John Carpenter and his works, which future horror writers may be further inspired by, lengthening the impact that Lovecraft has had on the genre.

Stephen King is another author who is heavily inspired by H.P. Lovecraft’s writing and themes. While Carpenter focused more on the misanthropic themes found in Lovecraft’s works, King was more interested in the theme of cosmicism. Cosmicism refers to the philosophy that humans are, in the grand scheme of the universe, rather insignificant, and that there is no divine presence watching over humanity. This theme shows up particularly often in Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos, with eldritch beings controlling the universe. King has been quoted saying, “Now that time has given us some perspective on his work, I think it is beyond doubt that H.P. Lovecraft has yet to be surpassed as the twentieth century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale” (qtd. in Wohleber). Many of Stephen King’s works focus heavily on motifs also found in Lovecraft’s work, such as insanity and god-like creatures that the human mind cannot fully comprehend. One of King’s most popular books, It, exemplifies these themes. While on the surface, It just appears to be a story about a child-eating clown, the story goes much deeper than that. It is an eldritch being who has existed before time itself, whose true form cannot be grasped by the main characters, neither as children nor as adults. This is very similar to a creature in the Lovecraft mythos by the name of Azathoth. Azathoth is also known as the blind idiot god and is said to be the reason that the universe exists. According to the mythos, Azathoth is dreaming the entire universe and, if he were ever awoken (as is attempted in various Lovecraft novels), it would cause the universe to end. Azathoth essentially has the power to warp reality, much like It does, which It uses to terrify children in order to make them tastier. It also uses this reality warping power in order to draw the main characters (collectively known as the Losers Club) back to their hometown as adults, eventually causing the demise of many of the characters. However, It was not the only story that King wrote that was directly inspired by Lovecraft. The Mist is a novella centered around a town in Maine. Similar to Lovecraft having a majority of his stories taking place in New England, King has many of his stories taking place in Maine, where he grew up. After a military test goes awry, a threatening mist covers the town of Bridgton, Maine, forcing residents to take shelter as waves of otherworldly creatures threaten their lives. Most of the novella is set in a supermarket where those who were there when the mist arrived soon find themselves trapped. The Mist touches on Lovecraft’s theme of misanthropy. After only a few days in the supermarket where the majority of the story takes place, the small society formed within it quickly turns to anarchy, with suicides occurring, unlikely people getting together to have end-of-the-world sex, and factions forming. It’s implied that humans are the “real monsters” of the story, with one of the characters, Mrs. Carmody, attempting to sacrifice the other town residents in an effort to please the mist. This also falls in line with Lovecraft’s theme of misanthropy and the cruel nature of humans, with authority figures and the government in his stories often turning their backs on the impending doom humanity is facing. Lovecraft may think that when humanity turns its back on itself, it may in fact deserve it.

H.P. Lovecraft’s effects on the genre don’t only reach to famous filmmakers and authors such as John Carpenter and Stephen King, however, with the eeriness of Lovecraft’s work being something that horror writers still discuss and attempt to emulate. In a journal written by Thomas Hull, an associate professor of mathematics, titled H.P. Lovecraft: a Horror in Higher Dimensions, he discusses the impact Lovecraft’s writing has had on the modern world of horror. “…Lovecraft was a master at capturing a certain eerie mood of unknown gulfs which very few horror writers have since come near,” Hull says. “Specifically, Lovecraft was primarily interested in creating an appropriate mood to inspire in the reader a sense of cosmic horror: that the hopes, dreams, and philosophies of humankind are inconsequential to the larger universe” (Hull 10). These philosophies are something that creators of horror attempt to emulate. For instance, take H.R. Giger. Giger was an illustrator and painter, who became very popular for his work in Alien, a science fiction movie from 1979, specifically through his designs of the xenomorph, the main villain in the film. Giger was heavily inspired by Lovecraft, evident by the fact that he would name two collections of his work after the Necronomicon, an item found in various stories. The first of these works, Necronomicon, was given to Ridley Scott, the director of Alien, during pre-production of the movie. After Ridley Scott saw the illustrations, H.R. Giger was hired to make concept art for Alien. Furthermore, Alien was also inspired heavily by Lovecraft, featuring aspects of the Lovecraftian philosophy cosmicism. There are numerous movies with slight Lovecraft influence, such as The Evil Dead series featuring a Necronomicon, Ghostbusters, Re-animator, and The Cabin in the Woods. These films act as proof of Lovecraft’s more subtle influence on the horror genre.

Through these plentiful examples of Lovecraft’s themes reflected in the works of horror innovators, it is shown that Lovecraft had a lasting effect on horror as a genre. To this day, numerous writers use the adjective “Lovecraftian” to describe their stories, from monsters within them to the insignificance of man evidenced through the themes. With influential works such as Call of Cthulhu and At the Mountains of Madness, readers of horror are terrified of otherworldly beings who don’t care for them, many of whom show up in stories by those Lovecraft inspired.

Works Cited

Carpenter, John, and Debra Hill. “HALLOWEEN.” Shooting draft, 10 Apr. 1978

Hull, Thomas. “H.P. Lovecraft: A Horror in Higher Dimensions.” Math Horizons, vol. 13, no. 3, Feb. 2006, pp. 10-12. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/25678597.

Lovecraft, Howard P. Supernatural Horror in Literature. Edited by E.F. Bleiler, New York: Dover Publications, 1973.

---. The Dream Cycle of H.P. Lovecraft: Dreams of Terror and Death. Ballantine Books, 2003.

Wohleber, Curt. “The Man Who Can Scare Stephen King.” American Heritage, vol. 46, no. 8, Dec. 1995, www.americanheritage.com/content/man-who-can-scare-stephen-king.

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Depths Below: Midnight Hour, Part 4

(In an effort to promote talented writers and the amazing characters created here, HoTN has the pleasure of sharing an original work by certainly my oldest and also one of my dearest friends.  Someone who not only roleplays the twin sister of Lazarius, but in turn has become like a sister to me in real life, @pyravari-kashebahl ,  with a bit of additional completion by my own hand.  I truly hope those of you who follow our work enjoy this chapter of our tale.  Thank you  )

In the third week leading up to Lazarius being taken by the mercenaries and House Kash’ebahl falling into ruin, it would be the coordinated efforts of the members of the Nine leading the charge to extract a carefully planned revenge on the parties responsible.   Magister Dawnseeker had begun this assault by taking from them their precious Inquisitor, whether he realized it or not he was declaring open war on not only the house in question, but the Nine.  Each of the members of the order had their mission.  They were to deal with a particular member of the eleven magisters in question, leaving together but toward different places they would carry out their plan to eliminate the threat.  This was their Midnight Hour, on the hypothetical doomsayer clock, they were four minutes til…

“Magister Sunfire...”.

The name alone was something that was more than likely renowned along the nobility circuit of Quel’thalas.  Like most Magister types who were involved with a bit too much of the court politics and rubbing of important elbows, Sunfire was very secure within the community.  Despite the fact that his fortune and fame were fairly recent; so recent that his lineage could be traced back only a few generations to being among the poverty of the lower class.  Sunfire was now holding a metaphorical trump card with his agreement to join Dawnseeker, eliminating House Kash’ebahl was a key victory to procuring trade lines and a rather large sum of benefactors that depended on them.

He came from nothing, achieving his influence and prestige by utilizing deceit and control grabs throughout the years. And like his ability to scam his way into his seat of authority, so too was his command over his magic.  The Sin’dorei was a master of illusions but far too gluttonous on his own power to know when discretion was needed in his operations.

He’d surrounded himself in the general area of where he’d believed a man of his power and stature should be, Northrend.  A place where another once very powerful ‘king’ once ruled a frozen landscape with an army of the dead.  And like this ‘king’, Sunfire would rule his small encampment with an illusion army of elves and orcs alike; he saw himself as more a dominant force of magical authority, than a magister with keen powers.

Even as fictional creatures, they were still overwhelmingly powerful in their deceit, created by a true weaver of deceptions as he controlled them with his very mind.  They could inflict damage, they could overpower and consume the forces who dared to disturb this powerful mage, but most importantly they were endless.  He could create them as he needed and buy himself necessary time to either flee or cause more damage. 

Sadly though, they were only as intelligent in their ability to wield arms as their creator.  And even more sadly, Magister Sunfire was no soldier.  He was not a fighter at all, and commanding was not a job for the weak minded or petty at heart.  He barely masqueraded about as though he was in command.

And so, Pyravari Kash’ebahl; twin sister of the illustrious Inquisitor, who’d gone missing at the hands of these pestilent vermin, sat along the high ridges of the tundra with her very real army. She observed, planned, and began to take action, but more importantly she was allowing her rage and desire for battle slowly build.

Guntram soared high above, feeding information to his mistress by their very intricate connection, allowing her to see with his eyes what exactly they were up against.   The exalted raven had been her companion for many years now.  Taking up a role as her protector, and her friend when times had been rough or she was on her own.

But, this army was stationary, silent, and above all else fake. The elves and orcs stood there in the billowing winds of frost and snow without a single shiver, without a single humid breath, their cloaks and tabards shifting with the currents of the vicious weather.

Guntram had spotted Sunfire in the part of the camp along a northern ridge, several miles away from the Bastille’s entrance.  Thankfully for her, Pyravari would not require a reason to strike first.  Being this close to the entrance of Azjol Nerub was something that rattled her dead, lithe body.  Using the surviving Nerubians as a buffer to keep wanderers away was one thing.  But literally having them parked on-top of their base of operations, well this was all the motivation she needed.  That and the man still acted against her brother.  He would die just for that reason alone.

For the past week he had been closing in, but she couldn’t understand exactly… how. At the moment, it didn’t matter for she’d investigate such things later. With a single wave of her hand, her elite she’d brought with her began to fan out along the ridge they perched upon, their typically dark-colored armor now melding in with the atmosphere as they were all clad in sharp white and grays, creating their own illusion along the ridge line.

Vari hoisted herself over the ledge she perched along, her own stark-white armor blending in to the surroundings while her hoarfrost reached its tendrils out to create a sort of ice-slide she would skate down. Upon reaching the base of the cliff face, she would begin the trek toward the camp, taking caution to remain well out of sight of the illusion army.

She’d spent hours upon hours observing them, noting they never moved or seemed to care that anything stirred nearby. It was as if they were waiting for something, for a command that would spark them to life like a toy soldier needing to be wound up before setting it free.

As the camp came into view, Vari’s elite would shift around the perimeter and take up residence in their camouflaged cover. Heavy steps would be met with ice and snow as Vari seemingly passed through something. She halted, her lich-fire hues boring into the very tent which her target would be within, and for a moment she felt a fleeting feeling of unease.

She lifted her arm to reach for her runeblade along her back, curling her fingers around the pommel and feeding off its power before withdrawing it and bringing it forward. That was when she heard Guntram’s sudden warning caw pierce the air.

”Seems you came to me rather than me having to go to you. Ah yes, Pyravari Kash’ebahl. I know of you. Once a prestigious warrior in the High Elven army. Slain and raised by Arthas himself. Blah blah blah.... Tell me, where is your brother?”

The nasally, taunting voice belonged to a brown-haired elf who suddenly appeared directly before her, his form shimmering out of nothing. Furs and majestic colors of reds and golds adorned his body, shielding him from the wild winds of Dragonblight.

Sunfire, that was certainly him.

The entire camp shifted then, disappearing into nothing but more frozen tundra and discarded dragon bones long since past.

”Thank you for saving me the trouble. We get to play now, yes?”

A sneer erupted over Vari’s cracked lips, her lich-fire hues still burning hot with anger as her obsidian locks of hair whipped wildly around in a vortex of cold she’d exude.

”I am not a good sport when it comes to games…” she retorted in her own dry witty way.

Vari struck then, a hand thrusting outward as she attempted to asphyxiate the magister within a shadowy grasp, but it was useless. Her death magic bounced off the magister and came barreling back toward her as she moved just in time lest she became struck by her own spell.

”What is this?!” she bellowed as the magister cackled with his unbound glee.

”Oh, oh-ho, my dear girl. It is your end, finally. Isn’t that what you want? But…not so soon, no. I’d much rather play with my toy until it breaks.” he responded with that shrill, annoying tone.

A plated fist slammed forward with a deafening roar that resounded from the woman's throat. She shrieked in her fury, realizing he'd somehow shielded himself, but not only that, she was entrapped in some sort of... force field.

“I will see you dead, Sunfire...” she hissed in hatred as she stood as solid as the invisible wall around her. “Where is my brother!  You and the filth you associate with, I will cut you down one by one until I get my answer!”

“Oh, I highly doubt that, dear. As it is...” He waved his gloved hand toward the edge of where the camp had once been, where her elite now suffered the same fate as they pounded fists and slammed weapons and shot spells at the same sort of force field, struggling with all they had to reach their Harbinger.

“You will pay dearly!” she snarled.

“Oh yes, and I will forever fear your wrath.  Yes, yes.  Oh and the topic of your brother. . . had we actually been worried about you, we would have put the bounty on your head just as we did your other siblings.”  Sunfire snicked, in fact taking a shot at her undeath, as if she didn’t matter.

“You will leave Siida alone!” Vari hissed pounding on the illusion that surrounded her. “She has nothing to do with this!”

“She has everything to do with this.  Dawnseeker will either get what he wants or continue to chip away at your families foundation until it is as dead as you are.  A reminder, the deceased cannot claim fortunes and heirs.  So. . . don’t bother complaining to the courts.”  Sunfire said as he cackled again.

The illusion army had been commanded now, moving like robots through the tundra's terrain toward her own forces, creating a wide arc several rows in depth with the opposite ridge line as a barrier.

“It seems you are rather out numbered, wouldn't you say?” the man quipped as he watched her struggle.

Vari shrieked again, this time slamming her runeblade into the ground as ice and bone erupted from the earth, spraying outward and up as jagged pieces stuck into the shield. The magister laughed a nasally cackle, his head tilting back slightly in glee as his eyes burned with intense excitement.

"Come then... let's play."

Without warning, Vari was brought to her knees in excruciating pain as a scream ripped from her throat, her body barely held up by her weight leaning along her speared blade. The magister's gaze was locked to hers and alight with such fire.

"Feels so real doesn't it? The effects of the Light along your skin. It's only an illusion, mind you. But to you... I imagine it feels quite like it would if it truly touched you, hm?"  The brain is a marvelous tool.  So easily changed when accurately motivated.

The hatred in Vari's gaze was palpable, unable to be hidden and it was unhinged, unbridled, ready to roll from her and shatter the man's very soul. Her blade hummed it's agreement, starved for the fulfillment the man's death would bring it.

“I've... had... worse...” she bit out, the pain taking its time to travel through the veins she held beneath her skin. “All... you’ve... got?”

His chipper response was grotesque, filled with more intrigue and excitement.

“Oh-ho! Is that so? Magister Dawnseeker told us all about you, a fiery one. I wonder- if I some how kept you alive... the irony of that statement is not lost, by the way.... I wonder, would he reward me handsomely? For capturing the very twin of the one he extorts? I bet...” Sunfire gasped, a mocking noise riddled with sarcasm.

He bent low, bringing his face level with hers as she struggled against the pain the illusion of light bestowed upon her body.

"I bet... you would make a nice token of my loyalty. A way for me to be farther up on his graces. Perhaps then... then he will see what sort of ally I really am to him. And then I will have garnered the power that I truly deserve."

Even though she was incapable of breaking the force that the Magister had placed on her, she was not without her sass.  Nor would she shelter such a ridiculous idea as she drew a woad of spittle into her mouth and expelled it directly into his eye.  The result would be a fantastic relief of his close annoyance.

“You’d be... better off killing me, because so.... help the gods below if you do anything but. . . I will mount ....your head on a pike ...and leave it frozen... here with a... stupid look of shock you will most certainly regret!”  she said struggling through each word as the pain grew.  A sense she was not used to given her undeath.

With a slow draw after backing away from the lich, Sunfire would run his finger tips across the bridge of his nose and rim of his eyelid as he removed her disgusting display of angst.

“Daughter of a Lady of the Court, Varina would be rolling in her grave, had she ever  been put in one, your manners are atrocious. Perhaps you need a lesson in etiquette before I ship you off to my lord.” 

Sunfire would raise his hands upward and like a puppet master calmly dangling strings, he would begin to play a symphony of magical notes that conjured the manifestations of his craft.  Several large hulking orcs would appear around the struggling Harbinger.  They were wielding large crops and floggers. 

“Remove the armor.  I’d like to see how dead flesh reacts to lashes.”

“Fuck you! Don’t touch me!” Vari began to rise from the ground as the illusion of light energy bore down on her.  From the depths of her tortured soul she would belt out a scream that rivaled even that of the Banshee Queen herself.  But it was useless.  His power, and his over amplified magic were just proving to be too much for her.

“Tsk tsk tsk Pyravari.  I told you. . . you’re not getting out of this.”

“They will release . . . me. . .” she hissed back.

“They? Oh who? Your soldiers?”  the magister said as he began to snort and cackle. “How long do you think they can go at it? Thirty? Fourty minutes tops?”

As the magister continued to rant, the large orcs would begin to paw at the saronite plate that surrounded her body.  Piece by piece they would begin undoing and plucking the armor from her well preserved frame beneath.  She would fight them any chance that she could with minor struggles and snapping bites but in this state of suspension and pain, how could she resist.

“Let them fight.  Kill six and a dozen will appear.  Have you never heard of the Hydra formation?”  The magister said to her as the orcs continued their rip chunks of her plate armor from her body.  He was certainly filled with information, useless and annoying to her, she hardly listened.

“That is the benefit of an illusion army.  I can just keep producing more.  Conjure them as I need to.  Eventually, your soldiers will tire.  They will weaken and make a mistake, which they most certainly will, and when they do. . .cut them down like little paper dolls.”

“You. . .talk. . .too much.”  Vari hissed as she was stripped bare to her thin chain undershirt with her lower plate armor still intact. “Windbags normally. . .deflate with a little prick...”

The magister snarled.  He was the type who’d more than likely appreciate a stroking of his ego.  But Vari was having nothing of it.  She would fight him despite her prison.

“Remove the mail.”  he hissed as the orcs ripped the light chain link from her body.  Beneath that, the Harbinger wore only her basic under garment.  Enough to keep her pride in tact, lady like and hardly as flashy as some of those who dwell in and around the dark corners of the city.

Vari lashed and hissed.  Her body was burning from the illusion of light magic being used on her.  Her mind innocently being played with by the masterful mage who was doing so with hardly any effort.  All while she was being prepared to be whipped and beaten for his pleasure.

“I am going to enjoy this.” He said as his whiny voice made its way toward her ear in the most disgusting of manners.

“Get it over with, any more. . . talk and I’d just assume you . . .can’t get it up.” The Harbinger baited as she struggled through the pain.

It was enough to cause the Magister to lower his guard for only that brief second.  His hands waved away in order to dismiss the two orcs who had served there purpose.  They faded into obscurity like a distant memory.  And as he brandished a light based illusion whip, his arm rose up into the air.  He was going to cause her pale, beautiful skin to be ripped to pieces.  He’d had enough of her gloating and back talk.

But what he had not accounted for was the swift vengeance of a watchful wing.  The protector that had been soaring over head all along.  Guntram swooped in right as the Magister was about to crack down on her and in one violent action planted himself directly over the twisted elfs face and began his onslaught. 

One clawed talon latching to his cheek and the other his receding hair line.  The blood dripping from the mans face as the majestic raven drove his sharpened beak directly into the eye socket of the miserable man.  This would be met with several horrible screams of blood curdling pain.  The eye was plucked directly from the comfortable position it was in and dangled just above his cheek, as it was still attached by the ocular stem. 

Guntram quickly flapped his wings and startled the mage even further, though not before taking a swift hand to the back.  The dark raven was large enough to take such a beating, but was also smart enough to know when to back down.  This was only to cause distress and distract the magister from his conjuring.  He was magically superior when it came to combat and taking damage, but the assault from the omnipotent raven was certainly not an expected result.

Many of the soldier that were out in the field stopped moving during this attack.  This allowed Vari’s own force to cut them down and begin working their way closer.  But not only that, it gave her that one moment of freedom.  She let loose another banshee wail, and as the light forced illusion subsided just enough in the confusion of his pain, she acted.

Her fist curled into a ball and she drove it; gods willing through his scrotum, directly into his crotch.  She had wanted to make sure that if she did in fact rupture a testicle that he’d surely be in enough pain before she hurt him further.

“Fucking hell. . .”  she wheezed after slamming her fist directly into him.  But this only left her more confused.  He was gone, reappearing several feet away after blinking to try and get distance between them.

“Oh no, get back here!” she said as her voice cracked in angst.

She scrambled from her knees, trying desperately to get footing in the slippery snow.  Despite her pain and insane amount of anguish that only an illusion like this could have caused her undead body.  She would not let him escape; or for that matter gain any quarter of solace before pummeling him to death. 

She clawed and grasped at the tundra, getting only enough leverage to stumble toward him.  Her hands were frozen from the cold but this was only to enhance her ability.  She’d forged a blade of pure ice on the back of her forearm and with a swift thrust would plunge it directly into the mans stomach as she fell forward.

Or had she? 

Sunfire stood there with the blade nearly bent over in a ninety degree angle.  It had not gone through, or even caused him to have a single scratch.  Though his eye was still dangling in a gross way spilling little droplets of blood along his cheek, and the claw marks from her faithful friend still doing enough damage to leave him permanently scarred.  That and his manhood was more than likely in a serious bit of pain.

“W-what the. . .”  she stammered out as her lich fire eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and confusion. “H-how can you. . .”

! ! !-S L A P-! ! !

Directly across the face.  He would back hand the Harbinger like she was a common bar maiden or some subservient house worker.  He certainly had a large amount of gall even after having his lower bits pummeled.  But if you are going to poke a hornets nest you should make sure that you destroy them all.  Slapping the woman did nothing but anger her more.

Her bladed weapon was abandoned and instantly summoned once more as she took to a last ditch effort of thrusts and swings.  Each time she would connect with a part of the mans flesh it would either shatter her ice blade or cause it the dull and break.  And every swing she would produce another, freezing the flesh of her arms and creating weapon after weapon to try and somehow cut him to pieces.

The pair were locked in this dance for quite some time.  Her own strength was just the pure anger and fury she had built up during the brief moment of his holding her in prison.  Even though she was a killing machine, and would not tire easily, she was injured.  Not physically, but mentally.  The pain she felt for the first time, in a very long time, was beginning to tire her out. 

Sating her need for battle and actually winning were very large differences.  She would have to eventually rest or run the risk of damaging her already decayed tissue further.  After all, she may have not been fully forsaken but she was undead.

The magister would deflect an ice blade, mock her by blinking away, appearing behind her and giving her a jab to the back, or a burning sensation with another light based lashing.  He would be nearly unstoppable at this point, shimmering and bolting from location to location.  She could try and hit him but no matter what she did; it seemed like she was unable to break through his power. 

Even her army was starting to falter.  The soldiers she had brought; despite their masterful training and abilities, were tiring as well.  Several had fallen to the blades of the illusions and even more were being forced back into a defensive position because they could not continue to cut them down due to their fatigue. 

“I...” she began to scream as she slammed her blades against the mans deflecting arms making only glancing blows.

“Will. . .”  She would swing again and lash at him with the anger of ten Harbingers.

“Not. . .” 

Another swing.

“Be. . . “

She’d dart to the left, spin and lunge at him with a piercing jab at his chest.

“Defeated!”

The final overhead slash would cause the entire tundra to burst in a shock wave of power.  It was so fatal to the world around them that even the illusion army would begin to fade away.  The whirlwinds of snow and ice that were trying to crush the mortals around this area would stop all together, and the silence that crashed down on the battlefield soon became overbearing.

“Do you think I would ever be so foolish to put myself in a position to be beaten by a lower class miscreant like you!”  Sunfire sniveled as he spat in her direction. “The Kash’ebahl family will die and you will continue to witness my power grow and grow!  And in the wake of our success; live on as a slave to my lord. . .witnessing how truly pathetic your clan really was.”

“Keep talking. . .” she huffed and puffed as she tried to regain her stamina.  The only thing she wished to do was kill this man.  And so she would conjure up a small blade of ice in her palm and when he had stopped paying attention to rant, her wrist flicked forward and sent the dagger whirling through the air directly at his thigh muscle.

It was nothing more than another deflected strike.  The blade wouldn’t pierce him, it wouldn't even be a hard object to. . .

Sunfire suddenly felt something begin to sting against his body.  Warm liquid running down his knee, staining his beautiful robes.  The crimson liquid seeping out sent a shocking notion into his brain.

“Sinefel. . .my orb. . . “

Vari watched on with a slow turning grin.  She knew something had changed; whatever it was it didn’t quite matter, he was in fact bleeding. 

“…what have… you done… my … .power… . . “

Unbeknownst to the Harbinger at that very moment, on an entirely different continent all together, at a time that could have not been any more fortuitous; Westley P. Whistletorque and Brox Sulfin had accidentally stumbled into the ambush of the Alliance against Magister Sinefel and his mages in the Searing Gorge. 

She rushed at him like a blizzard wind suddenly becoming a strong gust.  Shards of ice would blister on her bare feet as she used them as little snow picks and dig into the frozen tundra.  She charged like a vicious animal, hungry and on the prowl.  Her wild blue blazing eyes were leeching a strong frozen aura and the piercing shrill voice of her banshees wail was causing the frozen water collected on various objects the begin shattering.

The little gnome at that exact moment had accidentally toppled over an orb that was sitting in the tent where they were supposedly supposed to assassinate Magister Sinefel. 

In an effort to preserve a foothold and bolster his own magics; Sunfire had asked Magister Sinefel to retain the orb in his possession.  The odds of someone stumbling upon both of them and some how working out that it was in fact a power generating device were astronomical.  But never tell a gnome the odds when it came to such things.

The orb itself was a basin of power.  It amplified Magister Sunfires power to near infinity.  With it in tact, any person trying to inflict harm would be met with the same result.  Time and time again, glancing blows and deflections.  It would have been entirely certain that the crotch punch she administered was also shielded.  But what was not expected, was the innocent mawing of a faithful bird.

Vari had balled her frozen fingers into the tightest fist she possibly could, rounded it back behind her body, and let loose a punch that launched its way directly into his jaw.  As it sailed toward him, she’d absorb as many of the wet molecules in the air that she could; creating an ice like fist encasing her own. 

The resulting smash would send another wave of energy barreling through the landscape, killing off whatever remained of his imaginary army.  Her soldiers; at least those who survived, were safe at this point.

The body of the magister was sent hurdling across the tundra end over end like it had just been ejected violently from a moving vehicle.  His rag doll like frame curling and cowering against a wagon wheel that allowed for light passage in this landscape.  He was huddling there whimpering like a scared animal. 

Vari was having none of this, she was a being who would not feel pity for such a self righteous, arrogant man.  Let alone pity for anyone who dared to stand against her.  She was not the type to turn that leaf.  She was not the type to feel remorse either. 

Every crunching step across the glacial frost land brought another sudden snap of disbelief into the brain of the magister.  He was truly and royally screwed at this point. 

In a last ditch effort, what little control over the basics in wizardry would be thrown her way.  And as if only swatting at bothersome insects, she would send the small fire bolts and shocking arcane missles aside. 

She towered over him, her blank face; expressionless.  She took no joy in killing a man who was so pathetic he would cover his eyes in fear.  But she did find great pride in knowing that one of those responsible for what had happened to her brother and family were going to get what they deserved.

“You need me!” he said in one last ditch effort to gain some sort of pardon from her. “I-I can help you.  I will tell you. . . I c-can tell you. . .”

“I can tell you. . .”  She said as she cut him off mid-sentence. “That I promised to remove your head and place it on a pike overlooking these lands with that stupid. . .shameless. . .gawking face left for the masses of the world to see.”

The mans eyes widened, and for the first time in the entire ordeal; and perhaps this year, Pyravari cracked the slightest of smiles.

“And I always keep my promises.”

The magister was beside himself.  A gaping mouth hung open as he peered up at her nearly in convulsions.  The sound of ice swirling around her hand once more and being shaped into a long, razor sharp blade was even unable to break his thousand yard stare up into those cold, dead blue eyes.

“That’s the one . . .”

After the battle had subsided. . . .

Standing atop the same cliff side that she had started on when she emerged from the depths of the Nerubian tunnels; Pyravari Kash’ebahl peered out against the frozen landscape with her valiant force gathered behind her.  Armor was replaced on her muscled physique and the runeblade she’d lost during the battle was once again strapped firmly to her back piece. 

A gust of cold air shredded the silent tundra once more and sensation of pure satisfaction slowly washed over the mighty Harbinger.  She flared her petite nostrils in a show of defiance, turning up her nose and letting out a huff.  She rolled her shoulders slightly and in a forceful about face; whirled her cloak of heavy furs and chain behind her, and then gave the signal to depart.

She marched her heavy plated boots through the fresh powder as she held the rear of the formation.  A small smile still tugging on her cracked lips when she peered back only one last time to see her success.

There, setting on a pike which had been impaled just below the jaw and directly splitting the center of the skull; was that of the head of Magister Sunfire.  His wide eyes and wispy brown hair collecting fragments of ice over them as they began to freeze over.  And even then; locked in a permanent face of sheer terror and stupidity for ever crossing the goliath, the pitiful mage would forever be remembered.  Not for his power or his success.  But for crossing the wrong enemy and never once comprehending how large a mistake that was.

To be continued in “In Depths Below: Midnight Hour, Part 5″ . . . .

@pyravari-kashebahl

@zalraazurestar

@suncrest-legacy

@siidaraykashebahl

@whatadarkbitch

@lady-dawnblood

@daltalah

@thebladeitself

@zandalaridruidofgonk

[lenneth-andrew]

Lenneth Andrew

Appearance –

Gender: Male Race: Duskwight Elezen  Height: 6′8” Eye Color: Moon white  Hair Color: Midnight, easily sunbleaching to medium royal blue

The Facts –

Name Day: 9th Sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon (June 8th) Occupation: Alchemist  Sexual identification: Homosexual Romantic identification: Homoromantic. He doesn’t exactly think of himself as polyamorous, if you asked him, but he does have multiple concurrent romantic relationships so... Alignment: Recovering neutral evil Criminal History: Managed to evade arrest within Dalmasca for quite some time, until he finally crossed one too many lines and the Garlean police finally came after him for a little TLC time in a labor camp. For the rest of his life. He managed to ship himself to Radz-at-Han in a crate before they shipped him to a gulag, but only just. Relationship Status: In open relationships with both Atherton Namir (@imperialnuisance​) and Ilan Faust (@fireiistarter​). Susceptible to catching The Feels for anyone male and reasonably nice to him. Sweet on: Other than Atherton and Ilan? He’d rather die than confirm or deny anything, honestly (but it’s not terribly hard to guess based on the company he keeps). Hard to say, though, he’s strikingly incompetent at figuring out which emotion he’s feeling, just that there is one and can it please stop now.

Favorites –

Favorite food: Anything strongly-flavored and very, very spicy.  Favorite drink: Alcohol? He’s not actually that picky, but a good whiskey never goes amiss with him. Favorite artist: He doesn’t really have much of an opinion on this front, but he does really enjoy Renaux’s singing voice. Favorite scent: Incense, tea, whiskey, certain alchemical processes, ceruleum exhaust, machine shop grease, tobacco, woodsmoke, somnus. Favorite person: If he absolutely had to choose one person, likely Atherton, as that’s who he has known the longest and been the closest to, but he’d really rather not be put in this position, thanks.

Randoms –

Ten facts about your muse: ⚫ Lenneth has been at other times a somnus dealer and information broker, but he’s largely gotten out of the business and got clean. (Also I don’t do heavy drug RP now for OOC reasons, so there’s that.) He does still grow his own moko and use a fair amount of it, as it’s one of the few things that keeps his rather twitchy nerves on an even keel. ⚫ While he is an arcanist, he learned a different school in Dalmasca more focused on disruption of biological aetheric processes and without any kind of summoning. He struggles to use Eorzean books as foci, as the math is wildly divergent from what he’s expecting. He’s also largely self-taught, so some of his grasp of it is more intuitive than learned, so while he struggles with inorganic targets, he’s also a fairly flexible caster and can change strategies on the fly if needed.

⚫ Lenneth grew up in Garlean-occupied Dalmasca and considered himself Garlean for his entire life. To some extent he still does, even though he’s applied for Eorzean citizenship as a refugee. He’s finally adapting to life outside a regimented system in which he’s at the bottom, but it’s been a Process, man. ⚫ In the same vein, being Garlean has made it extremely difficult for Lenneth to talk to or trust most people for several years now, and it’s worn on him incredibly heavily. He’s at last in a somewhat better place, as almost nobody would attack a refugee even if he told them where he’s from, and he’s been working very hard at not automatically distrusting (if not actively disliking) every new person he meets. His mental health is on a positive trend for a change as a result.

⚫ He loves swimming, and moving to Mist has been a fantastic thing for him. Lenneth swims near-daily, weather allowing, and finding him along the shore in the morning is not at all an unusual occurrence when it’s warm. Growing up, he often went swimming in an abandoned quarry not too far from town, so even in the desert he managed to practice frequently enough. He’s fairly good at it at this point, and the Elezen build of a lean body, long arms, and large hands gives him a bit of an advantage.

⚫ You would not expect a bookish noodle of a man like Lenneth to enjoy fighting, let alone be any kind of competent at it, but he actually has an impressive record at the Gin Mill, in single matches as well as taking home the grand championship of a full bracket tournament. After suffering a near-fatal knife wound from an extremely poor loser, he lost a lot of his confidence and stopped competing, but he’s been slowly coming back again and hasn’t lost too much of his edge.

⚫ He originally learned alchemy (also self-taught, as are almost all of his skills) in order to process his own somnus from raw materials and cut out the middleman, but he’s turned it into a legal day job and a decent business. Most of his product goes to Ilan’s and Nevivi’s clinics, but he does a fair trade around Ul’dah, usually dealing in bulk with other merchants as a supplier. He’s not opposed to making sales to individual clients (plot hook!), though it isn’t the largest part of his work.

⚫ Lenneth has a very self-deprecating sense of humor, and you’ll know when he thinks of you as a friend because he’ll turn it outwards and give you a rough time about minor things in jest. Granted, sometimes people can find this offputting, and then he’s back where he started with them. Whoops.

⚫ Having been born and raised in a desert, Lenneth cannot stand being cold. Unfortunately, Atherton very much likes Ishgard and the Skysteel Manufactory, so he can either spend time there with Atherton and freeze, or not spend time with Atherton and stay warm. More often than not he ends up staying home, where the snow cannot get him. When it even gets cold in Vylbrand, he just complains and lives in Atherton’s room where the forge keeps it warm.

⚫ Lenneth’s difficulty in trusting people is finally starting to budge, after years, but it’s been an endless uphill struggle for him. He has a very hard time showing it but he’s incredibly grateful for the friends that have stuck with him even when he’s done terrible things. Granted, once this sentiment’s been filtered through his tsundere shell, it comes out a little more scary than he means for it to...but he really tries.

Five Things -

Things they like:

Extremely hot foods

Good tobacco

Really, anything made with good workmanship

Comfort in just about any form

Cozy spaces, not too brightly lit

Things they dislike:

Jumpscares

Having to hear about how Garleans are all terrible

Being assumed to be Ishgardian

Strangers touching him

Thinking about his family

Good habits:

Left to his own devices, he’s fairly motivated and productive

Actually fairly clean and tidy, likes everything in order

Between his own love of swimming and Atherton’s morning exercise routine, he’s fairly active and in decent shape

He likes learning new things and is a good self-teacher

Though he’s not an easy friend to make, once you do, he’s loyal to the point of murder (...which might actually be bad)

Bad Habits:

Using moko and alcohol to make up for a lack of coping skills

Forgetting to eat when he’s focused

Does not do all the pushups, basically ever

Automatically thinking of most people as savages...

Really cannot keep a regular schedule to save his life

Personalities they gravitate toward:

Strong types

...Kind of scary types actually

People who radiate self-confidence

Intelligent sorts

Very loyal people

Personality types they avoid:

Braggarts

People with chips on their shoulder

Clingy sorts

Martyrs (although he has multiple friends in this category, much to his nonstop chagrin and early gray hair...)

Stupid brutes

Fears:

Scorpions

Alienating friends (but he’s so good at it...)

Crowds

Rejection

Being physically entrapped

Tagged kind of indirectly by: @shroudwayman Tagging: God damn this was long, do it at your own risk if you want to.

[movieswithkevin27]

Only the Brave

Joseph Kosinski's Only the Brave is a tearjerker of the highest order, in its telling of the story of the Granite Mountain Hot Shots. A team of firefighters who fought fires head-on across the nation but were based in Prescott, Arizona, the all but one of the men in the group were killed in the Yarnell Hill Fire of 2013. Building up to this eventual tragedy, Kosinski's greatest achievement in this film is firmly established long before the men ever report to Yarnell Hill. Through the nearly two hours before this fire, Only the Brave pain-stakingly develops the men as individuals in their private lives and on the job. Though this film is about a tragedy and contains many scenes of firefighting action where the men are able to return home, Only the Brave is a film about these men in life and a celebration of who they were, instead of a film about this disaster. In essence, it is a story of the men and the wives/girlfriends/parents/children/siblings impacted by this tragedy, which allows Only the Brave to be an achingly human and powerful viewing experience.

From the very beginning, Kosinski begins to signal that this is not a typical "based on a true life tragedy" film. Typically, these films include a brief scene of family followed by some brief bonding before jumping right into the tragedy. Kosinski, instead, takes a unique approach with nearly two hours of family, friendship, and the forging of a bond through fighting fires, before finally reaching that somber day. In the course of this, he introduces us to men such as Eric Marsh (Josh Brolin) and his wife Amanda (Jennifer Connelly). Many character building scenes are devoted solely to Amanda, showing her as a horse loving woman who rehabilitates ones that are neglected and teaches others how to care for horses properly. We see young Brendan McDonough (Miles Teller) do drugs, get arrested, and kicked out of his mother's home, only to learn he is about to become a father. We see Brendan join the group of firefighters, forge a friendship with Chris MacKenzie (Taylor Kitsch) and care for his daughter. In quiet moments, we see the men goof around, make fun of one another, and act like the young men that they are in their private lives. We see them fight fires with great success, even sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon watching the dying embers of the fire they just fought off pour over into the canyon itself. While much of the focus is on Eric and Brendan to be sure, this is a film about the brotherhood between the firefighters and the people they will eventually leave behind as much as it is one about fighting fires.

Never skimming through this character development and consistently taking the time to establish even the most peripheral of characters into enjoyable and recognizable presences in the film, Kosinski manages to make Only the Brave into a celebration of these men as they lived, not how they died. By the time the tragedy happens, these men feel as though they have become part of our own families and our hearts, making the tragedy all the more impactful and emotionally resonant. This is a film that builds great pathos, relatability, and depth in its characters that allows this film to work not just as an action or tragedy film, but as a fully-fledged drama with well-rounded characters across the board, protagonists you identify with and root for, and wife characters who are not just there as background noise instead strong, developed characters in their own right. In having watched many action films - let alone ones based on true stories - Only the Brave stands as one of the rare entries that values every single person it puts on the screen. It treats each with respect and care, capturing the essence of every single person mentioned and allowing the audience to understand who they really were, both in action and in the quiet times.

While the film's strong writing certainly helps to bring light to the real men behind these characters, it is often the film's acting that lifts the film up. As superintendent Eric Marsh, Josh Brolin shines in one of his best performances in recent memory. As we see him express doubt over his life, uncertainty about having a kid, and whether or not he wants be a family man or a firefighter, Brolin transforms into Marsh with all of his emotion, authenticity, and inner conflicts. The bond between Miles Teller's Brendan and Taylor Kitsch's Chris is palpable with the two becoming these two men who, after having so much animosity between them at the beginning, became like twin brothers. In traversing the life of the recovering addict Brendan McDonough, the new fatherhood, and the eventual survivor's guilt he experiences, Teller similarly delivers one of his best performances in a truly moving performance. Delivering lines with great feeling and emotion, Teller similarly becomes Brendan. As Eric's wife, Jennifer Connelly is similarly excellent, capturing the emotion felt by this woman as she fought for her husband to choose her over firefighting and eventually how she copes with his loss. As a character-driven work, it is imperative that Only the Brave has great acting and it has performances of the highest order that will likely be overlooked by the time Awards season comes around due to the content of the film, but it will be true misfortune when that occurs. These are not actors portraying real people, but rather actor becoming real people and being able to communicate their emotion, beliefs, and personalities, through their every world and interaction.

It is this authenticity that really makes the film so affecting, with Kosinski managing to overcome any predictability or sentimentality not because it is a true story, but with how invested the audience becomes. By making the dialogue so natural, the characters so real (yes they are real, but many non-fiction films still fail to do this), and allowing the audience to feel the pain of their loss in our very core, Kosinski creates a film that truly hits home. By the time we realize these men will truly die - a fact we try to convince ourselves will not actually occur - our heart sinks, our gut wrenches, and our eyes well up. Through allowing us into their lives and minds through such authentic and natural dialogue and writing, Only the Brave becomes a film that is never just a tearjerker or an emotionally manipulative work, but rather one that is authentically emotional and resonates with the audience on a deeply human level.

MILD SPOILERS By the time the Yarnell Hill Fire arrives at the very end of the film's second act, Kosinski handles the moment with such grace that he is able to instill thrills, dread, and poignancy, with relative ease. Building tension and anticipation through the scene as the men fight the fire and experiences multiple miscommunications with air support, the camera places the audience right in the midst of the action and we feel the fire closing in on the men. As Brendan, the looker, gets away, we feel his yearning to be with the other men and the tension of the moment as his escape route is cut off only for his rescuer to arrive just in time (not Hollywoodized either, it actually happened). As we see the other 19 men of the Granite Mountain Hot Shots get surrounded and forced into prone positions under cover, Only the Brave the speed of the fire, the horror of the moment, and odd beauty of watching the fire whip over the covered bodies of these men. Though a long scene, the actual tragedy of the moment occurs rapidly and largely off-screen, instead focusing on Brendan as he listens to radio communication as medics reach the men. A quiet, poignant, and traumatic moment in the film, this climax of the film sneaks up on you in how rapid the fire spreads and entraps these men, showcasing just how dangerous it can be to fight fire and how, no matter what you believe the situation to be, everything can change in an instant. While the entire film builds one's respect for these wildlife hot shot crews, it is this rapid and striking moment in which all of these men are quickly wiped out by this fire that truly demonstrates the power and the horror possessed by these wildfires.

The heart sinking feeling of knowing these men died is truly cemented once the grief is portrayed. With a gut-wrenching scream, Amanda sets the tone for what is to come. The display of anguished anger as Brendan learns of their death on the radio followed by his face of pure guilt and devastation face as a member of a different hot shot group drives him back home further solidifies this feeling. Gathering all of the family members in the local high school, you can feel the tension in the air as these families wait to learn the fate of their loved one. All begging local fire chief Duane (Jeff Bridges) for answers, the wives cling onto one another and their children, desperate to discover if it is true one man survived and who that man is, holding out a sliver of hope it is their loved one. When Brendan walks into the gym, we see the anguish and guilt on Teller's face. The pained reaction shots of the wives tell the story and communicate the emotion. We feel for them, but we feel the gut punch to Brendan as he knows that, as he walks into this room, nobody wants to see him. They all want it to be their loved one and, instead, it is just him who made it out alive. Using a somewhat hazy shot to capture the moment, we feel the disorientation felt by Brendan as he nervously walks into the gym and faces those left behind and then his all-consuming guilt as he rushes out. As Amanda runs out to console him, the audience feels the shared pain between the two, admire Amanda for her selflessness and strength in the face of losing her husband, and completely identify with Brendan's guilt while fearing his possible relapse into drugs. This poignant, powerful, and deeply affecting display of grief, anguish, guilt, anticipation, pain, and nerves, all combine to make the film's third act one that is the cinematic equivalent of a hobbling gut punch, bringing the audience to our knees. Gracefully presented by Kosinski with marvelous emotion and delivery from Connelly and Teller in this moment, Only the Brave makes you feel and live this moment first-hand, which makes it all the more impactful. END SPOILERS

Visually, Only the Brave is quite strong. Repeatedly, Kosinski seems to return to a few shots: overhead and close-up. As the firefighters traverse the terrain, Kosinski repeatedly returns to overhead shots that are terrifically framed, but really show the size of the team moving into the fire and, often times, the devastation they are walking through after a fire has passed by. Close-up shots come repeatedly in the film, particularly on Brolin, Teller, and Connelly's faces. As Eric pours his heart out to Duane about his hesitations in becoming a father, the camera get high-and-tight on Brolin's face, making the scene all the more intimate and personal. The same occurs to Teller throughout, namely in the aforementioned scene of him walking into the gym and the camera focuses in on his reaction to seeing everybody break down at the sight of him. However, perhaps the most powerful use of close-up comes after the tragedy. Showing Amanda riding one of her horses, the camera shows a silhouetted image of four wild horses just over a hill (a gorgeous shot in its own right) before cutting to Connelly's face with a close-up. With a shimmer in her eye from the sun, there is a certain beauty to the shot that is hard to quantify, which demonstrates the power a simple image of a human face can have, especially one that has been through so much in the course of this film. Other shots such as the fire jumping through trees and brush as it races towards a town, the orange-hues of the fire as Teller and Brolin walk through it, and the embers of the fire falling on the men as they successfully fight a fire, are similarly excellent. However, one of the more powerful shots has to be one of Connelly and Teller. Both on their knees as Amanda consoles the heartbroken and guilt-ridden Brendan, the shot is quite dark with the two of them at the center of the frame, embracing with Amanda holding his face to talk to him. It is a powerful image that truly captures the power of the moment in its simplicity and stripped down approach to capturing the moment. Kosinski shoots it as it is with no added pomp or circumstance, which is often undervalued, but it lets the emotion, words, and actors do the talking.

A powerful journey through the lives of the men of the Granite Mountain Hot Shots, Only the Brave is gripping, thrilling, and emotional. It is a film that never becomes manipulative or cloying, rather its dedication to developing its heroes allows the audience to experience authentic emotion and feeling, as we develop a great bond and connection to these men. We root for them, hope against hope they will survive, and our hearts are broken when they die and one of them is left to live survivor's guilt. It is a film that cares about the men and not the action, which is perhaps the greatest compliment a film about a true story of bravery or heroism could be given. Only the Brave is not about the death of these men or even their line of work as hot shots, but rather it is about them. It explores what they liked, who their families were, what they were afraid of, their pasts, and what they hoped the future would bring. The tragedy does not come because they die, but because of what they leave behind, whether it be the memories, the people, or the unfulfilled dreams.

[lorainelaneyblog]

Letter to the Prime Minister

Dear Prime Minister Trudeau,

I am the woman who was tortured over a period of years, up to, and including, the present, with chemicals, noise machines, fly pasts, alterations of objects in my apartments, plants, bugs, damaged furniture, theft, sirening, stalking, a tasing, and a shooting, by the Vancouver, Toronto, and Ottawa police departments.

Further, I was nearly a casualty of a Carlington landlord, who assaulted me with paint fumes, in the apartment where I still live, and I believe the apartment to harbour the remaining toxicities. 

Further, this landlord, of which I speak, assaulted me with gasoline, and plastics, so that I could not breathe well for some years.

Further, I am of the belief that many people infringed on my copyright for Bros Before Hos, The Equality Apocalypse.

Further, I have been a victim of the mental health system, including pinching of my fingernails, a sprained ankle, confiscation of foot wear, when I had open wounds on my feet, being refused soap, and being told to use the alcohol cleanser when I had open wounds on my hands. I was tied down, denied an adequate diet, denied food supplements, inadequately supplied with toilet paper and towels, and finally gasolined, again, by someone in the hospital.

Further, I was instructed to push down the garbage, since my chemical affection caused frequent trips to bathroom. 

Further, I was exposed to toxic cleaning fluids, and further, I was assaulted with Haldol gaseous. I awoke to hear my roommate gasping for breath, as I was. Once it was naphtha, or something like it. 

Further, once, several nurses stormed the bathroom, and kept telling me not to shower so often.

Further, upon admittance, a single vial of blood drawn caused a chemical overload, nearly causing my death.

Further, in the PSA, I was given a bed pan to go to the toilet in the room, on the floor. I was never asked if I wanted to use the bathroom.

Further, a security guard, female, watched me toileting, and conducting rituals, to stay alive, throughout the night.  

Further, there was untreated rashing, from chemicals, all over my body. I was given hydrocortisone, which I thought would aggravate it. A glaxal based cream was helpful.

As for the police, the chemicals were aviation gas, the propellant for dry ice, and what I believe to be, white gas, mustard gas, and hydrogen gas. Also, I am, currently, this day, being gasolined in my apartment at #15 - 1481 Morisset Avenue, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.

Further, several substances have been used in this very apartment, over the past four years, in addition to substances by the landlord, by the police, I believe, since access to all my apartments would be difficult to achieve. They include joke shop chemicals, like cat urine, garbage, and exhaust, also gasoline, it’s lighter smelling than real gasoline, what I believe to be an industrial adhesive, which caused a slight aching sensation in my sinuses, as well as paint thinners, at least two kinds, one made me smell funny. On that topic, there have been times over the past years, when I could smell like a toxic waste dump, it’s chemical, and it comes out in the urine. Plastics, I have been blowing out of my nose for four years. In fact, you can’t blow your nose anymore, the air sticks, I don’t know how else to describe it.

Further to the plastics, the fear in shortness of breath is very real. I found, and this is very private, but some people know, rest assured, that I would find, as a sex worker, if someone was on top of me, I wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

Further to the plastics, again, they adhere to the inside of the nostrils, and, perhaps, sinuses, causing nose bleeds, though I was using drugs in my nose, a bit, at the time.

Further, even the joke shop chemicals cause headaches, though not sinus pain.

Further, noise machines have been installed in adjacent apartments at times, in a hostel, on a roof top, and in a man hole. These provide such a grinding sound, so as to compel one to move.

To elaborate on the noise machines, it would be hard to compare the noise with the surrounding construction noise, but it would be all night, compelling me, along with the inundation, with the propellant for dry ice, through the penthouse fan vent, to move to the small bedroom where I preferred to see clients, saving the queen bed for myself. The irritation I felt at paying $1950 per month and being unable to utilize the master bedroom and ensuite cannot be overstated.

Further, it was upon making this move that I heard what I suspected were officers on the adjacent roof, talking, and, presumably watching me through infrared cameras.

Further, there were fly pasts, including small planes, and helicopters, large planes, up to 747′s and larger, I believe, on a flight path, but loud, and deviating. One incident involved the chemical bombing of my open windows and a concurrent chemical bombing of the penthouse, at the time, bathroom fan vent.

This continued, in Vancouver, through fan vents, for several years, including shorter stints, with less intensity, in Ottawa and Toronto.

The hovering and fly pasts continued too. Sometimes there is a dump of aviation gas. Even this past summer.

Once, I wrote a nasty letter to Global News complaining about the traffic helicopters, and, that night, a helicopter hovered for over three hours.

Once, a friend of mine was helicoptered too, for three hours.

The disruption of the planes and helicopters cannot be overstated. They are loud, and annoying.

Further, there were intentional air craft simmerings, on the water front in Vancouver, once by Cobras and in Kanata, at a small airport, I believe, well within earshot of my building, causing ear pain, and extreme annoyance. 

Further, the police entered my apartment a number of times, tilting pictures, putting in bugs, the live kind, once putting an old pair of 50 Cent tickets in a book I was reading, confusing me immensely, once putting a green glow worm in my kale.

Further, there were a number of thefts, and what I believe to be called exchanges, of my belongings, so many over the years that I still have memories of things that have been missing for years, including my only two pairs of glasses.

It is my belief, on that topic, that my townhouse, at the time, in Kanata, was entered while I was sleeping, as, at first, the arm of my newer glasses, and the screw, lay beside the glasses, themselves, in the morning. And then both pairs were missing the following morning.

And finally, the old, ugly, scratched, and discoloured pair of glasses turned up again.

Further to exchanges, almost every pair of Victoria’s Secret panties were exchanged, and it took me some time, again, sick as I was, to realize that they were not mine. This is disgusting. I could have got a disease from them.

Further to my mental health experience, blankets are shorted, leaving one cold, I was a little bit attacked by my roommate, and nothing was done. I was a victim of unlawful confinement by a young man I let kiss me, he would entrap me in the bathroom, and I would beg to leave. Further, the same young man would hump me unsuspectingly in front of the microwave every morning, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Nothing was done. He was sent home. I did several months more.

After my transfer to The Royal, it was decided to place me on Seroquel, I have no idea why. I was perfectly calm, as opposed to when they were going to take more blood, I was calling out, “You’re gonna kill me! You’re gonna kill me!” Further, the security guard bent my wrist, and I called out, “You’re gonna break my arm! You’re gonna break my arm!” I almost died on Seroquel. One night, my legs were kicking uncontrollably, and I was falling off the toilet, sick as I was.

Further, I have since been told, by my psychiatrist, that there was liver damage. Further, I am blamed for drinking beer.

Further, my apartment keys, which the arresting officer showed me were placed in my wallet, disappeared in emergency, and also, money was missing, about two hundred dollars, and also, change.

To further illuminate the sprained ankle, I was dumped into a transfer chair, while engaging in passive resistance. I limped around the hospital for two months. On that note, that was also when my thumb nails were pinched. I was obviously conscious, as my eyes were flickering.

I was sufficiently depleted by each hospital stay, I came to realize I would lose eight pounds with each stay. Further, the medications gave rise to many side affects, such as deep wrinkles, frown lines, sore feet, exhaustion, sexual dysfunction, and agitation. 

Further, with respect to the police, my computer has been hacked for several years. I believe material has been stolen. The screen jiggles up and down almost always, and, most recently, side to side. The hacking also involved the theft of four hundred pages of original material, and, maybe, the installation of some porn on a roommates computer, which ended up on mine, as we were connected at the time, and she placed it there. It included a scene of beastiality, which I believe to be illegal. It has since been removed, parts of it, anyway. 

The jiggling makes it impossible, at times, to use my computer for blogging, and email. I no longer write in Word, since I can’t afford it. I would prefer to, as some of my work is private, but I see no point, as I can’t hide anything, and I’m a drug user, so all my money goes to that.

On that note, I believe that my phone calls are tapped since, a few times, during a drug deal, a police vehicle happens to appear, though Carlington is a busy neighbourhood for such crimes, at least it was. 

Further, in an apartment on West 11th was where the tasing took place. It was not painful, as I understand it to be, because it was through the wall, but it caused my body to tense into a curl, and vibrate, and I knew what it was.

Further, once, I believe there was an obstacle course set up for me, while I was driving. I would even guess that two police officers, a man and a woman, on bikes, sports bikes, not ten speeds, who drove quickly and haphazardly, in a diagonal, actually, across the middle of a residential street, were wearing dark contact lenses and grey tone clothing to appear evil.

Further, on another occasion, a driver pulled out right in front of me, while I was driving along 12th Avenue in Vancouver, unpredictably, and late, after looking right at me.

I believe I was on camera frequently, even infrared camera. This was embarrassing for me. I would notice responses to my movements in the form of laughter and conversation, even, once anyway, two phone calls. 

Further, sometimes officers, as I believe, will throw rocks or something up under the appliances, disturbing me at night. Further, they will knock on the wall, causing me stress, and a reason to go check the door. Sometimes, there is a noise at night, which I believe to be exclusively to frighten me.

Further, I believe the officers still enter because of tilted pictures. Also, there was a spatula, missing for years, which was replaced recently. The same thing happened to a foot file.

An Ikea quilt deserves special mention, it was exchanged, and I was left freezing under an old technology quilt, I suppose, with black feathers, freezing. I am still cold, because whatever that landlord used to jack the heat, stayed with the apartment, whether it’s dirt in the lines or what have you, it’s seventeen degrees, borne out by a call to the city last spring, after freezing for four winters.

Further, and I take this moment to apologize for the haphazard nature of this letter, but such as it is, I’m sorry, Prime Minister Trudeau, I also experienced a few moments of deafness, due to construction noise, in the downtown eastside, prior to the 2010 Olympics, as well as weeping, due, specifically, to a certain machine, and frequent migraines.

In the hospital, after getting arrested under the mental health act for refusing to leave Vancouver City Hall at closing time, I was diagnosed as having “somatic delusions.”

Upon arrival in the downtown eastside, in a higher end apartment on Water Street, I was the victim of acidizing, not knowing what it was at the time, my father said to me, “What’s wrong with your face?” It turned my skin yellowy brown, and rough for a period of several months. My skin, to this day, peels, and is rough.

Once, I was hanging a picture, and then went out for a walk. A truck licked up my heels, and when I returned home, the picture was askew by eight inches.

Further to the deafness, I had gone to visit my father when I noticed that his voice was a whisper, frightened, I said, “Dad! Dad! Your voice is a whisper.”

Once, when at 550 Taylor, there were two fake fires. I heard later that someone had lit a jacket and two phone books on fire, and not been evicted. At the time, due to the chemical bombing, I phoned the security desk, and said the following, “I know you’re involved in this,” and was told this, “You can’t prove anything.”

Much later, in Ottawa, while living, for a short while, in a townhouse in Kanata, where the police had taken up residence in the attic to white gas me, I believe, I was shot at. I have a tiny bit of experience with guns from army cadets, and, though I have never seen a round fly, I believe it was a .22 caliber, it fluttered by me, about a meter behind me, as I trudged through the snow late, about 10:30 PM, at night.

Further to the damage to furniture, besides annoying nicks and scratches, the pins were bent on a chest, and on my sofa, causing them to shift dangerously, and a wheel was bashed off a table, leaving a rough metal edge, and leaving the table permanently unstable. I believe that the stove was chipped, in a relatively new building. 

Further, it is my belief that something, perhaps gasoline, as I’ve heard from God, was added to my vodka, causing extreme discomfort, in my bladder, for seven months.

Further, I would like to emphasize that whenever a client was present in my home, all assaults would cease. I could not prove anything, ever. 

During one phase of the torture, I began writing what I call the Armageddon letters, including, in one, the suggestion of a “whispering campaign,” which, to me, was the only way anyone could help, as I felt, since my building emptied out, that anyone who spoke for me, or, complained about the environment, would be done too, with white gas, I felt. This effort was to no avail, and created further vulnerability.

Further to the fake fires, in one, the stairwell was filled with smoke, and the other stairwell housed a massive shit. I’ve heard of shit from fire fighters, in the boots of female would be fire fighters, so I wondered if they had become involved. 

When I called the police to report the gases, I was told immediately, “We’re not coming out.”

Further, I am of the sincere belief that I have been channel blocked for years. I noticed it first about the age of thirty three, as I phoned Shaw in Vancouver and asked for CNN, which I never received, nor the BBC. CNN looped a weather story. I forget what was on the BBC. In addition, though I believe I have always been, since, a victim of this, channel blocking, it was made clear to me at this address, as, first, though I had yet to pay for cable, the English channels disappeared from a small TV given to me by a client, and then the channel channel disappeared, leaving only French stations.

On this note, when my things arrived from storage, in a rage from chemical affection, calmly, however, I threw my large TV out the window, and served five and a half months under the mental health act at both the Queensway-Carleton, and The Royal.

On the topic of the chemicals, the spot under my nose was burned red, and bubbly, though not exactly blisters, more just round and red. Also, my skin was blotchy. 

Further to the landlord who tried to kill me, he also used bleach and birch sap, I believe it is, which caused coughing. He would also, regularly, take a shit on the roof, near or in the fan vents, causing the smell to spread through the suite. It is my belief that he would also use semen and shit and boil it on the roof, placing it in the fan vents. I understand e. Coli has an airborne quality, and this worries me too.

In Toronto, in an effort to escape the torture in Vancouver, and also as evidence of call tapping, I was about to sign a lease when, that night, there was a gas used in the hostel, and a noise machine too. This caused me to move again, closer to family, who have since taken up an opportunity to live in [ ], leaving me alone again.

It is my belief that I have no allies at all. I walk the streets for errands, and for exercise, a bit, and nobody looks at me anymore, unless they are laughing. This is my home now. And I have no one. And I have no money either to save myself from ridicule, and ostracization. Nobody looks at me. I’m not that old. I’m not that ugly. But this is how it is now.

To return to the green glow worm, though I was suspicious that the police were entering because of picture tilting, they would always choose one picture, where I ate my dinner, and it was right against the furnace, so that I would wonder if it was vibrating itself sideways. The green glow worm was on a cookie sheet of cooked kale, and despite my suspicion, the truth escaped me. I ate the kale around it, as I was being pushed out of that apartment, and was exhausted and hungry from working seven days a week in massage parlours.

Further, also, once there was a massive cockroach, and once there was a BC spider, when I first arrived in Ottawa, that is.

Once, I confronted the officer whom I thought was responsible for the majority of the chemical torture on West 11th, saying, “Why are you torturing me?” And he only snorted. 

Further, once, I was doing laundry, and, on that note, the dryer was gasolined once, and a man raced in, looked right at me, and walked out. I believe the police also exhausted up the parking garage a few times, right next to the laundry, which I would do daily.

Further, I suspected, at any rate, thought, that I had noticed many cars stalking me while I was running on the canal. The cars were very similar in appearance, older, and small, like hatchbacks or something, causing me to wonder if police officers would have a second car for this purpose, for the purpose of crimes, Prime Minister Trudeau.

Further, in Vancouver, I noticed that a bird call was installed along my running route. I could hear it whirring. On that note, bird calls were also used around my apartment, and, even, possibly, at this apartment, a few years ago.

I have neglected to mention that I was both stalked and sirened all the time, even when I was out, even out with a favoured client, even being helicoptered or planed with him. Once, I was planed in a neighbouring small town where family were living at the time. And once I was planed when visiting a friend in [ ].

Having said that there was never any corroboration, there was once. It had become apparent to me that a din would ensue the moment that my client and myself turned to each other to have sex. Once the din was so obvious, that we both remained silent for some time. The din included sirens, planes, helicopters, beeping garbage trucks, and drive bys in general. I was right on the lane.

Further to one of my mental health stays, I was, once, after fleeing medication, locked in a room with no toilet for three and a half days. It smelled of piss.

I believe I was the subject of gossip by nurses, once over hearing a nurse declaring, “sexual grandiosity.”

At one mental health stay, I noticed the tea had been removed. At the desk, I was told, “You don’t need three tea bags.” 

I had specific, I felt, tampering with my food, once, believe, my cranberry juice was replaced with communion wine, and, these are the worst, two pieces of white fish tasted like moldy plant pot soil. I had to spit them out. ALL of the meat caused my ovaries, and bladder, pain.

At one stay, I was denied walks, in the form of being left out of the timing for leaving. Once, I signed up, and was not collected. I would see the walking group forming and not be invited. I know this is protocol, from other hospitals.

This seems petty, but the plentiful cereal at night was replaced by humous and crackers or a tiny yoghurt.

This brings to mind incidences which occurred nightly at one hospital, I would, despite the frequent urination caused by my chemical affection, be encouraged to drink “a little more” water with my nightly medication. I begged and pleaded, and the encouragement only continued.

My room was moved repeatedly. Once, I asked to be moved away from a shitter, and I was moved, only to be moved again the next day.

This brings to mind another set of complaints. This time, at the shelter. I was chased for being naked, right into my room, by a staff member. A woman from the street was plaintive, asking for something, I thought it was a blanket, and the response was sarcastic, and unrelenting. After being told to turn in paraphernalia and bottles, I handed in a beer can, and was locked out for three hours. I missed curfew once, sitting at McDonald’s, and my bed was stripped of all my carefully washed linens and blankets. The sweater that I had been using as a pillow was taken too.

Further, this is the kicker, I had had one appointment with that landlord, and my housing worker at the time, and I was about to sign the lease the next day, and I was moved from a single room where I had been staying for a few months, to a triple. That day, I was sick from, I believe, a bout of salmonella. Several social workers stood at the door saying my name repeatedly, the ambulance was called, and then the police. At one point, the accountant came into the room, and shoved the dresser so hard that it bent the pins on my nightlight. I showed the police. The police helped me move many garbage bags full of things into the new room.

There were two occasions when I had to get up early for appointments, and, both times the hot water was turned off.

Recently, gasoline was sprayed outside my window, at night, so I had to get up, after a nap, and wash all my sheets and pillow cases, or change them anyway, and wash my body, as it was summer, and I was naked, and, I understand, from my helper in heaven, Patrick Crean, that more would have absorbed into the body, without coverings, like when you pump your gas.

The most recent assault was with gasoline, directly into the apartment.

Recently, I was removed from my Community Treatment Order, and yet I am still compelled to take medication. I don’t understand this. I actually consider it to be blackmail, the way I’m coerced by the threat of being placed back on the Community Treatment Order, should I fail to comply “voluntarily”. Further, I find the shot in the rump to be extremely undignifying.  

Further to my mental health stays, at one hospital I was strapped to the bed five times, with what I perceived to be dirty restraints, against my bare genitals. It was hazardous to be forced into lying down for long periods because of the need for the toilet. Further, on one occasion, I was exhausted and stumbling for three days from, I believe, one dose of Valium.

Further to my brief tenancy at a townhouse in Kanata, there was a home invasion. It was almost surreal, as I was so frightened that I was praying, and God led me down to the basement, and I could hear someone running around the second and third floors.

Further to that time, I was arrested under the mental health in a most disruptive way. First of all, I had no idea I was being considered for arrest, second, I was in the bathtub when the officers entered, the female officer telling me brusquely to dress. Thirdly, a former “crime” was cited as a reason for the arrest, an incident where I had become lost in my new neighbourhood, and was sitting in a parked car, albeit illegally, I was not charged, but only driven back home.

I was subjected to four years of stalking by non-police fans, I knew who they were, but would not say their names, feeling responsible, in part, for my own silly behaviours, such as an offensive tee shirt, and a gang bang contest.

The stalking involved throwing rocks at my building. Once, pennies were scattered around the entrance to one of my apartment buildings, also dimes. I don’t know who all was involved at times. When I first noticed fan activity, they were calling my name in the downtown eastside. At the same time, I felt I hadn’t a friend in the world.

Once, I went for a jog, only to discover the entire neighbourhood looking at me over the previous night’s hovering helicopter. 

Once, at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver, I was not permitted to return to my home in Ottawa, the stipulation was that I had to find my own psychiatrist. I was lucky to find one, having to call several individuals.

Prior to that, the reason for my admittance, was that I confronted a family member about some memories of rape as a child, only to be bruised on the arm, wrestled to the floor, and later arrested for refusing to speak. The fact of the matter is, I did not turn a trick in my mother’s apartment. I had sex with a client, but was not paid, as we had an arrangement.

In Ottawa, I could tell men were sharing video of me, because I saw a reaction from someone I’d never seen. There was a rash of clients wanting to take video. 

Further to the single room that I stayed in, for a period of time, at the shelter. This room, unlike the others, was dirty. The sink smelled of urine, the corner had splatters of vomit and, maybe, shit, and all of the walls had been written on in red. I cleaned the room mercilessly with Lysol, only to be turfed out of it, for only two days, just to inconvenience me, I felt.

Further to that room, it overlooked two restaurants, and I asked for curtains to no avail, eventually hanging a blanket I found on the street, and washed, on one side. The mirror, hung unevenly by the contractor, was most welcome.

Further to the landlord who tried to kill me with paint, allow me to illuminate that this onslaught involved hours upon hours of paint fumes, through the open windows and the fan vents, giving rise to constant vomiting, in rituals, to stay alive, including the pounding of water, moldy, from the tap, and one episode of unconsciousness resulting in white drool from the mouth.

Further, this landlord failed to provide heat for all of October, November, and December that year.

Further, I had to walk from Morisset Avenue to Preston Street four times, each day, in an attempt to pick up my ODSP cheque, and was finally accused of cheque fraud by a clerk holding two pieces of paper, one with a photocopy of my signature. I had signed many cheques that summer, at the bank, from the shelter. I left, quickly. The following month, begging, again, for my cheque, my address was recited, and it was incorrect, so I asked, “How could I commit cheque fraud on a cheque I never received?” The response was incoherent. 

The last day of walking, I went unconscious for about two days, and couldn’t walk when I woke up. I soon discovered that the pee can I had been using, to avoid further chemical contamination from the painted bathtub, had been turned into a shit can by, I assume, the landlord, and he had also used all of my toilet paper, and my torn newsprint, and it was thrown everywhere, all over the can and the bag I was shitting in, again to avoid further contamination from the bathroom.

Further, he placed an LED nightlight beside my “toilet.”

Years ago, at the start of my stint in prostitution, I applied for worker’s compensation after quitting a job, which was disallowed at the time, and was asked about my prostitution income, and was told, “Can’t you just do that?”

My doctor, my medical doctor, refused to give me a note stating that my chemical toxicity would make having an attached garage a terrible thing for me, should I ever be placed in housing. 

I was recently quoted a twelve year wait from this place where I almost died from toxicity. 

Though it is not illegal, the officer who, I believed, was white gassing me on West 11th, shook a dusty rag out on me, while I was cleaning my new used car.

I don’t know the law, but I received one strike and lost my driver’s license over a drug seizure.

Once, another landlord bellowed my name in the hall two weeks before the rent was due, because my roommate had moved out.

Once, a third landlord, of the other apartment I was pushed out of, banged on the door, calling, “I know you’re in there.”

Each time, I’m so traumatized by the move that I forget who my friends are. Once, my mother and I didn’t speak for two years.

The first eviction involved an oven that took six months to fix. Later, in this apartment, the oven took a year to fix. A faulty oven is most depressing.

I have a call in to the city currently about the lack of heat in this apartment. The thermostat is good for about six degrees, and that’s it. I freeze all winter long. The by law officer came out, and checked the temperature, and it is three degrees below the legal limit, and nothing has been done, save, I was given two heaters which cost a fortune to run, and peel, what I believe to be, lead paint off of the walls, and spew it into the air.

Both evictions were actually push outs, as, both times, I was allowed to remain a tenant as long as quit working there. This is illegal, I believe, to dictate how to use my apartment, with nothing official, God tells me.

My character was slandered, as, at the time, I had nothing but a marijuana habit, and the landlord did too, ironically, and she wrote in her testimony that she had read in my journal that I was “hooked up on high speed,” and thought it was another drug addiction.

Further to the police, they broke four pairs of running shoes, and stole a pair too.

Further to running shoes, which are expensive, at this apartment, they stole one runner, and, after I threw the other one out, returned it.

Further to unlawful landlords, at another place, the landlord rang the bell at ten o’clock at night for an hour, when I wasn’t answering. Another time, the same landlord, rung the bell for an hour at one o’clock in the morning, and then entered. I was shaking like a leaf.

At that same place, a townhouse, the police entered one night while I was sleeping, I believe, and broke my two epilators. I had bought a second one  when I immigrated to Ontario in order to escape the white gas torture in Vancouver. Some five years later, I went downstairs to find both of the epilators broken. On the same day? Are you kidding me?

Further to the damage to furniture, they spray an antiquing compound on fabric, they did it to a very expensive pair of shoes once as well, they sprayed the antiquing compound on the fabric of a chest, a new one, from The Brick, and it has caused the fabric to fall off in dusty chunks for five years. Every time I go and sweep, there’s new fabric junk on the floor.

Further to my health, when the agent orange landlord, I believe it’s called agent orange, the bathtub, I may have mentioned it was called unguents, I now realize that this is the wrong word for it, it’s a bathtub shellac, in any case, and it causes such tremendous illness so as to cause my asshole to bleed for a year. There are also two occasions of internal bleeding, different composition, which come out in the washroom.

Further, my small B’s turned into D’s and fell. Thanks for that, guy.

Further to injustice, once I thought I was going to go blind from something, and God was telling me what it was. I believe it’s called hydrophane eyes, which causes sticking in the morning, and pain with water. Now I can open my eyes under water again, because I was helped in heaven with picking the plastic out of my eyes, and rinsing, the pain I do not recall.

Recently, I reported a rape to the police which happened some years ago, and, lo and behold, the police showed up unannounced, well, in the stairway, two seconds away. And one thing which really irked me was I asked about my medication, which they are not allowed to do, as, as far as I know, there is no active CTO on me right now, though a call to the rights advisor did not solidify an answer. Further, it was most annoying, and, I believe, illegal, when the social worker in attendance said, upon my assertion that I had gone for my shot that afternoon, “And you’re tellin’ the truth?”

Further, I was accused of having said I didn’t want to take my medication, as though, it seemed, this was some kind of crime in itself.

There was a doctor some years ago, who shoved a speculum in hard, causing my eyes to water. It was for a colposcopy. 

When I arrived in Ottawa, a noise machine producing a wave sound was placed on a roof top, for eight months. I used to have to wake up and put the TV on loud on a fuzzy station in order to sleep again. I doubt the neighbours were very happy, in either case.

The was a bus stand off once, which, I believe was not my fault, though it is likely on my police record. This is when there was some snow in Vancouver, and the bus was very slow, and, upon getting on the bus, I said some friendly comment about how busy it was, and was told, “You’re lucky to have a bus at all,” to which I replied, “Oh, fuck off.” The transit police, came, the police came, and nothing was done at all, except to get me off the bus, which I was refusing to do. Funny.

There were four masturbators, or streakers, encountered by me, as a young girl, in Kitsilano. 

There was a very bizarre experience in the townhouse in Kanata. It was on a highway, and cars from another part of the world were driving along it. It went on, seemingly for days. I had never seen anything like it, in all the car rallies in Vancouver, and Ottawa, around town, never.

When I arrived in Ottawa, I noted someone staring over at my balcony, and I felt sure that he was a police officer, broken hearted, over a move away from Vancouver. I feel sure of this. Thus, I feel sure that certain officers are moved around to torture me. Maybe even to this day.

I was so sick, and God told me--this is before the bathtub shellac--that my endocrine system was arrested. I had been running a lot, well, not a lot, but every other day or so, and I found that I was no longer able to take a running gait.

I lost it a bit in the hospital, at Queensway-Carleton, I had been refused soap for so long and I came out of the washroom, and was refused soap again, and I dragged my hands down the front of the shirt of one the nurses, and, I forget, but God tells me I said something like, ‘You take my shitty hands then.’ I kind of remember, but not totally. My memory has been extremely affected by abuse, I believe, not impact but ingestion, of, I believe, God tells me, anyway, e. Coli. I can’t remember anything sometimes, like names, places, like now, I can’t even think of anything to say, but I forget so much.

Some time ago, from a finance course I had taken at night school, I was awarded a small silver bar, which has been missing for some time, though I may have misplaced it. 

Further, I noticed recently, after tucking away a card repeatedly, that there is only one business card of mine left, little works of art, of which I was quite proud. I was saving one of each, and I had designed them myself in Publisher.

Further to police harassment, once, I made a piece of torte for an officer whom I believed was torturing me, and out of my set of cutlery disappeared a dessert fork. Do you think that is fun having a piece of cutlery missing for fifteen years?

A doctor told me to stop talking to God.

Further, some months after I received my apartment, and the torture had ensued, and the landlord had disappeared, only to be replaced by a man of the same name, and startlingly similar in appearance once, only, the rest of the time, I felt sure it wasn’t him, but a gangster in his stead, the ODSP financial worker who I had been assigned to, also disappeared, and was replaced, though I never met her, by a woman of the same name, with a different voice.

Further to the police torture, my favorite blanket was shortened by four inches. You think this isn’t noticeable, but it is. When you lie on your back, your feet stick out. Of course, I can’t lie on my back, my lungs strain, I blowfish, or I suffocate from orthodontics.

Further to the police, they stole my black cardamom, and all my jewelry went missing from this apartment, albeit, probably cheap, from my thieving [ ]. 

My [ ] made me an ‘L’ ring, and I threw it in the garbage for God. God tells me that the ring was worth $7000. I had no idea, but I followed the orders of God, though, knowing they were real diamonds, feeling it strongly, because they were so pretty.

Items of clothing were stolen, and I’m still having nightmares about it. Also, five new socks were stolen from the laundry at the shelter, as well as other things, says God.

The police, probably oiled two down jackets, one long, and one short, one expensive. 

The same chest with the antiquing compound, had its lining torn. If you don’t think that’s annoying, you have another thing coming.

Further to the police torture, I tasted come in my flour when I fried it. I had removed the lumps before using it, but I missed one. The sugar was lumpy too.

Further to the Agent Orange torture, I now have a gross looking and feeling bump on my sphincter, and, though I can’t bring myself to examine it, my asshole is ruined. As well, I have an annoying, similar, bump, on the roof of my mouth. I believe it’s from that. Acid bumps, God told me. Thank you, landlord.

Further, when I was arrested under the mental health act for throwing my TV out the window, the police, I believe, threw my massage table out the window on top of it, and the gangster landlord informed me a year or so later that it was found out there.

Further, my erstwhile [ ] had a key cut, and, God tells me, stole a bunch of stuff too. I still have nightmares about all my favorite tee shirts going missing.

Further to the police thefts, my box of new PEACEKEEPING tee shirts was stolen some years ago. And further, my two epilators, after being jacked, were stolen.

The police, or someone, God tells me, put gasoline in my vodka, back at an old apartment. My bladder hurt for seven months.

Further, the police in Ottawa cut the zipper on a new winter coat. 

There is a cop in Vancouver, at the time, who deserves special mention. I once caught him in flagrante delicto with someone in his apartment, where he was living to torture me. His torture was replete, every fifteen minutes, for years. I have heard, from God, that he is good now.

Further, I have been told that there are new burns from acidization over the past few years or so, maybe less.

Lately, there has been a sharp increase in assaults with chemicals, over the past three weeks or so. This reminded me of a time when the police threw a lit cigarette into my window sill. The window was open.

This letter is subject to amendments.

Yours Truly,

Loraine Laney

[thefaithlesstheologian]

Insomnia

           I didn’t always have so much trouble sleeping, when I was much younger I could simply drift away into the realm of dreams on a whim. Yet now as I write this it seems that I have forever been severed from the world of sleep due to my condition. The cause of my insomnia may seem strange because it’s not a fear of the dark or a disorder of any kind. It is the result of a nightmare I had, many years ago that stuck with me up until this very moment.

           It was a very typical evening in my household. I had spent the evening doing homework and playing whatever game I was obsessed with at the time on my computer. I would then go to bed around nine so that I could be up at six the next day for classes. It was a routine which had worked well for me and I always woke up the next day energized and ready for whatever the day would bring. However, one night I will never forget, that is October 12th, 2005, a date that I have branded into the deepest reaches of my grief and forever is an anniversary of terror.

           I fell asleep, almost instantly as I almost always did. I miss that ability because now I am kept awake at night by chronic headaches which bore away at me as I attempt to garner what minimal rest I can.  The night enticed me into a haze of distant dreams, none of which I could remember, except for one which my brain decided to highlight by dragging my consciousness right into its midst.

           In an eerily lucid state, I woke up to hear a noise in my room. It was a heavy thump, like a flask of water being dropped on the floor. I looked up tiredly, scanning the canvas of darkness blankly, yielding no answers. Assuming it was a manifestation of my own imagination, my dream self-tried to settle back to sleep but was again disturbed by a gurgling sound coming out of the shadows. Its sound was like a foam filled river of water pouring across the ground and fizzling as it released its entrapped gases. Again I looked around to no avail. A tinge of paranoia laid itself on my mind and I could feel my heart race with an uncanny amount of clarity. I tucked my head under my blanket to feel more secure. Though I knew a bedspread would be little protection if something horrible lurked in the darkness it still helped ease me. It was the irrational solution to an irrational thought.

           It was then that I began to feel a strange pressure creep up my legs. Heat shot through my veins, a cold layer of sweat ejecting out of my pores as a curious defense. My heart beat rapidly and my mind sparked. I waited a moment, trying to dispel the idea that it was anything but my own imagination. I tried this but was far too afraid to look from beneath my blanket in fear of what I could see.

           Then I felt the pressure grow, sweeping up my legs and onto my torso, growing heavier with every inch. I could then feel strange, moist warmth, like saliva, creeping through the blanket.  I was then frozen as the weight poured onto my chest. It froze there, bearing down on me now like stone, and I prayed to my God that I would wake up.

           After a prolonged residence in this state of paralyzed fear, I decided I had to look and see what it was. I lifted the rim of my blanket, slowly revealing the blank room around me. As soon as my eyes could see just over the hem, the pressure vanished and was replaced with an intense pain like a nail driven into my skull and the next few moments became as dark as the on looking night.

           When I awoke, in my dream that is, I was in a strange place. It was a cramped room, full of rusted instruments with needle-like points that skirted around me on guide rails. Behind them, I noticed piped flowing with an undulating blue mass which illuminated the tetanus infested space in an eerie hue.

           I was affixed to a chair, my arms and legs bound by metal clasps. My head was head straight by two bars which squeezed around me like a vice not allowing for me to turn or bend my neck. I struggled to no avail, the air growing thin as I wrenched every muscle futilely.

           I shouted into the unknown, my voice reverberating back to me as a twisted melody amongst the twisting pipes. It was then that one of the many rail-lines shifted around to the front of me. Affixed to it was a tweezer-like structure, sharpened to a fine point. I noticed a hair-like line down its very center. At its base, a clear tube sat dormant, like a hollow eye socket.

           The needle shot towards me, bearing down on my forehead. It stopped just before it touched the flesh and its nefarious tip brushed against it almost as a taunt. Suddenly it moved forwards, the machine humming and whirring as it pressed its point into my skin. At first, it felt like a shot from the doctors but quickly turned into an excruciating burning sensation. I could feel my head be pressured backward, stopped only by the crushing clamps.

           I hissed and screamed until my throat was raw until finally, it stopped advancing. Its approach then changed, the need beginning to spread apart into two thin rails which rent my flesh further. After a brief moment, they finished and held themselves about an inch apart. Then the tube began to slither down this opening until it was inserted right into where the needle struck me initially. A strange noise, a gurgling like that of falling, foaming water could be heard.

           In pain, I passed out before ever learning of the device’s real purpose other than to cause misery. I awoke in a flurry of adrenaline and drum-like heart beats, my skin feeling cold with sweat and the unsavory stench of fear rising from my pores.

           I shot up out of bed and looked around the darkness in a panic. I quickly slipped out the door and crossed my home into the bathroom, all the while reassuring myself that what I had endured was a nightmare. It took some time for my consciousness and my vision to catch up with the fact, the pain in my forehead still seemingly looming into the real world.

           I snapped the lights on and looked into the vanity mirror of my bathroom. Across the glassy membrane, I observed my sweat covered face, repeating to myself that it was all just a dream. I turned on the faucet and thrust water onto my face which seemed to calm me down. Then I wiped myself clean with the face cloth, wiping away the senseless fear I felt. As I performed one final stroke on my forehead, however, I noticed something.

           It was subtle, but it was there, a faint crescent shaped mark on my skin right in the center of my head. From it, I could feel a strange pressure as if my head were filled with fluid. I told myself I must have always had it, that I must have hit my head somewhere in the past few months without noticing.

           It wouldn’t have been the first time but…

           It was always there, right?

[southeastasianists]

How is the new monarch of Thailand, Maha Vajiralongkorn, ruling his kingdom since the death of his father, the late King Bhumibol Adulyadej?

Fear.

The overwhelming success of Bhumibol’s reign has evidently become an entrapment for Vajiralongkorn, who has failed to follow in the footsteps of his much-revered father. Vajiralongkorn is the mirror image of Bhumibol. Based on this assessment, some analysts have expected Vajiralongkorn to be a ‘weak king’, precisely because of his lack of moral authority, divinity and popularity once enjoyed by Bhumibol.

Bhumibol’s moral authority was made a sacred instrument that underpinned his effective reign for seven decades. It legitimised his political position, so as to place it above what were perceived to be ill elements, including ‘dirty’ politics and ‘corrupt’ politicians. Members of the network monarchy had worked indefatigably to ensure the strengthening of his moral authority, through vigorous glorification programs in the media and national education, about the devoted king who strove for his people’s better livelihood. It was his moral authority which was partly exploited to justify the use of the lese-majeste law.

Now that Bhumibol has passed from the scene, a critical question emerges: how has Vajiralongkorn forged new alliances and eliminated enemies and critics in order to consolidate his reign?

Without his own charisma, or baramee, Vajiralongkorn has exercised fear to command those serving him instead of trusting or convincing them to work for him based on love and respect, as argued by a recent article of Claudio Sopranzetti. Vajiralongkorn has used fear to build order, perhaps similar to the way in which mafias, or chaophos, operate their empire.

Vajiralongkorn reigns as a monarch whose authority is based upon fear, and as one who cares little about people around him. Fear is a tool to threaten his subordinates and drive them to the edge to keep them compliant and docile. He has kept his subordinates in line with unnecessary, yet rigid, rules, from professing a cropped haircut style to a tough fitness regime. But such rules possibly reflect Vajiralongkorn’s own state of fear. He does not know who will betray him at the end of the day. His intimidating image is his only source of personal power — but he also realises how fragile it could be.

Even prior to the death of Bhumibol, Vajiralongkorn relied on fear for his own rearrangement of power. He allowed a faction under his control to purge another perceived to be disloyal to him. The cases of Suriyan Sucharitpolwong, or Moh Yong, Police Major Prakrom Warunprapha, and Major General Phisitsak Seniwongse na Ayutthaya — all of whom worked for Vajiralongkorn, most visibly in the ‘Bike for Mum’ project —   reiterated that death could become a reward for those who breached his trust. Each of these individuals were given a nickname. For example, Phisitsak was called by Vajiralongkorn, Mister Heng Rayah (เฮง ระย้า), although exactly why he was named as such remained unknown.

Within Vajiralongkorn’s palace, Dhaveevatthana, a prison was built. The Ministry of Justice, during the Yingluck administration, announced on 27 March 2013 that a 60 square metre plot of land within Dhaveevathana was allocated for the building of what is now called the Bhudha Monthon Temporary Prison. This ‘temporary’ prison has been legalised, potentially allowing the king to detain anyone under its roof legally. Adjacent to the prison is a crematorium. Major General Phisitsak died inside the prison and was cremated there too.

His former consort, Srirasmi, has been put under house arrest in a Rachaburi house, shaved and dressed as a nun. Her family members and relatives were imprisoned on dubious charges. Pongpat Chayaphan, a former Royal Thai Police officer who was the head of the country’s Central Investigation Bureau, was convicted in 2015 from profiting from a gambling den, violating a forestry-related law, and money laundering. Srirasmi is his niece. Earlier in 2014, Police General Akrawut Limrat, a close aide to Pongpat, was also found dead following a mysterious fall from a building.

Vajiralongkorn’s estranged sons, Juthavachara, Vacharaesorn, Chakriwat and Vatcharawee — who live in exile in the United States with their mother Sujarinee Vivachawonsge, née Yuvathida Polpraserth — have been banned from coming home. These extreme punitive measures reiterated the fact that fear once again functions as a controlling device over his subjects, even those with royal blood.

Vajiralongkorn also reorganised the Privy Council, appointing new faces from the Queen’s Guard, to entrench his alliance with the junta. He has also let General Prem Tinsulanonda remain in his position of President of the Privy Council, arguably, as part of using fear to keep his enemy close to him, so that Prem could be closely monitored and work under his direct command. And recently, he punished one of his close confidants, Police General Jumpol Manmai, a former deputy national police chief, labelling him as the extremely evil official so as to justify the humiliation caused to him. Jumpol was arrested and imprisoned. His head was shaved, like Moh Yong and Prakrom, and was sent to undergo a military training within the Dhaweevattana Palace. Like Pongpat, he was found guilty of forest encroachment.

Meanwhile, some have been promoted, some demoted. Speedy promotions in the military and the police were enjoyed by the king’s new favourites. Those irritating him were thrown out — but before that, they were humiliated on the pages of the newspapers. Vajiralongkorn purged the entire Vajarodaya clan, one of the most prominent families of palace officials serving under Bhumibol. Disathorn Vajarodaya was stripped of his power in the palace, forced to re-enter a military training at the age of 53, and is now working as a house maid who serves drinks to guests of the new king. Meanwhile, Suthida Vajiralongkorn na Ayutthaya, a former Thai Airways air crew, was promoted to the rank of a general. She is currently the number one mistress of Vajiralongkorn. But the life of Suthida is not without competition. Colonel Sineenat Wongvajirapakdi, aka Koi, who is a nurse, is reportedly becoming his number one favourite. A video clip of Vajiralongkorn and Koi, both wearing skimpy crop tops barely covering fake tattoo wandering a Munich mall, was viral on the Internet.

In the political domain, Vajiralongkorn directly meddled in the drafting of the new constitution, requesting an amendment to boost royal powers. The changes included removing the need for him to appoint a regent when he travels overseas. More importantly, a clause that gave power to the constitutional court and other institutions in the event of an unforeseen crisis was removed. But by removing it, the king’s political role was significantly reinforced.

Because of his direct interference in Thai political affairs, it is naïve to assume that Vajiralongkorn is simply a mad king, clueless about running his kingdom. His meddling has unveiled his desire to solidify his power at this critical juncture in politics, forging ties with his allies while deposing his enemies and critics through brutal means.

Fear — for one’s own freedom, or one’s own personal safety — is a key weapon of Vajiralongkorn’s in keeping elites around him in line, alongside the longstanding use of the lese-majeste law to curb public discontentment against him. For instance, the military government chose to punish Jatupat ‘Phai’ Boonpattararaksa for sharing a BBC article on the biography of Vajiralongkorn, underscoring the use of fear to warn the public to stay away from his private life. Jatupat is the only person to be imprisoned for sharing the article.

On the eve of the recent Songkran holidays, the Ministry of Digital Economy and Society released an announcement to forbid the public from following, befriending and sharing content of three critics of the monarchy: myself, the exiled historian Somsak Jeamteerasakul, and former reporter Andrew MacGregor Marshall. Fear has now been ulitised at a national level, in cyberspace, to frighten ordinary social media users. In failing to obey the royal prerogatives, some could be jailed, like Jatupat.

But fear can fall away. Overused and frequently exploited, fear will eventually loose its spell. Exactly how long Vajiralongkorn will continue to count on fear to build up his power remains uncertain. What is certain today is the fact that Thailand is no longer a smiling country. It is a country in deep anxiety.

Pavin Chachavalpongpun is associate professor at Kyoto University’s Center for Southeast Asian Studies.

[maritimemanual]

20 Anti-Piracy Weapons Deployed In Ships To Fight Pirates

Piracy and pirates plague the seas and threaten global trade and commerce. Cargo ships are particularly vulnerable to pirates as they are slow, travel in remote parts of the oceans and are not armed adequately most of the times.

Somalian pirates are particularly infamous for being brutal and aggressive towards the crew. Thus, in order to keep the cargo, ship and the crew safe, various anti-piracy measures are taken along with hiring maritime security agencies. Many ships also use anti-piracy weapons to deter and defend against pirates.

Here is the list of the most high-tech anti-piracy weapons deployed in ships to fight pirates.

1) Anti-Piracy Laser Device

Anti-Pirate Laser

Anti-Piracy Laser Device is a device developed by a British firm called BAE systems. It is a laser which can be used during commercial shipping against piracy. It is effective at a distance of about 1.5 km. it is used to distract the pirates in order to make them incapable of aiming properly without permanently damaging their eyes. It can be called as a warning device. Normal sunglasses cannot filter out this light and hence they will not help in avoiding it.

2) Water Cannon

Photo courtesy: https://ift.tt/2zNmw7D

A water cannon is an anti-piracy device (non-lethal) normally used on merchant ships. This device can shoot a high-velocity stream of water which is impenetrable. it is so strong that it can blow away the pirates which are trying to come on board the ship. It can also fill up the enemy ship with water to decrease their speed and disturb their maneuverability. This is a very powerful system but still non-lethal.

The device usually consists of a powerful water cannon placed strategically all around the ship. They draw the seawater and can be easily controlled from the bridge. This happens are also highly effective in controlling fires and contributing to the overall safety of the vessel.

Photo courtesy: https://www.flickr.com/photos/guano/3264971746

3) Electric Secure Fence

Electric Secure Fence. Pics courtesy: https://ift.tt/2PWAlvB

An Electric Secure Fence system is a system which consists of an electrical fence surrounding the shape and hence preventing pirates from coming on board. The system also helps in detecting a boarding attempt by warning the crew and can also scare away the trespassers by starting a very loud siren and floodlights. It is however non-lethal.

The system of fencing is collapsible and can be removed when not in use. It needs to partly do so when it is entering a harbor all when another board needs to come alongside.

Pics courtesy: http://www.delticgroup.com/secureshipfencingsystem.html

4) Nets or Boat Traps

A boat trap is a kind of system which is used to stop pirates and their boats when they come closer to a merchant vessel. It is a ballistic net. It is a good system which can help in defense of a vessel while avoiding the need to use guns or other such lethal weapons and posing threat to the crew or other people if it is near a harbor. Destructive and extensively tested in the Caribbean and US waters. Most of the time, they are used to entrap smaller boats which may be operated by terrorists, pirates or smugglers. It is an efficient system to be used in crowded areas such as the Gulf of Aden.

5) Slippery Foam or Mobile Denial System

Mobile Dual System or a Mobility Denial System is a non-lethal strategy used to slow down the movement of trespassers rather, avoid them from climbing the decks of a ship. Slippery foam or substance is used to make the deck of a ship slippery and therefore how to walk or stand on. This substance has a high viscosity. The substances also normally non-lethal. this method is being highly used by military and security forces.

6) Long Range Acoustic Device

Long Range Acoustic Device – LARD

Abbreviated as LRAD, a Long Range Acoustic Device is a device which is capable of emitting a 151 dB sound. It can do so within 30 degrees of wherever the device is pointing. It is used to drive away pirates. It was developed by an American technology corporation. It can produce a high pitched sound which is painful to human ears. In fact, it can cause permanent ear damage. It was about 210 kilograms and has a range of about 300 to 500 meters.

It is mainly used by the military but has also been used on some cargo and cruise ships. The sound wave can be canceled with the help of normal earplugs and hence minimize its effect. This is one of the biggest disadvantages of the device.

7) Foul Smelling Liquid or Liquid Deterrent System

The system comes from the International Maritime Security Network of the United States. In the system, the approaching pirates are showered with a foul-smelling liquid. This liquid is capable of stinking and burning. It causes such a burning sensation and emits such a foul smell that the pirates feel the need to jump into the water and hence it prevents a pirate attack.

The substances are usually shot towards the target with the help of a stun gun. It is similar to a taser gun except that the use of liquid streams. This is a non-lethal system normally used in the areas in and around the Gulf of Aden.

8) Razor Wire Canister or Anti-boarding Device

Anti-boarding Device: Photo courtesy: http://vpsystems.co.za

Razor wire canister or an antibonding device is another anti-piracy system. It prevents pirates from boarding the vessel with the help of canisters with sharp razor wires. This is currently the most commonly used anti-piracy deterrent. Razor wire is installed around the perimeter of a ship. This wire acts as a wall or a barrier between the ship and those wanting to trespass.

This restricts the movement of pirates on to the ship considerably. However, this method is somewhat disadvantageous as there is always a fear of a crew member getting injured or infected by handling the razor wires.

Photo courtesy: http://vpsystems.co.za

9) Compressed Air – Ship Borne Shore Launcher

Compressed Air Gun

A product of a UK based company, a Ship Borne Shore Launcher is an anti-piracy system consisting of a cannon shaped device. This device uses compressed air in order to fire a variety of projectiles. It is generally a non-lethal system. However, it can be very powerful or even lethal depending upon the distance in which it is operating. It normally has a range of more than 400 m. This system is accepted as an important safety and survival system. Much like any other anti-piracy system this system is also used extensively in and around the Gulf of Aden.

10) P-Trap Anti-Piracy System

P-Trap Anti-Piracy System

P-Trap Anti-Piracy System is a simple and yet effective measure against piracy. It is non-lethal. It consists of floating lines creating a safety zone around the vessel. This floating line can trap propellers of pirate vessels. These lines are so small that are almost invisible and our thrown directly under the surface of the ocean.

Once installed this system can be used without monitoring at any time of the day. This is considered as one of the best anti-piracy systems as it provides additional security to the crew members, can be used in all kinds of weather conditions and is very simple to install and apply in vessels without the involvement of crew.

11) Anti-Piracy Curtain

Anti-Piracy Curtain

An anti-piracy curtain is a system which consists of a series of hoses being dangled out from the sides of a vessel. They are weighed to keep themselves close to the surface of the water. When water is pumped through the hoses, they fling around violently, making it difficult for possible trespassers to board the ship. The force is nearly 0.2 megapascal. This method is often employed in commercial ships and vessels as they are not allowed to carry arms in international waters. Hence, it is a non-lethal anti-piracy system that can be used by all without any difficulty.

12) Maritime Early Detection System

Maritime Early Detection System. Pics: https://ift.tt/2zNmwEF

A Maritime Early Detection System is not exactly a weapon, but it can be equipped to provide active deterrence. It is a system consisting of a sensor network with infrared tracking vision cameras working day and night in addition to the onboard radar equipment. The system can be used to detect the presence of any other shape or vessels nearby and take action against it if it turns out to be a threat.

13) Superfly

Superfly is an unmanned non-lethal air vehicle. It is an extra watch stander which keeps a vigilant eye on the horizon which is beyond the limits of the human eyesight. It is small and easily portable device and is cost-effective at the same time. It is very effective in looking for other vessels nearby and then takes the necessary precautions or actions if required.

14) Rubber Ball Grenade

Rubber Ball Grenade – Pics courtesy: https://ift.tt/2PGvtu6

Rubber ball grenades are a very effective measure against piracy. They are non-lethal weapons which spray rubber bullets on detonation. they are also capable of producing lights and sounds in order to deter the pirates from approaching the ship or vessel. They are also called sting ball grenades. These grenades can cause serious injuries. They are normally used in defense and military matters.

15) Active Denial System – Pain Ray (Electromagnetic wave)

Active Denial System

An Active Denial System i.e. an ADS or a pain ray is a weapon used against piracy. It sends a small narrow beam of electromagnetic energy to heat the skin. It is non-lethal and does not cause any permanent damage. The electromagnetic wave can penetrate beneath the skin and cause an unbearable burning sensation making the trespassers or pirates jump overboard. It was developed by the US military and is also known as the heat ray. The working of this device is quite similar to that of a microwave oven. It has a system consisting of a gyrotron which emits the waves at a certain frequency with the help of a reflector.

16) Molotov Cocktail

A Molotov cocktail is a general term used to refer to any bottle-based improvised incendiary weapon. They are also called as gas bombs, bottle bombs or firebombs. Many a time, they are used by the crew of the merchant vessels which are not provided with anti-piracy weapons or security guards. A Molotov cocktail is simply thrown into an approaching pirate boat to disturb their maneuverability by setting it ablaze.

17) Taser – Electric Shock

Taser. Photo: https://ift.tt/2zNsdCv

A taser is a non-lethal weapon which can be used by the crew of a ship in case any pirates manage to get on board. Taser stands for Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle. It is a kind of a gun which can be used to give an electric shock to the victim and temporarily cause him or her to lose neuromuscular control.

18) Anti-Piracy Fire Hoses

Anti-piracy fire hoses are extremely powerful hoses which are effective in fighting against pirates. They shoot out streams of water with high pressures. Some anti-piracy fire hoses may also come with remote control systems. They are non-lethal and do not cause serious injuries. These fire hoses are capable of driving away the pirates by getting in their eyes and at the same time flooding and attacking their boats at a good rate.

19) Stun Grenade

A stun grenade is an anti-piracy device which can produce a loud noise and a blinding flash of light. The flash of light has a magnitude of around 7 million candela and the sound is louder than 170 decibels. It is also known as a flash grenade. It is a non-lethal weapon. They do not cause any major injuries and merely aim at disorienting the senses of the trespassers temporarily. The flash of light is as mentioned before capable of blinding the victim for a few seconds and also temporarily deafens him or her causing a loss of balance.

20) Dazzle Gun

Dazzle gun is another non-lethal weapon similar to a stun grenade. It uses intense directed radiation to disable its target temporarily with flash blindness. These targets can be humans as well as sensors. It emits infrared lights and does not cause any long-term damage to the eye. It has found good use in the marine world, as an anti-piracy measure. Here, these guns are used to dazzle the pirates.

  Pics courtesy: https://coastguard.dodlive.mil/2010/03/history-the-piracy-mission-then-and-now/

from WordPress https://www.maritimemanual.com/anti-piracy-weapons/

[profgandalf]

Works of Fiction by Profgandalf

 I write fantasy and science fiction and sometimes narratives that could occure in our world.  Some are aimed especially at YA readers (Young Adult–10 to 12)), but I confess I like reading material marked that way.  Sometimes a good children’s story is the best way to tell the story.  Meanwhile there are also a few because of subject and theme whose audience is intended to be a bit older (A).  I had hoped to share with readers here, but there may be other legal issues, so I am just leaving the story ideas and if anyone is interested in what I am doing they can contact me at profgandalf@yahoo.com

Short Stories–Completed

Just Another Quiet Day in Hell

Hell is really a very nice place.  The sky, seen through Dan Backle’s bedroom, is a cloudless deep blue that stretches over the shingled, sparkling roofs of bleached white houses and over green leafed branches.   Somewhere he hears a bird sing.  Meanwhile, coffee is brewing downstairs.  And none of that changes the fact that he, Dan Backle, is in never ending relentless torment. (A: Short story: 39 pages Complete)

Darkness

Ignatius P. Tuttle III (or Izzy as his house mates called him) was brilliant, wealthy and a royal pain. Now he’s obsessed with the fact that darkness is in fact the norm of the universe.  Entropy is closing in everywhere and he is not going to stand for it.  But what steps might he take when no one is there is provide some sort of anchor? (A: Short story: 10 pages Complete)

All Things Both…Flesh and Steel 

Shows like Robo-Wars have been around for a while.  Various robotic teams challenge one another as their machines fight, leading to better and better technology.  But what happens when one team realizes that the best way to have a machine fight is for it to experience pain? (A: Short story: 20 pages Complete)

Wind

Eight year old Tim Roberts has an active imagination.  That’s what his family claims anyway.  And maybe he does but as Halloween approaches he is certain that there is more in the wind which blows around the woods near his Rhode Island home than just air. (YA Short story 9 pages Complete)

The Old Man and the Rocket Ship

Old Jed Starker, life long Ohioan farmer, loving husband and Naval vet was also an early consumer Science Fiction and Tales of Wonder.   Inspired by that reading, he’d constructed a silver rocketship and placed it on a 45 degree ramp just at the end of the road leading up to his and his wife Eddy’s farm (not far from Mount Vernon).  His contemporaries called his crazy, children of the town called him “old fashioned” since what he had built was “not a ‘spacecraft’ or a ‘starship’ or a ‘celestial schooner’ or anything like that.  It was a rocket ship, sleek and silvery with three red stabilizing fins jutting out its end.“  Except for this one quirk, Crazy Jed Starker’s life was quietness personified until he drew the attention of some unlikely visitors. Illustration by the author. (YA Short story: 21 pages Complete)

Assurance or Entrapment?

Edward and Adel Rivers are on vacation high up in the ancient woods of the Northern US.   They are trying to take some time off together to heal the cracks within their marriage. at least that is Adel’s hope.  But Edward senses that there is something else going on and the thick forest branches seem more to entangle and to embrace. (A: Short story: 21 pages Complete)

The English Prof. and the Little Scriveners: 

Anyone familiar with the Grimm’s fairy tale “The Elves and the Shoemaker” will probably find some familiar ground covered here although with a more contemporary twist and with maybe a little jab at the life of composition instructors. Illustrated by the author. (A: Short story: 12 pages Complete) 

The Final Relay

The planet Eden’s name was a reflection of its Earth colonists’ hopes and expectations, but with the ever-growing demands of its population there also grew the need according to some to control what they saw as the wasteful and the superfluous.  Unknown to them, however, their machines contain a fail-safe circuit which awaits their final decision to ban the last celebrations of faith. (A: Short story: 11 pages Complete)

Fashion Sense Succubus

Professors Jane Jamison and Theodore Reinhart discuss how some students and faculty at their small college seem to lack the social instincts to present themselves on campus in sensible attire.  Jane suggests that its just the nature of people who were odd to begin with, Theodore thinks that other forces might be a work. (A: Short story: 10 pages Complete)

The Green Man

Popular icon in many gardens, doorstops, and park walkways, the Greenman represents fertility and the organic power of nature.  The trouble is that some people, like Edgar Blackstroke, are uncomfortable with such forces walking freely about. (A: Short story: 20 pages Complete)

Just Little Things

Freddie Guitner is having the worst day of his life.  He’s just discovered the love of his life dead in her apartment.  Now the police are interrogating him and neither one is believing the worst part of the whole thing.  She looks better as a corps than she did when he last saw her alive. (A: short story: 12 pages Complete)

A Voice Through the Mist

Some of our favorite Bible narratives would make pretty scary stories when they were first experienced.  Not sure how to categorize this one. (YA: Short Story 4 pages Complete)

Genie

Take a little of the Arabian Nights and then imagine a more contemporary Aladdin working in a computer lab.  This story is actually a bit dated with references to Modems and computer disks.  It was one of my first and supposedly features the voice of my younger brother, Jim, who loved computers from the time he was a tweenager. Illustrated by the author. (YA: Short story: 32 pages Complete)

the Shadow of the Brut.

What would happen if a good man found himself, his soul and awareness, in the body of an abusive violent man, who had beaten both his wife and children? What would the good man do? Especially what would he do if he found himself falling in love with the abuser's children and wife? (Adult: 26 pages Complete)

Novel–Completed

The Fey Wars: The Defeated 

The year is 1914 and France, England, its Empire and the Japanese are allies  engaged in a world wide conflict.  But this is not our World World I. The Germans and the Austrian Empire are allied with the British and French. Steam is still primarily the power of the day. The Yanks, meanwhile, are not coming– too busy trying to contain their own insurrections high in their mountains while still bleeding after a decades long Civil War.  The enemy meanwhile are drawn from as many nations as the allies are, a secret alien people upon whom all legends of Fairy and the Undead are based, the Fey.

This Steam-Punk, anti-war novella begins as Professor Michael J. Warren watches new students in his school line up for indoctrination. He does not realize that his daughter, who has searched for him for years, is one of those students.    Two decades earlier, Warren was a Major–code named “Dawn’s Spear”–within the  British Expeditionary Force fighting on the losing side of a war which devastated him mentally and emotionally.  This novella is well-researched and cites historical facts with illustrated notes, provides images, and draws on historical instances centering on the time of World War I, though it is markedly fiction. (A: Complete novel 290 pages with simplified notes)

Illustrated Notes for The Fey Wars:The Defeated

The above text for the novel is filled with footnotes since many of the people and events are drawn from actual history.  However, the intention when it is published is to have those notes illustrated.  Here they are with the images to help amplify them.

Short Stories–In Process

God Has Made Nothing in Vain

Imagine a future not too far from now when robots driven by artificial intelligence are everywhere.  They teach schools, take care of children, sell and buy all sorts of products, repair cities and wage wars.  Now imagine a devout Christian couple coming into possession of a sex droid.  What do they do with her? What role does she play in God’s plan for them?  (A: Opening chapters 52 pages)

Under the Bloody Eye of the Storm

People are sometimes possessed by evil.  Some think rooms or even houses can also be possessed, but what does one do when faced with a demon possessed storm?  Hurricane Vlad is headed for the Florida coast. (A: Opening 23 pages)

Blind Fool or “Eyes Up Here Fella!”

This lighthearted fantasy features the adventures of Matilda Manglyeong, one very gifted (endowed?) and attractive young witch who finds herself thrown (literally) into the company of a non-magical magician (he’s really good at making marbles disappear from under cups) who is himself being pursued by one of the most feared enforcers of magical orthodoxy in their world, the Sage Inquisition. However for some reason her own magic has decided to change its nature and suddenly what were once sprinkles of power coming from her fingertips are now gushers of waterfall force. (A:Opening 12 pages)

Prenuptial Agreements: the Zargathian Way

“It is a universal Zargathian axiom that a worthy set of male genes are in desperate need of a wife—although the actual welfare of the male carrying said genes is of little to no consequence.”  So begins this science fiction romp which starts with a deep bow to Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice. (Duly footnoted). When Captain Robert Cluster and his partner, Trevor MacFenerstein, enter into Zargathian space, they initially hope that they’ve discovered a whole new outlet for Earth commerce.  Sadly they have been beaten to the punch by one Dan Magasim, a notorious, loudmouth, exploitative entrepreneur. It is, however, not until they meet the chief negotiator of the Zargathian space port who introduces himself as Dir. “Ovar Baring Twitt” and one of his sales reps who identifies herself as “Iva Parh O’Biggons,” that the two Earth-men begin to suspect something is profoundly wrong. (A: Opening 33 pages)

[viralhottopics]

The book that may make you want to drop acid — in small doses

Image: wikimedia

Calmer. Happier. Way more productive.

That may sound like the first line of a Radiohead song. In fact, it’s how author Ayelet Waldman felt after trying a tiny dose of LSD every third day for a month.

SEE ALSO: A guide to marijuana microdosing: How tiny hits could be the future of weed

Waldman’s curious experiment is the subject of A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Mega Difference in My Mood, My Marriage and My Life, a highly readable nonfiction diary released this month by Knopf.

The book makes a compelling case for why acid should be decriminalized like marijuana in several states. Both drugs have medical benefits, and neither have ever been shown to kill a human being at any dose. (Those stories from the 1970s about acid droppers jumping out of windows because they thought they could fly? An urban legend largely spread by one TV presenter.)

More importantly for the reader, this advocacy comes in the context of a funny and relatable real-life soap opera. Waldman is not shy in discussing her personal life. We get the good, the bad and the ugly in her relationship with her four kids and spouse, the Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist behind The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Michael Chabon.

Waldman and Chabon fret about their kids, go through heartbreakingly passive-aggressive sessions of couples therapy, and have knock-down, drag-out fights about emptying the dishwasher, the placement of a sofa and the amount of defunct audio equipment in the shed.

Celebrity authors: they’re just like us!

SEE ALSO: Stephen King and 600 more U.S. authors come out against Trump

Seriously, though, if you’ve ever struggled with depression, insomnia, low self-esteem, the legacy of emotionally distant parents, or any kind of persistent bodily pain (in her case, a frozen shoulder), you will identify with Waldman’s inner thought process, and be amused by her dark sense of humor about the whole thing. The writing is clear, and it sparkles.

As the diary opens, she’s desperate. Bipolar disorder and perimenopause have done a number on her brain, and no drug in the alphabet soup provided by Big Pharma is helping. Not even meditation or years of therapy can shift her moods.

Waldman is cranky, miserable, tormented and tormenting her family in return, and can only write in occasional manic bursts.

“Do you think you might need an SSRI today?” Chabon asks in the most neutral tone he can manage. “I did my part by neither defenestrating nor decapitating him,” Waldman writes.

What a long, strange micro-trip

Then she stumbles on the work of James Fadiman, a psychologist who for years has been crowdsourcing a self-reported study of LSD microdosing. (Because the government has kept acid on Schedule A, no regular scientific study is likely any time soon.)

An anonymous elderly academic calling himself “Lewis Carrol” leaves a blue vial of liquid LSD in her mailbox

His recommended protocol: take ten micrograms, wait two days, take ten more micrograms, repeat. Observe your responses and keep a daily record. (Ten micrograms is about 1/10th what you’d need to even start to feel like you’re tripping.)

Waldman, a straitlaced former attorney, has never taken the stuff before. She is wary, anxious, and very bad at soliciting drugs. But she also lives in Berkeley, so it doesn’t take too many calls before an anonymous elderly academic calling himself “Lewis Carrol” leaves a blue vial of liquid LSD in her mailbox.

She employs a testing kit on it before using, naturally.

In her diary, she tracks her physical sensations, her mood, her sleep levels, the amount of conflict she creates. On her microdose days, she observes herself being a little more chatty and “up” than normal, but few other discernible differences.

It’s the “transition day” the day after the microdose when Waldman generally finds the most benefits. Suddenly she’s writing like a demon, and good stuff too. She’s filled with a sense of peace and love and discipline. The pain in her shoulder largely vanishes. Sleeps comes easier.

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Intra-family conflict doesn’t go away there’s one particularly panicky episode when she fears her eldest in college has gotten a tattoo, based on a misunderstood Instagram post but it becomes easier to resolve.

At the end of the month, with the last drop of the vial approaching and Lewis Carrol nowhere to be found, Waldman tries to solicit more, only to panic when her new source tries to sell her precisely the amount that would raise the federal crime from possession to distribution. A former attorney for drug offenders, she knows all about entrapment.

Absent that incident, Waldman says, she’d still be microdosing today. Read her AMA on Reddit for more on that. Waldman is far from alone in reporting these kinds of results; there’s a whole underground network of microdosers out there. Albert Hoffman, the Swiss chemist who accidentally invented LSD in the first place, was microdosing well into his 80s, and died at 102.

We still don’t know exactly how acid works, or why it should have such a positive effect on many people at such minuscule doses. (Researchers have only just mapped out how the LSD molecule attaches to receptors in the brain, in a study published Thursday.)

We do know that more study is needed and that if Attorney General nominee Jeff “Good people don’t smoke marijuana” Sessions ends up running the DEA, that isn’t likely any time this decade.

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from The book that may make you want to drop acid — in small doses