#i explained it poorly and also this was caused by fellow travelers :)

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

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[acioo]

anybody who knows anything about me will be able to tell you i spend a bunch of my time ice skating & i’ve never seen a guide on how to write a character that figure skates , so i thought i’d compile some tips & explain things , because my whole childhood i was travelling across the country to spin on ice with nothing on but a leotard & some tights , and now i have nothing but a bunch of tacky costumes and this post to show for it . this is pretty in-depth , about 2.5k words , but if you have any questions about specific aspects or want me to clarify anything , feel free to shoot me an ask . oh & a like  or reblog if you found this helpful would be sweet ! tw : injury, mental illness, eating disorders

most people that wind up as figure skaters started ridiculously young. i was probably six, but at my rink, we train kids as young as four and five. if your character has competed professionally at a state-wide level or up, they most likely started super young and have been professionally trained. figure skating is not a sport that you can do casually, most of the time. ice skating, casually, however, totally different thing. but competitive figure skating, being on a figure skating team, and the like, it’s a lot of effort, time, and discipline. in a lot of families, it’s a tradition to teach your kids to ice skate. at my rink, there’s a lot of people who come from slavic families whose parents signed them up - or athlete parents in gen. so, if your character is SUPER GOOD, they’ve put hundreds of hours of work into it, and have years of practice. it is not something you can pick up in a day, and i’d even say you have to be at it for at least two years before you get good good, and it takes a while to even become comfortable on the ice before you can start to do any kind of trick - THAT is why they start young, so by the time we’re pre-teens, we’re really, really good. the problem happens, famously, at puberty, because your balance gets knocked off, your bones are growing, and you have to basically relearn everything you know.

there are so many different types of figure skating. i specialize in singles, but i’ve done showcase and solo dance ( but both of those skills are more for me to be a well-rounded skater, not for competing ), and would sometimes be put into pairs to help learn skills and work together. you NEED to be in one of these categories for competition because they are what all comps are based upon. singles is, as you think, one single ice skater individually doing their routine. singles will do various dances, jumps, spins, etc. i won't lie, it’s hard, and really, really competitive. singles is the most competitive of all these categories. it’s usually a short program ( jumping, spinning, steps - the easier portion of competition because it’s really just a routine that you need to get down pat so you can boost your score. you will learn to do it in your sleep. ) and then a free skate ( longer than the other, it’s more complicated and difficult ). pair skating is really, really difficult, tbh, and you need a good relationship with whoever you are doing it with because there’s a lot of trust involved. it’s hard to break into pair skating because you need a partner that you’re equal to in skill and you like as a person. you guys spend a lot of time together and you need to get along. you guys need to be equally proficient at ice skating. most pairs get put together when they’re still very young. it’s very difficult to from singles to becoming a pair skater. it’s two skaters and they skate around each other, they lift each other, and move in synchronized patterns. it’s highly technical, like all figure skating, but it is more difficult because you have to keep in mind both your own feet and someone else’s. you do NOT want to bump skates with someone. at best, that is very uncomfortable. at usual/worse, you’re both about to eat shit on ice. in pair skating the partner that lifts needs SO much strength. like, so much. i’ve tried to lift fellow skaters, who are the same weight as me, and it’s near fucking impossible for me. ice skates are HEAVY and skaters have a lot of lower body muscle. we are not light people. for example, once time my team and i were out of practice and just skating around and we started playing around and i did a cartwheel on ice and i fell very hard. wiped tf out. and that’s me, trying to handle my own weight. like singles, it’s a free skate and a short program. pair skating is typically male + female ( what a sad world, i know ), but i encourage every writer to take some suspending of reality. ice dance is, basically, dancing. it’s a lot more performative than other types of skating. it’s done in pairs, but can be performed alone, in a different category called solo dance. in the nicest way possible, singles/pair skaters usually look down a bit on ice dancers because it’s a bit less technical, and doesn’t have any jumps of lifts. but ! that doesn’t mean it’s easy because it’s not. it’s rooted in ballroom dancing and they have two parts of competition: rhythm dance and free dance. fun fact: pair ice dancers scott moir and tessa virtue, who are famous to be suspected dating, are the reason we had a no dating rule at the rink. showcase ice skating is usually for some kind of platform, or in front of a large crowd. i’ve done showcase for investors for our rink. there’s usually costumes involved ( there are costumes for all competitions, but their costumes are more, like, theatre - y ), and props, and acting. it’s actually very fun to watch, but you need acting skill. theatre on ice, however, is just what it sounds like. theatre on ice is popular with children and good for ways to show off an entire team of skaters, because you can have eight to thirty skaters on the ice. they can also compete and they can go international, but they aren’t in the olympics and there aren’t many competitions for them. it’s usually just a fun way to get together with your teammates, bond, and then show off what you did.

so, competitions. super complicated, and as a writer, i suggest really glossing over them, because it’s difficult to get it down completely right. there are nonqualifying and qualifying comps. the difference is that in qualifying competitions, you’re looking to start moving up, basically, so if you qualify in the first one, you go onto the next one, then state eventually, then national, and so on. you start with regionals ( singles ) /  sectionals ( pairs and ice dancers ). then, if you succeed, you go to sectional singles / pairs + ice dance finals. the goal is to get on the national team ( i’ve watched ameatur skaters tell other rinkmates they want to compete in the olympics - it was NOT pretty ), basically. which, let me say this. it is nowhere. near. easy. like, just go into youtube and search “ yuzuru hanyu “ ( gold medal in pyeongchang olympics for mens singles ) and watch ANY of his performances. now he’s the gold medalist, right. he started at four years old. so let’s go smaller. google elsa cheng and watch one of her routines. she’s a member of the us national figure skating team. she’s fifteen. YEAH. not an easy sport. nonqualifying is more laid back and for fun, or trophies. nonqualifying is also a way to practice before you enter into qualifying. competitions are really nerve-racking. it’ll cause stress between you and your rinkmates, because more often than not you’re going against one another. you and your coach will usually spend all the prep season creating your two programs, which you will almost always repeat in every single competition you attend. i have about 20 different routines stored in the back of my head. sometimes my coach would give us exercises of coming up with a routine during a time restraint. my friend junior learned a routine that was on yuri on ice. 

for competitions you arrive, you get ready. you’re almost always wearing some kind of elaborate costume/dress leotard thingy. this is a time to start getting mentally ready, talk to your friends, and do each other’s hair and makeup. costumes are bought way ahead of time, and are usually related to the theme of your routine. you do NOT want a wardrobe malfunction. it’ll mess you up & you’ll lose precious points. your hair will most likely always be back and, more often than not, braided or in a bun. the comp will begin and you have a practice session so that you can get warmed up and ready. it’s not long. you will get the music for your program played one by one, and you rehearse - this is usually to check to make sure your music is right & to get acclimated to the ice then you get off the ice and another group will warm up. your coach can’t be on the ice whatsoever, and has to stay outside the rink. usually, competition order is done by a random draw. one by one, you will do your routine. no one but you can be on the ice. then you go off to the “ kiss and cry “ ( because you’re either about to celebrate or get your ear chewed off by an adult in a tracksuit ) where your score gets announced. then, competition continues. your warmup + when you start is not based on how you placed in the last part of the comp ( usually started with lowest ) and you perform the second routine. then, and this is usually determined by like how serious the competition you're going to, but there are trophies handed out, a podium ceremony is held, or medals or flowers are given out. my coach would always make the team pose together after competitions and go out to eat - lots of coaches hold bonding exercises esp after comps. if we did well, we could skip our 9 am practice. if we did poorly, the team meets up at a local park and runs the three-mile trail, and then they do technical corrections at the rink. after your medal/etc ceremony, you’re done. sometimes the top people will perform, but by that time you’re usually exhausted and want to sleep for a billion years ( or, if you did really well, you want to go eat 15 ihop pancakes and conquer the world ). the competition season is from august to april. this is a BASE of what happens. it’s different at different kinds of competitions and for different categories of skating, but it’s almost always something like this. offseason is for practice, rest, and fun, basically, but if you're a serious skater, by the time you’re hitting july, you’re spending more time at the rink than at home. the most well-known and the hardest competitions to qualify for are the grand prix, europeans ( european championships ), worlds ( world championships ), and the, of course, olympics.

another aspect of almost any professional sport is injury. think about any ice skating routine you’ve seen. there is no protection. you’re wearing a thin sheer leotard. you have basically knives on your feet. it’s VERY easy to get yourself beat up by ice. the ice is very hard and not very forgiving. meaning, if you hit, you hit hard. you usually are putting a lot of force into it, too, because you’re falling. don’t even get me started on the BRUISING. you will look like you have gone thru something, all the time. ice skates, which have to sharpened routinely, are, as you imagine, SHARP AS FUCK. knife shoes. i’ve been recreationally skating, because i work at a rink, and just monitoring the skaters and usually messing around with my rinkmates, and i fell, and i sliced open my thigh. i didn’t need stitches, or anything, but there was blood everywhere. very gross. ( ask abt this answered here ! ) and i wasn’t even doing anything particularly hard. and this has happened before. they WILL cut you. ankle injuries are super common. i’ve seen someone break their ankle feet away from me. i’ve twisted my left ankle five times. as for dislocations, they also happen a lot. when i was twelve, i was at the top of my figure skating career. i was qualifying to competition after competition. during a regular, normal practice, i was doing a jump i had usually aced, and i landed the wrong way and i dislocated my knee and blacked out. it’s a very disgusting injury and extremely, extremely painful. like, a good 50k in hospital bills for the surgery to fix it. i was very good and it was my favorite activity on the planet, but it was so awful that i quit. when i was fourteen, i started skating again, joined my team, etc, etc, but it was very difficult to recover from. and that’s a very common story. most people get injured and they have to stop. i know a girl who got a bunch of concussions, and wasn’t able to skate. i’ve been concussed on the ice. people tear their acls or their hip. we have a sports medic at all figure skating practices and comps. and a lot of injuries, once you hurt something, you will hurt it again because you made it weak. we are all very flexible but overuse will make your bones brittle. there’s also stress fractures and different things you can get from just overworking your muscles. shin splints, tendonitis, jumpers knee, etc. you name an overuse injury, and i’ve had it. i was one so exhausted after practice that i laid down on the ice and cried until my coach ( who i love very dearly ) gave me a bag of skittles and told me to suck it up. that’s not saying my coach is a bitch ( john mulaney vc my coach is a bitch and i like her so much ), that’s to say there is no break, no stopping. you get better, and move on, or you quit.

as-is with basically any competitive sport, if you get serious, you will probably go onto some sort of diet along with it. you want to be eating a lot of nutritional stuff ( granola bars are HOARDED in my locker room & to this day i gag at the sight of protein shakes ), anything with a lot of calcium ( because we do be breaking bones ! ), and iron. i used to eat pasta before comps ( like wayyy before not an hr or anything ) because it gives you ~energy~. you need to be eating a lot because you’re exercising a lot. gatorade is banned by my coach because it's so much sugar. you need to drink so. much. water. we all take a bunch of vitamins. usually will eat chicken / meat in general. but keep in mind, like any sport in which you are cutting things from your diet / eating specific things / etc, it can easily lead to an unhealthy relationship with food. there’s a lot of shitty mindsets you will encounter with coaches and fellow competitors about what weight a figure skater should be, and it's even worse in pair skating ( because of lifts ). when i was eleven, one of my old coaches told me that she hoped i never hit puberty because it’d fuck up my balance & when i did i cried. a fellow competitor once told me she wished she had my “ figure skater “ body ( and at this point of my life, i had very unhealthy eating habits ). another time a group of older kids made fun of how gangly i was while i was in earshot. the amt of times my coach has SCREAMED at ice skaters for making fun of / putting down fellow ice skaters is astronomical. it’s rough. a lot of figure skaters have opened up about how figure skating caused / contributed to their mental illness. it’s very easy to fall into because of how “ perfect “ you need to be. you can look up various figure skaters stories on this: adam rippon, gracie gold, and yulia vyacheslavovna - a very famous one as it was part of the reason her career ended & she was the youngest ever skating gold medalist. and i will say, personally, my unhealthy relationship with food ( that would eventually lead to lots o problems & i still feel the impact of today ) began when i was figure skating. there are other risk factors for mental illness as well because there’s so much focus on winning / losing. more than once, competitions would give me panic attacks because of the great stress.

another thing is MONEY. as fucked up as it is, you need money, or a grant, if you want to get good. you need expensive skates, costumes, travel fees, and more. my pro figure skates, not my casual ones, cost upwards of 300, and that’s low balling it. when i was ten, my parents spent upwards of 10k on figure skating. there are rink fees, there are competition fees, there are coaching fees. it adds up extremely quickly. i know a lot of skaters who stopped competing because it was just too expensive. i work for my rink by teaching classes and monitoring open skates and additional things, but if i added up every single dollar i ever made, it would be nowhere near enough to pay for everything. but the thing is, if you get really good, you can make money off of competitions, but getting there is the hard part. at one point in my life, my parents were paying $100 an hour for my private coach who i was seeing multiple days a week. figure skaters also oftentimes will take additional classes to help. my coach made the entire junior team take ballet one year. i took a ton of gymnastic classes as well to help with skating.

so, who are the kind of people that ARE figure skaters ? what do we act like ? there’s a lot of stereotypes that figure skaters are cold people. that’s not necessarily true. i would say that we are extremely competitive people. i’ve seen rinkmates get into full-blown fights during competitions. one of my best friends, who i met at my rink once i returned from my hiatus, HATED me because she knew i was competition. we are on-edge.  stakes are high and the pressure is on. a lot of us are very perfectionistic because you sort of got to be to get to our level. we can have control issues and we can become easily frustrated if we flop jumps or keep stuttering coming out of a spin. the other stereotype is that we are super delicate little flowers. probably because of the way we have to move. realistically, we’re a tactile bunch of people who would probably wind up hurting someone if we played hockey. ( another stereotype : figure skaters and hockey kids. the closest i’ve gotten to a hockey player is the one time i threatened to quick him in the nads because they came early and insisted we get off the rink. ) we all love skating and have a lot of fun while doing it. it’s dangerous, and that’s part of the thrill. speeding around the rink at extremely high speeds is, honestly, exhilirating. we love our sport and, though we can get on each other's nerves, love our rinkmates. it’s not easy, but it’s our favorite thing to do.

[existentialspacecowboy]

Deadeye

A Royai Cowboy/Western AU inspired by @5hio and written as a part of @wastelandwolff’s Cowboytober 2020.

She’s the sharpest shooter across the whole frontier, and he starts bar fights for fun. 

Roy Mustang props up the bar like he’s a permanent staple. At this point, he might as well be. He’s spending money he cannot afford to all in the pursuit of futile pleasure and, well, being blind drunk is about all the fun a disgraced ex-sheriff can have.

He’s been in this town for a little while now, he’s not sure just how long but his position at the bar is a well-worn groove, the knot in the mahogany bar-top his familiar propping post.

He frowns when a sudden, un-characteristic silence befalls the saloon. Blinking a few times to regain some semblance of concentration, he throws a scant glance in the direction of the woman who has caused such a stir.

Nearby, Roy can’t help but overhear the muttered musings of two fellow drunkards; “Hawk in name and hawk by nature, she’s the deadliest sharpshooter there is. A real deadeye.”

Looking at her, Roy never would have guessed. He supposes there is a severeness about her, an intensity in her amber eyes, but there’s a softness in her face too and a gentleness in the curve of her jaw.

He realises he’s staring.

Turning back to the neck of his bottle, he swallows a hefty mouthful. The moonshine always hits his stomach like a freight-train, but that’s just how he likes it. It helps him to forget who he is and feel something besides the shame he shoulders each day.

Roy hasn’t shaven in days and hasn’t washed in even longer. There’s no way someone like her would ever pay him a second glance. He smells of booze, and reeks of disappointment; he’s not even sure that his aunt would look him in the eyes at this point. And even if she did, he’s not sure that she’d like what she’d see in them.

As the woman moves through the saloon, settling on a bar stool just a few feet away from him, Roy notes the way the room once again fills with the sound of casual conversations and the dulcet tones of a poorly tuned piano. 

Stroking a hand down his face, the four-day stubble scratches at his palm whilst he shakes the bottle in his free hand.

Almost empty.

Sighing, he takes his final mouthful, eyes once again on her. So engrossed, the man hardly notices when his bottle runs dry.  

But it does run dry.

In what is a familiar motion, Roy reaches into his pocket fumbling around for the necessary coin to fuel his next round, but he stops when his fingers don’t brush anything cool.

His eyes grow wide.

“Shit.”

Roy is faced with two choices; accept defeat and embrace sobriety, and its associated hangover, or find some way to keep drinking. He knows which choice he should choose, but he also knows which choice he wants to follow. 

And the barman’s back is turned.

Craning his neck over the bar, Roy slots his mouth beneath one of the pumps, his hand clumsily reaching for the tap and tugging on it. He sighs, relieved, as ale gushes into his mouth, and it’s the closest thing to ecstasy he’s experienced in a very long time.

But like all other joys in Roy’s life as of late, it’s short-lived.

Roy’s stupor is rudely interrupted by a pair of large hands that grab him roughly by his collar. He swallows, looking up at the barkeep with doe-eyes. He’s reminded of all the times his aunt had scorned him for swiping dessert prematurely, and how he’d used these same innocent eyes to wrangle himself out of trouble every time.

Except, on this occasion, it doesn’t seem to work.

Roy swallows more thickly this time, forced bravado on his face, “Hey, I’ve spent days keeping this place in business, and I don’t even get one free drink? Talk about poor hospitality.”

Big mistake.

The barkeep’s face flushes a furious red, his jaw clenched and his hold on Roy’s collar intensifying.

“All you’ve done is stink up my damn bar for the past week, and now you’re stealing from me?”

Roy relents, immediately on the backfoot, “Look, I’m just a little low on funds right now. I’ll get the cash and –”

Ouch.

Roy’s hands dart upwards towards his face, cradling his nose that has just been fiercely sucker-punched.

There’s blood on his hands.

Quickly, the same blood that flows through Roy’s veins beings to boil, his quick temper sparking instantaneously into a raging inferno. He surges upwards, crashing the upper side of his forehead against the underside of the barman’s jaw.

The man’s hold on him releases, and Roy wipes his nose with the cuff of his jacket, something like a real smile on his face.

“Damn, that feels good!” He declares brazenly, arms open and ready for his next attack, “Show me what you’ve really got you hulking oaf.”

But it isn’t just the barkeep this time.

There’s three men, all significantly taller than him, all with rage written across their features and they’re all skulking towards him.

Roy responds confidently, raising his hands and a wry smile plays at his bloodied lips, “Alright, gents, I’m sure we can talk about this.”

Cockily, he swings for the shortest of the men, but his fist is caught midway through its trajectory before it can make any bone-shattering contact. Colour draining from his face, Roy finds himself backed against a corner with the eyes of the whole saloon on him.

Caught by his throat, and hoisted with his back against the wall, he lashes out with his feet, desperately trying to make contact with one of the men and send them reeling, hopefully with their hands clutching the space between their legs. 

He’d stand a chance of landing a blow sober, but the cards are stacked against him whilst drunk.

A wheeze is forced from his lungs as one of the lackeys lays into his stomach, knocking the wind from him.

The grip on his throat tightens.

He can’t breathe.

All bravado gone, he scrambles desperately to try and pull the hands from around his throat, but his vision is closing in, and there’s an eerie screaming in his ears. It’s a ringing so loud that he doesn’t register the shot for a few seconds but when he does, it’s a shot that snaps him quickly into sobriety.

Spluttering, Roy drags in a deep breath, coughing on the exhale as he sinks to the floor, slumping against the wall as he cradles his throat. He lifts his eyes, noting that one of the oafs has a bullet hole-shaped chunk missing from one ear, and they’re wailing about it like a child.

It brings a sly smile to Roy’s face.

Glancing around, he seeks out the figure of his saviour. Eyes travelling up the lines of their legs, the curve of their waist and, up past their chest, he meets those honey-brown eyes; the ones that had first caught his attention when she’d stepped into the bar.

It’s her. The Deadeye.

And she’s offering him her hand.

He takes it without a second thought, and she hauls him to his feet in one smooth motion.

He smiles at her, but she’s already turned to the barkeep, her pistol once again holstered in the belt at her hip, “I’d say his tab is settled, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man simply nods, cradling his still-bleeding ear.

Roy watches as she turns to leave, unsure if the instruction is to follow her or simply make himself very scarce very quickly.

Either way, he isn’t about to hang around for half a second longer.

He follows close behind on her heels, trousers all but brushing the spikes of her spurs as she walks.

“Thank you,” Roy says, the words spilling awkwardly out of his mouth. He’s unsure how someone like her will react. She’s dangerous but she’s also the first person to show him kindness in months. And, for that reason, Roy isn’t willing to lose sight of her so easily.

She replies with a cursory glance over her shoulder and a simple shrug, “Couldn’t exactly just sit there and watch them beat you to a bloody pulp. Would’ve really put a dampener on my own drink.”

Roy chuckles.

“Even so,” he begins, “I’m just not sure why you’d step in to help someone like me.”

She says nothing.

And Roy decides it’s best to not press her about it any further.

They walk the rest of the way to the hitching post in silence. By her steed’s side sits a black and white mutt with a pink tongue which wags loosely out of the side of its mouth upon first sight of its mistress returning. The dog starts leaping up at her.

“Sit, Hayate,” the woman instructs coolly, before stooping to reward the dog with a scratch behind its ear.

Roy can’t help but smile at the scene.

“Nice dog,” he says conversationally with an easy smile.

The woman smiles at that and does something that Roy doesn’t quite expect.

She offers him her hand again.

“They call me a deadeye with a gun,” she explains. “But I prefer Riza. Riza Hawkeye.”

He takes her hand and shakes it.

“Pleasure. My name’s Roy. Roy Mustang.”

[osmw1]

Dimension Wave   Chapter 13 — Cheesy

I’m standing in front of the cave. In my hand is my fishing rod with a sinker threaded onto the line.

“Let’s do this then.”

They silently nod in response and I cast my line. I have fine control over my rod, thanks to Fishing Mastery IV. The hook sinks right into the Lizardman Dark Knight. It probably dealt a point or two of damage, but it can hardly be called an attack. But it did exactly what I wanted it to—pulling its aggro.

“It’s comin’! Get ready, everybody!”

I’m not even sure if I did any damage to it, but it’s rushing towards us at the speed of lightning. If this were any other monster, we’d be instantly destroyed, but…

Kaboom!

The Lizardman Dark Knight slammed into the mouth of the cave accompanied by a terrible crash. Yup. The Lizardman Dark Knight doesn’t fit through the entrance. There are a lot of games where you can trap monsters by getting them to clip against objects. It’s an easy way to level up, but devs usually patch stuff like this out pretty quickly. Fortunately, it works in Dimension Wave. And it goes without saying that there’s a chance of it not working, but after discussing it between the three of us, we decided to try it out.

“Let’s kick its ass!” “Understood!” “Aye!”

The rest was straightforward. All we had to do was use the weapons and skills we had to and keep on attacking the trapped monster. I took out my Cetus Longsword and started hacking away at the trapped Lizardman Dark Knight too.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m doing too much damage. My strikes connect with a dull clank. I couldn’t tell from a distance, but now I know that it’s not only clad in armor but also covered in scales. Its defense is accordingly high too. I look over and see Shouko endlessly thrusting and swinging as well. Yamikage has some kind of scroll-shaped magic tome by his mouth and begins chanting. Moments after, a black visual effect appears, and he starts absorbing green orbs from the Lizardman Dark Knight.

That’s probably his Drain, a dark magic spell. Shouko and I aren’t using any skills though. We don’t know how much HP this boss has, so it’d be hard to guess if we’d make up any energy expended.

“This guy is literally so tough. Can you even win fighting normally?” “I have heard talk of a party defeating it before.”

We strike up a conversation, but our hands hadn’t stopped.

“’Tis naught but a rumor, but supposedly, they had tanks occupying the monster while they blasted it with light magic from a distance.” “I see. Its physical defense is as high as it looks to be.”

It’s just a guess, but I don’t think we’re quite fit to fight this Lizardman Dark Knight. The folding fan doesn’t do much damage and Drain is a dark-type skill. Our chances of winning are zero if not for cheesing it. My attacks make an unpleasant clank when I hit it and that’s with my strongest weapon I have. Oh, and if I had to say, I think a metal axe or even a blunt melee weapon would fare much better.

“In any case, if it doesn’t make any strange movements, we can just keep on wailing on it.” “Okay!” “Aye!”

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step is what they say. Just gotta keep at it.

Thirty minutes later.

“I-It’s still standing. How much freakin’ HP does this bastard have…”

If we get too close, it’ll strike back at us. We’re barely managing to outrange it. Especially with Shouko. The range on her fan is short, so she’s gotta occasionally parry its attacks. Not to mention, the AI causes it to try to run away from time to time. Naturally, I summon it back with my fishing rod. Seeing how I’m able to manage that says a lot about how smart the AI is.

“Perhaps it has regenerating capabilities.” “Nay. ‘Tis but because our offense is lacking.”

Well, that’s true, but I’m about average, I’d say. It’s been seemingly forever since we’ve attacked this monster, resulting in its armor crumbling and even scales ripped off. Still, it’s tough mentally to keep this up for a whole hour on a single monster.

“Be nourishment for my spirit. Drain!”

Yamikage’s been spamming Drain endlessly for 30 minutes and now even has more Energy than Shouko. That’s to say, he has about 27,000 right now. The Lizardman Dark Knight sure has a lot of HP.

“Whoa?”

As soon as the familiar green orbs get drained by Yamikage, the Lizardman Dark Knight moved in a peculiar way like nothing seen before. It keeled over with a deafening wheeze. It crumbles and slams onto the ground while luckily, causing no earthquakes.

“Hath it finally perished?” “Hey! That’s a death flag right there!” “Hmm, aye. I have left my younger sister behind in my hometown. Therefore, death must wait!”

… god damnit. I like his enthusiasm.

“Goodness… whatever are you two doing?”

Shouko shot a chilling glance over at us while confirming that the enemy is dead. Bosses feign death too. I raise my guard and get closer.

“Be wary. It may be feigning death.” “Gotcha.” “That is unlikely.” “Why’s that?” “Dark it may be, but it is still a knight. I believe it would have more honor than to do something so cowardly.”

Hmm, she’s got a point. It’s normally the demons and tribals that play dead, I think. Well, I guess the Lizardmen are a tribe, but still, it’s a knight. It should be honorable. More honorable than us, at least. We’re the one who trapped it and cheesed it to death. But ignore that.

“As for drops… we obtain a Fragment of Darkness and Dark Spear Splinter.” “We may sell those for a hefty sum.”

It’ll make us a good bit of coin, though I’m not exactly broke. Well, it doesn’t hurt to have more money. According to Yamikage, that two-handed spear is a material and a very desirable one for spear-wielders because of its dark element.

“Such is the prowess of a gutting-type weapon, true to what the rumors say.”

The real issue now is what to do. I glance over to Shouko and give her a look. Honestly, I want to gut it. I don’t think I’d get another chance to gut it. And likely, what we’d get from the monster would be really good for weapons and armor. A side of me is saying to keep the secret but the other side of me really wants the boss loot.

“We’re buddies that took down a boss together, so I guess I’ll tell ya…”

There ain’t nothin’ better than boss drops.

“If you are fine with it, Kizuna, then I believe it is for the best as well.” “Hmm? What is the meaning of this?” “Well, just watch. Speed Gutting…”

After chanting the skill, I take my Cetus Longsword and start to butcher up the giant Lizardman Dark Knight. I can’t do anything about the armor and scales broken off of it, but I can harvest the rest of his scales, bones, flesh, teeth, eyes, skin, tail, and even blood. But, for some reason, I can’t make use of what I broke off of it in the fight. It’s like the complete opposite of that certain monster hunting game.

“Egads…”

Yamikage mutters out in shock. Since this is a boss monster, I got as much material as I did from the Giant Herring. The Giant Herring must’ve been the boss of its species too.

“What on earth is this? Hath the items increased? Doth gutting-type weapons not increase our drops?” “It is poorly explained in the manual, but this is the proper way of using a gutting weapon.” “Never have I been more surprised in this world before!”

I can’t tell whether he’s really that surprised or his acting is just overboard, but his words are filled with zeal. Well, even if he tells everyone about this, we can still make plenty of cash if we sell these boss items quick enough.

“Then, shall I keep this a secret too?” “Huh?” “It seems as though Misses Kizuna and Hakoniwa were both keeping this undisclosed. As gratitude for saving my life, I, too, shall bring this secret to my grave.” “W-Well, I’d appreciate it if you would…”

And to think he had almost killed us. I’m glad he changed his mind. If he’ll keep it a secret, then I really don’t have any problems with him.

“However, I doth have an issue to discuss…” “What is it?” “May I perhaps join your party?” “… why?” “I have been playing alone up till now.” “Is that right?”

Shouko questions him. He’s got such a weird build. It’s no wonder no one’s letting him in their party. I almost blurted that out loud, but I held my tongue.

“It may hath been on your tongues already, but I have a communication disorder.” “…?”

… what was that? Unfortunately, I had no clue. Some might think his roleplaying is over the top, but I think most enjoy it. At least Alto or Romina wouldn’t have a problem with it.

“Many times, I have wished to join a party, but I always end up unable to.” “I am sorry to hear.”

Shouko’s totally starting to let her guard down. It totally reeks of a scam.

“Question.” “Aye?” “You said you have a communication disorder, but you’re talkin’ to us just fine.” “Speaking like this—like a ninja—seems to help.”

What kind of reasoning is that? At least come up with a better excuse.

“Mine heart is pounding as we speak now.” “Goodness! Kizuna, let her travel with us. We are fellow Spirits after all!”

What is this feeling? Like I’m watching my friends getting swindled? W-Well, I guess a party wouldn’t be too bad… hmm?

“What did you just say?” “We are fellow Spirits after all?” “No, before that.” “We should travel with her? “Yeah. ‘Her’?”

Yamikage’s wrapped up in all black. That’s not something you could tell at first glance. There’s even black cloth wrapped around their mouth, so it’s hard to tell by their voice.

“I am embarrassed to show my true face in front of others, but if we are to fight together, then please, look at me.”

Saying that, Yamikage unravels the black cloth…

—and reveals a beauty girl with silver hair.

contents: /prologue/ /ch001/ /ch002/ /ch003/ /ch004/ /ch005/ /ch006/ /ch007/ /ch008/ /ch009/ /ch010/ /ch011/ /ch012/ /ch013/ /next/

(please support me on Patreon or Paypal)

[theculturedmarxist]

SEVERAL LEDES are buried within journalist Snigdha Poonam’s Dreamers: How Young Indians Are Changing the World. Three-quarters of the way through, she writes: “Rare exceptions aside, my wide-ranging forays into the madness of modern India boiled down to the same thing: the anxieties of young men who no longer know their place in the world. What they find hardest to deal with are women who do.”

The chapter in question, “The Angry Young Woman,” profiles Richa Singh (no relation), a young politician whose confidence and bravery led her to take on the hostile masculinity she found at Allahabad University, where she won an unprecedented victory. A woman had never dared run for president of the students’ union in the 127-year history of the campus. In Allahabad, men dominated all social spaces around town, from the tea shops to the campus facilities, and especially the ins and outs of politics. By winning the election, Singh temporarily changed everything.

But this chapter is the only one in which a woman is profiled. Throughout the rest of 280 pages, Poonam’s intrepid reportage comes from the depths of young male rage and desperation, where everyone seems determined to out-scam everyone else on multiple levels. Stemming from a “whatever works,” “do-or-die” attitude, the men Poonam profiles will stop at nothing to get ahead, no matter who they have to cheat along the way. The title, Dreamers, is deceiving in its optimism because not much of anything hopeful appears in this book.

Right now, over half of India’s population, perhaps 600 million people, are under the age of 25, making them the largest number of young people for any country on earth. This generation’s male population, Poonam writes, are the most desperate since India’s independence. Every month, one million Indian youths enter the workforce, yet only 10,000 of them get jobs — a staggering statistic. The rest feel left behind and abandoned by their own country, so they turn to scams and violence to make money.

As a result, the men Poonam writes about are not driven by morality, but by how fast can they achieve money and fame. Their ability to flip between right and wrong depends only on what they stand to win or lose. Anxious about their future, these men feel they must succeed now or else risk being left behind. Since India’s infrastructure still operates on a foundation of bribery, scams, and corruption from bottom to top — so much, that corruption is often viewed as a virtue — this generation of young Indian men, Poonam writes, will cheat their way to their dreams because it’s all they ever see from politicians, businessmen, and celebrities. If these young men don’t embark on such an ideology right now, they will lose their shot at world domination.

“No matter how poorly placed they find themselves now, they make up the world’s largest ever cohort of like-minded young people, and they see absolutely no reason why the world shouldn’t run by their rules,” Poonam writes.

The consequences for the rest of us, inside and outside of India, of young India’s determination, won’t just be economic. The idea that only they can help themselves will lead this generation of Indians to redefine everything according to their perspective: work, success, morality. It will change our world in ways we can’t yet imagine.

The whole book provides explicit examples of this. In one chapter, Poonam brings us deep inside elaborate call center scams where hierarchies of young men are bilking American seniors out of their pensions with the nonchalance of a lazy afterschool project. In another chapter, various men known as “fixers” operate in rural slums, scamming residents for services they can often get for free. We also meet “talent management” companies ruthlessly exploiting wannabe superstars longing for Bollywood-style fame. These young men, often frustrated or rejected, are desperate for notoriety, only to end up with their aspirations destroyed.

She also investigates dubious English-language instruction centers exploiting the beliefs of young people who think that learning even mangled English will convert them from “losers” into “winners” and help them manufacture a global identity. This dovetails with people wanting to learn just enough cut-price English to get jobs writing punchy, obnoxious content for clickbait websites — exactly what happens in many scenarios.

“The version of English they speak — with colleagues, waiters, customer care executives — will define the future of the language in this country, and, in fact, the future of English worldwide,” Poonam writes. “With India expected to have the largest number of English speakers in the world in the next ten years — overtaking the U.S. — the English they speak will be the English of the future.”

If millions of young Indians are learning whichever bare-bones flavor of English facilitates their ability to scam people and elevate themselves in the corruption hierarchy, then it will have dramatic effects on international business, politics, and entertainment. Such gloomy observations appear all throughout the book.

In each case, the level of fraud and corruption does not unfold in just one direction. Those being supervised in how to perpetrate the scams are often simultaneously scamming their bosses, or even hiring middlemen they can exploit in the process. After someone works long enough in a fraudulent call center operation — whether it’s in tech support, insurance, banking, or travel — he might then quit to start up his own fraudulent call center. After spending a few years with such people, Poonam discovered that the scam soldiers were taking over the scams. Once they learned the tricks of the trade, they gave up on the long hours and started their own operation.

“What did you need to run a tech support scam?” Poonam writes. “A team of five, a rented room, computers, mobile phones, a stash of software, a pop-up vendor, and a friend in the U.S. or U.K. to lend you their bank account.”

The tech-support scammers run the whole operation on Facebook, using pop-up boxes to remotely take over someone’s computer and eventually scam gullible American seniors out of millions. Every petty scammer is now a mastermind on his way to an imagined lifestyle of parties, beautiful girls, and fast cars — things he never had before.

Poonam’s investigations also take her into the dark underworld of mob violence. In the most disturbing chapter among many, she embeds herself with the gau rakshaks, vigilante cow-protection armies, whose logo is a gilded torso of a cow flanked by a pair of swords and AK-47s. Commanders are elected, foot soldiers are chosen, and the groups operate as organized fundamentalist Hindu mobs of angry young men targeting anyone, but especially Muslims and Dalits, who might be smuggling cattle somewhere. Out of social isolation, anxiety, sexual rejection, and the “restless anger of a budding dictator,” the gau rakshaks Poonam investigates all seem frightened by the prospect of a global secular society diminishing their religiosity. They respond by finding solace in the power of violence.

As if that wasn’t enough, Poonam also explores grotesque “anti-Valentine’s Day jihads,” where any violent young man might tie an iron bar to the back of his motorcycle for the purpose of swinging it at couples on Valentine’s Day — all just to injure happy lovers for no other reason. Single, broke, and doubtful that he will ever find a job or a woman that likes him, the type of man who does this, Poonam writes, is

what think pieces explaining the Trump and Brexit verdicts term a loser of globalization, one of the millions of leftover youths whose anger is transforming world politics. […] On an elemental level, he doesn’t know if he matters to the world. There’s only one way left for him to make that happen: punish everyone who’s moved ahead of him in that queue. This is what he thinks politics is about.

Which is obviously why Poonam elevates the female politician Richa Singh above the toxic stew depicted in the rest of the book. Poonam describes Singh as someone inspired by true change, someone who can actually call herself a politician. In a landmark series of events, Singh united minority factions and won an election at Allahabad University. She even sat in on a hunger strike to block the right-wing Hindu nationalist preacher Yogi Adityanath from appearing on campus, which later became pointless since he wound up as the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh anyway.

At times, though, Poonam doesn’t shy away from taking sides, admitting that she was rooting for Singh, “in guilt and in bewilderment.” In one of several confessional passages, Poonam feels a connection with Singh’s causes, but says she doesn’t have Singh’s guts or idealism.

“Singh’s fight against caste, communalism and patriarchy — what she called ‘muscle power’ — voiced most of my issues with the country’s politics,” Poonam writes. “I was drawn to stories of women putting up a fight; reporting and writing about their fight was almost a compensation for not participating in it.”

With the understanding that Dreamers only represents a tiny sample base, the book does not leave any sense of optimism in the reader. Even though Poonam dangles a few threads of hope near the end — Richa Singh’s success is now inspiring more women to enter university politics — one doesn’t come away feeling that anything good can possibly come from the exploits of millions of young men defrauding their fellow humans. The book functions like a damning, almost apocalyptic forewarning.

Whatever does become of half a billion young Indians will have a dramatic effect on the rest of the world, Poonam writes. For example, in the United States and Europe, many people are just becoming aware of Facebook’s and Twitter’s role in the spreading of hatred, misogyny, and religious intolerance. In India, those scenarios are amplified by multiple degrees, and by millions upon millions of perpetrators who want in on the action. The damage caused by troll armies, endless harassment, abuse, and fake stories are far beyond their counterparts in the West, as are millions of Indian twentysomethings pooling their resources to operate call center scams and professional fraud networks on Facebook.

For these men, if their only ideology in life is to cheat their way to the top — “whatever works” — then the planet needs to pay serious attention, Poonam warns. Americans or anyone in the West who thinks they needn’t keep tabs on the rest of the world are in for a dire awakening.

[scenitroute]

Ten Days From Raven’s Roost

Ok.  Here it is.  My first TAZ fanfiction.  I don’t even have many followers into TAZ I’m sure.  Thanks to @zrllosyn for pushing me through this one and encouraging much worse to come.  and thanks to @amysantiagone from the TAZ fic writer’s discord for beta-reading the completed draft.  You guys rock!

Title: Ten Days From Raven’s Roost

Warnings: Happy Mango, Sad Mango, Angry Mango

Summary:  Magnus Burnsides travels 10 days to Neverwinter from his home in Raven’s Roost to enter his hand made rocking chair into a carpentry arts contest, where he is expected to win the award that will officially recognize him as a master carpenter. Two days into his journey, his home is attacked by the very villain he defeated not long before. 76 people were killed, including his new wife, Julia, and her father-his mentor, Steven.

“Do you remember the last thing you said?”

“I said…’I love you Jules’.”

It was the last of the warmer months and Neverwinter was crowded.  The townspeople lined the streets with booths to pander their best merchandise, and tourists from towns away came to explore.  While the days were still long, skilled craftsmen traveled from all over to compete for gold and title, to be recognized for their craft.  The competitions pulled in many business owners and wealthy collectors looking to commission the most talented workers.

The excitement could be felt throughout the busy city, and it infected Magnus as he strolled through the marketplace, a particular bounce in his step of pride despite the burden on his back.  It was still early in the day, and Magnus was beaming with energy and grinning as he scanned the rows of shops.  He didn’t stop at any of them, and only slowed to wave a quick goodbye to a fellow competitor he’d met during his time here.  The road led out of Neverwinter into a much smaller town on the outskirts, but Magnus was going further than that.  On his back was strapped his now prize-winning chair, along with his normal pack of rations.  A ten day journey lay ahead of him, and he was eager to get home and share the news of his victory with his new wife, who was waiting there for him.

Jules would say she wasn’t surprised, but kiss him excitedly all the same.  Mr. Waxmen would clap him on the back with a bark of laughter.  Magnus….Magnus would just be happy to be home again.

Magnus had never considered that a quiet life in a small village would suit him.  For as long as he had known, he had always been on the go.  Even as he exited Neverwinter he had the urge to go back and explore what he hadn’t yet seen there.  Yet when he thought of home, of Julia, his heart felt settled, and longed to return.

His pace quickened a little as he pictured her smiling face.  Ten more days until he reached Raven’s Roost, and held Jules in his arms again.  That was better than any adventure or prize, he thought.

Two nights in a row Magnus didn’t bother looking for an inn to sleep in.  He set up a small camp for himself and laid on a mat he’d brought along.  There were a few clouds, but the moon shone bright and lit up their wispy edges from behind.  Magnus stared at the stars that were visible, awed by them.  He had a certain fondness for clear starry nights that he couldn’t quite explain.  Julia never did question it, content with watching the night sky with him.  They would talk about the expanse of stars, and she would go on about constellations and beauty when Magnus fell silent, staring in wonder at the thousands of white lights.

Magnus awoke early the third morning and set off again.  Throughout the day the clouds grew denser, and darker, and much earlier than the night before, the sky grew dark.

The closest village was miles behind him when the rain started to fall, but only moments after the first droplet hit Magnus, he saw a small cottage ahead.  A wooden awning stuck out over the front door, off center, but still providing cover for the doorway with some extra space to stay comfortably out of the sun, or, as Magnus thought now, the rain.

It took several moments after knocking for the door to open, and Magnus was greeted by a half elven man wearing stained brown pants and a light knitted shirt.

“Oh!” he said.  “Hello!”

“Hail and well met!”  Magnus smiled a little sheepishly and waved.  “I um.. I’m travelling a long way and I wondered if I could impose on you for a short time.  If it’s fine with you, I’ll just stay out here under this cover until the rain passes, and be on my way again.”

The man stepped forward a bit and looked at the sky and the rain now pouring down heavily.

“This storm will surely last through the night,” he hummed, scratching his ear as Magnus’s face fell.  Then, a little forlornly he added, “Probably floor th garden in too…”

The man stepped back to the doorway, motioning to Magnus.  “Come on in stranger,” he invited.  “We won’t have you sit on the stair the whole evening and we’ve just finished making some stew.  You’re a big fella but I’m sure there’s enough for yo-”

A muffled crash interrupted him that made both men jump, followed by a voice calling from further inside the house.

“Mattias!  Matti it’s fallen again!”

The man grimaced but led Magnus inside.

“You can leave your pack in the corner there,” he said, quickly pointing it out and heading into the adjacent room.

Magnus set the chair down first, adjusting the canvas covering it as he did, then laid his bag and rolled up mat on its seat before turning to follow his host.

Just inside the other room was a small round table, worn with scratches on its surface.  A pile of trinkets lay scattered across it and a stack of books toppled as it was pushed by a second, held by a dark skinned human woman.  She snatched one book before it fell off the table and moved to adjust the stack before looking up and seeing Magnus for the first time.

“Hello!” she said, smiling through clear exasperation.  “Please excuse the mess, this shelf just doesn’t want to stay together anymore.”

“I’m sorry love,” Mattias straightened up next to her, having picked up a couple boards that had come apart.  It was a small bookshelf that seemed to be poorly attached at the corners, causing it to come apart.  “I’ll see if I can find a new one in town.”

Magnus didn’t miss a beat.  “I can fix that for you!”

The couple laughed.  “Don’t you worry about it,” the woman said.  “Please dear sit.  What’s your name?”

“Magnus Burnsides.”

“Welcome Magnus,” the woman smiled.  The pair finished picking up the fallen items and did’t complain when Magnus helped to carry them into the other room so they could all sit at the table to eat.

Their names were Jaznah and Mattias, a young couple who had just inherited this little cottage from Jaznah’s parents.  She was pregnant, and they had plans to build another room onto the home to make space for their growing family.  However they were struggling to keep together what was already there.

“It’s a perfect home for us,” Mattias said as he finished his meal.  “There’s plenty to fix up, but we’ll manage.  It’s just old.”

“Matti is always so positive about things,” Jaznah stood from the table and collected their bowls.  “But we’ll have enough money to hire someone if we can’t finish the extra room in time.”

Mattias rolled his eyes with a smile and moved to help her as Magnus chuckled.

He stood from the table as well and went around to look over the broken shelf.  It looked like a simple fix in refastening the corners so they wouldn’t tilt when weight was placed on them.  He insisted on mending it as repayment for the meal and shelter, and they relented.

Magnus settled on the floor with some tools he’d retrieved from his pack and set to work eagerly.  Jaznah took a notebook from the stack of books and sat back at the table with a contented sigh.  Mattias finished cleaning up from their dinner before taking to watch Magnus work.

“This must be your trade,” he commented, and Magnus nodded.

“I’m actually returning home from the Continental Craftsman Showcase,” he muttered as he sanded the roughened edges of the wooden sheets.  “Back home I work in a pretty well renowned shop.”

“So you’re a pretty big deal!”  Mattias laughed.  “Something like this old shelf is hardly worth your time.”

Magnus waved a hand.  “This is the least I could do for the kindness you’ve shown me.  After this I’ll be on my way as well so-”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mattias interrupted.  “Don’t you hear that storm?  That won’t be over anytime soon.”

“I couldn’t, it’s too much trouble…”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Jaznah with finality, looking up from her notebook which she had begun writing in.  “It’s night anyway, and there’s no inn for miles.”

Smiling appreciatively, Magnus bowed his head and thanked them both.  He carefully set new nails into the connecting corners of the shelf, then tested the other corners to make sure they didn’t also need repair.  As he went he described the work to Mattias, who began asking for advice on the building project ahead of them.  The shelf was finished quickly, and the pair moved to the more open sitting area.  There was a single bench in the room, padded with sheepskin and placed in front of a simple hearth where a fire was already going.  As they went Magnus looked back at Jaznah, who stayed at the table, bent over her notebook, focused on writing. He found himself staring with a sense of comforting familiarity.

“She likes to write stories,” Mattias explained.  “They’re really something too, I’ll never need to try and come up with something to entertain our children.”

“She’s so focused,” Magnus said, almost to himself.  He pictured Julia pouring over the stack of orders they’d received, tongue between her teeth as she sorted through the work.

He was pulled from his brief daydream by Mattias’s voice, quiet and full of emotion that Magnus easily recognized.

“She just enters her own world when she writes.  It’s truly amazing.”

A warm expression of deep admiration fell over Mattias’s features as he gazed at Jaznah, and Magnus felt exciting welling up in him again to get home.

They relaxed on the bench and talked for a while, until Jaznah joined them and Magnus pulled out the prize-winning rocking chair to show them.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.  “How did you get it to smell so good?  Lavender is my favorite!”

Magnus laughed, and invited her to sit in it.

“It’s a beautiful work of art,” Mattias said.  “I’d say it’s worth the journey to Raven’s Roost for new furniture if you’re making it!  Expect to see me sometime!”

“I’ll be looking forward to it!”

Late into the night they talked and laughed, before finally turning in.  They left Magnus to recline on the bench, giving him some blankets and extra padding for the night.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped.  Magnus, despite his eagerness to get home, happily stayed for breakfast before saying goodbye to Jaznah as Mattias walked him outside.  He readied his pack again, making sure his tools were secured inside, and stopped before slinging the rocking chair onto his back.

“Hey Mattias,” he called.  The man stopped with his hand on the door and looked back at Magnus.

“What’s up?”

Magnus lifted the chair up and carried it up to the house.  “I want you guys to have this.”

“What?  N-No Magnus, take this back home to your wife,” Mattias tried to push it back into Magnus’s arms as he set it down, but Magnus gently stopped him.

Smiling, he said, “Trust me, we have no shortage of decent chairs in the Hammer and Tongs.  I think this will be better suited for you and Jaznah.”

Defeated, Mattias eyed the chair, and then looked up at Magnus.  “You really want to leave this with us?”

“Consider it a gift for the baby,” Magnus suggested, shrugging.

Mattias took his hand in a firm shake, grinning widely.  “Thank you so much friend!  Jazzy will love this!”

“It’ll be a good place to read her stories to the kids,” Magnus said, and Mattias agreed.

“Please stop by again if you’re ever nearby!”  he said as Magnus walked away again.  “Bring Julia too!”

“I will!”  Magnus waved, and he set off again, homeward.

On the seventh day Magnus made a new friend.  A stray dog followed him for some time, trotting along beside him.  Delighted, Magnus stopped to play with the hound, and when he stopped to rest around midday, the dog lounged on the ground next to him.  That night Magnus found a small village, but the dog would not follow him closer to it.  With a sad sigh, Magnus gave the stray some of his rations and scratched its ears before entering the village to find an inn.

The place was small and inexplicably crowded, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the owner said there was a single room available. He didn’t linger in the common area, instead Magnus tucked himself away in his room and drifted off.  Only a few more days until he was home.

The innkeeper invited him to sit for a meal in the common area before leaving.  Magnus was eager to be on his way, but sat at the bar anyway.  The room wasn’t nearly as crowded as the night before.  At one of the two occupied tables sat 3 men who spoke loudly, but it was friendly and Magnus ignored them.

He chewed on some spiced bread and absently squished the bit of cheese on his plate as he planned for the day.  If he kept up his pace he could easily make it home before the next day was out.  Bouncing a little in his chair, he dug in his pockets for a few coins to leave.

“Did you see those folks last night?” a voice asked from the table behind him.  “Heard they were on the run.”

“What, are they outlaws?”

The third man chimed in.  “No, they said they was attacked.  Y’know that city on the columns?  Raven’s Roost.”

The coins in Magnus’s fingers fell, bouncing on the floor.

“Everything alright sir?” the innkeeper asked, watching the coins roll across the floor.  Magnus didn’t answer him.

“Raven’s Roost?”  he called to the three men, who turned to look at him.  “Is that what you said?”

One of the men glanced at his companions then back up at Magnus.  “Yes,” he said.  “A few travelers came from there talking about how their city was attacked.”

Magnus blanched and his mouth dried up.  “Attacked?” he croaked, and stumbled forward to their table.  “Do you know anything else?  Any details?”

“Not much,” the man said apologetically.  “The group seemed keen on passing through quickly.  Sounded like they weren’t the only ones.”

“Who….who attacked?”

“Some tyrant, didn’t catch the name.  Gotta be well off though since he managed explosives.”

“You from Raven’s Roost?” the third man asked taking a drink.  “Lucky soul you weren’t around.  Seems like one of the columns fell, right out from under them people’s feet.”

“Poor souls…” the first man lamented, swirling his glass on its edges on the table.

Magnus didn’t ask for any more, rushing out of the inn and forgetting his pack.  Raven’s Roost was still three days journey away, but he didn’t think about that, focusing only on getting back as fast as he could.

He didn’t stop once, he couldn’t.  Terrible possibilities burst through his mind like jolts of lightning.  Steven taught him everything Magnus knew.  He was resourceful and wise and would have made it out of the Craftsman Corridor with Julia, who was brilliant on her own.  He only had to find them.  Even as he assured himself, terror gripped at his heart every moment, and drove him to travel through the nights, until he finally arrived at the first column of the city, his home, a full day early.

It was abandoned.  A ghost town.  Every building and home was an empty shell, but he passed them all by, heading straight for the place he knew most of all.  

And it was gone.  The woodshed, The Hammer and Tongs, the broad desk where Julia stacked their orders and watched Magnus work.  Their home…

It was all gone, fallen entirely with all the other shops in Craftsmen Corner.  The bridge that had been that column’s connection with the others hung from the residential column in ruins.  A sign was hammered into the ground in front of the bridgeposts.  A hurried homage to the lost lives, and under it, a list.

A choked sob echoed through the empty air.

Magnus lowered himself to his knees.  He felt like he could melt down, and simply slip over the edge.  Instead he just stared over it, down into the fog below.  Everything he had, all he’d loved and worked for, was below that fog, dashed against the rocks.  There were no ruins for him to search.  No bodies to mourn over.  His fingers dug into the dirt and rocks, clenching as he leaned forward, head hanging over the precipice.

The Mad Governor Kalen only attacked the one column of Raven’s Roost.  The shops and of the brave men and women who turned against him.  A ragtag team of craftspeople who took back their homes and livelihood.  No rescue attempts could even be made for the 76 souls that were in Craftsmen Corridor.  Every family left, once accounted for, packed their bags and left the forsaken city, fearful of any further attack.  Raven’s Roost was a ghost town, with no one to hear or answer the anguished cries of a man who had lost everything.

Some weeks later, Magnus sat alone in a small tavern.  He had no pack, but held a drink in front of him, nearly empty.  His calloused fingers rubbed against the grain of the wooden table.  Tiny splinters brushed away as he went, and he thought of sanding it, and the smell of sawdust.

The door to the tavern opened, letting in a sliver of outside light, before closing again.  Magnus’s mind emptied again, saved from the flash of a too recent memory.  He downed the last gulp of his drink and wiped his face with the palm of his hand, eyelids drooping.

“Burnsides?” His eyes shot open.

The voice came from over him.  Magnus leaned back in his seat, shaking his head a little to wake up.  A familiar half-orc man stood there, holding his own drink and watching him with cautious smile.

Magnus grunted.  “Stanek.”  He peered back down into his glass, half-hoping Stanek would leave.  Instead he heard the chair opposite him scrape against the floor, and the man sat with him.  Stanek let out a slow sigh.

“We wondered what happened to you,” he said.  “Gunnar said he tried to find you on the road from Neverwinter, but never passed you.”

“I went off the road for a while,” Magnus glared at a spot on the table.  “Didn’t want to bother with inns.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Silence fell between them, and Stanek drank half his cup in it.  Magnus didn’t move.

“No one knew what happened,” he muttered finally, clenching his fists.  “It was days before we knew it was Kalen.  By then he was long gone.”

Stanek’s hands relaxed again, but his voice cracked as he continued.  “76 people were in Craftsmen Corridor that morning.  Shopkeepers mostly, a handful of families….76 souls taken.”

Magnus moved, slowly turning his glare at Stanek, his teeth grinding together.

“76 lives ended,” he growled out.  “He killed Julia-everyone, because of us.”

“We didn’t do this Magnus.”

“No,” Magnus agreed, brows furrowing.  “Kalen caused all of this.”

He laid his palms flat on the table and sat up just slightly so he could lean forward, still staring straight at Stanek.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said.  “I’m going to hunt him down and end Kalen.”

Stanek sat back slowly, eyes widening.  “Shit Magnus,” he glanced around, then pulled himself back to look at his friend.  “No one knows where he’s gone.”

“I will find him Stanek.”

“And if you do?”  Stanek opened his palms to the air.  “He’s still got plenty of followers, too many people are protecting him.  Magnus you led an army but that army…all those people are gone now.  You won’t be able to reach him Magnus, it’s a suicide mission!”

As he spoke Magnus hunched his shoulders more and more, and his hands curled on the table into tight fists.  At Stanek’s last word Magnus slammed both fists down with a loud grunt.  “I DON’T CARE!”

Stanek reeled back, gaping at him.  The room went quiet as the handful of other patrons eyed the pair warily.  The bartender barked an order to calm down from behind his counter.  Magnus acknowledged him with a fierce look, but sat back in his seat, keeping his balled up hands in the small spaces he’d indented into the wood.

He spoke again, a low growl that only Stanek could hear as Magnus lowered his head again to stare in his lap.

“He took everything from me.  I don’t care anymore.  I have nothing, and I don’t give a shit.”

As Magnus’s composure shifted, loosening, Stanek’s own eyes started to water.  “I’m going to find him, alone,” Magnus said.  “And I’m going to kill him.  It’s all I have.”

“You earned your happy ending Magnus.  If you use me, you can have it all back.”

“Julia wouldn’t want this.”

[paranoid-fighter]

Original Fiction: Chapter Six: “How did you convince him to agree with this?”

Poor Geoff - he’s starting to realize what he’s getting himself in to... 

Author’s notes: Why do I even still make author’s notes...?

Geoff left the diner and began making his way back to the precinct, humming as he wondered what stories Vincent would be telling him that night. Vincent always told him stories of his travels and Geoff always loved to listen. The elf was a gifted story teller and Geoff would often find himself hanging on his every word - for many more reasons than just the stories, as thrilling as they may be...

His thoughts about the elf came to an abrupt halt as his phone began to ring.

He stepped away from the main flow of pedestrians and fumbled for his phone, hoping to hear Vincent's voice. Instead, his heart fell into his shoes when he saw Jean-Claude's name on the screen.  

"Yeah?" Geoff came to lean against a building as he held the phone to his ear. "I am a pain in your ass? My dear, darling loup, you are woefully mistaken. I have not even begun to be a pain." "Jean--" "You, however, proved yourself to be a magnificient pain earlier this morning." His voice was quiet, positively glacial. "Do you know what I have had to do for the past half hour?" "No--" "I have been on the phone with your lieutenant, assuring him that I truly do want you working on this case with me." Geoff frowned as he listened to the sound of Jean-Claude's heeled boots clicking on tile. "Jean, Clifford and I spoke. I told him--" "I do not care what you told him, Geoff, because I highly doubt that it is what he said to me." The vampire's scowl was audible. "The conversation that I just had with him is one that I never want to have again. Do you have any idea how frustrating it was? Do not answer that." He spoke over Geoff's reply. "In short, loup, you have already gotten this engagement off to a very tense start and I do not appreciate it, nor does Clifford. Do you know what he wants me to do going forward because of this morning's disastrous meeting?" "What--" "I am to have check-ins with him, loup. I am to give him status reports on you and how you are handling this case. Do you know how much of a waste of time this is?" "Je--" "Do not even speak," he spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable. "I am not your keeper, Geoff, and I refuse to act as such. Gather yourself, act with the professionalism that I know you have and meet me tonight. I am tired of wasting time. I want these ghouls to die."

Geoff was speechless as he processed the elf's words. When his brain finally came up to speed, he found his tongue. "Jean-Claude, what the fuck are you talking about?" "Quo?" "Clifford wasn't angry when I left his office. What caused the change? Why's he suddenly bitching to you about me?" "I--" "And why'd you have to bring your stupid cane sword into the precinct anyway? It's a police station. You brought a weapon into a police station." "Hush," Jean-Claude snapped, "and let me speak." "No--" "Loup, behave." The vampire said before he took a steadying breath. "The sword goes every where with me. You know this. As for why Clifford is angry, I do not know. I can hazard a guess that he has received a lashing from his superiors. After all, this problem has only grown worse over the past half year and we keep finding more questions than answers." "Why's Clifford getting bitched out now? Did something happen?" "Yes, loup, something did happen." Jean-Claude's voice grew somber. "What?" Geoff felt a chill run through his body, one that had nothing to do with the weather. He hated hearing that tone. "Another body has been found."

Geoff pushed his phone into his shoulder as he swore. He stood upright and began walking back to the precinct as he returned the phone to his ear. "Loup?" "I'm still here," Geoff's voice dropped to a whisper. "Another body? Where at? Is anyone at the scene?" "Oui, oui, someone is there. Several someones, in fact. I am afraid to say that the integrity of the crime scene is lost, but according to the child that found the body, there was not much of one to begin with. You should not worry about arriving at the scene, either, despite its location. Several of your highly weaponized fellows are there already and are mopping up the rest of the ruffians as we speak." "What?" Geoff frowned as he continued to walk. "What do you mean?" "Oh, I should back up and explain what has happened. My apologies, I am simply so overwhelmed, you see--" "Explanation, Jean. Now." "Merde, so impatient," he huffed. "Fine. The body was found in the middle of some hotly contested gang territory, or some such rot. Truthfully, I could not be bothered to listen to the specifics of the location once I learned the address. The only other detail that I remember is that there was no way that I could send you into the middle of a warzone and have you go snooping around a dead body without a bullet finding you. I consulted with a dear companion of mine and he assured me he would be able to ensure that all of the riffraff was removed so that you can go play policeman without becoming a pin cushion." Jean-Claude's rythmic pacing came to a halt. "Does that make sense?" "Somewhat," Geoff pushed the doors to the precinct open and strode inside, making a beeline to his new desk. "How did your partner remove the problem?" "I am also unsure of those specifics, but I do know that SWAT was involved. Apparently there was a, how you say..." Jean-Claude lapsed into silence for a moment before snapping his fingers, "a firefight, yes. That is the word that I wanted. A firefight took place earlier today and, as a result, the problem has been solved and, as an added bonus, there are now several less of those awful thugs roaming the streets."

The officer paid no attention to Griffith's empty desk as he grabbed a notepad and a pen. "Tell me where I need to go, Jean. I need to go look at that body before anything else gets damaged. I'm not sure if I'll be able to find anything from the body, especially now that SWAT's taken a few people out. Can't imagine Clifford likes this either; I'll need to tell him about this." "There is no need for you to do so; he and I have already spoken." Geoff's brow knitted in confusion. "How did you convince him to agree to this?" "Convince?" Jean-Claude laughed. "Oh, no, no, no. There was no convincing. I simply told him what I was doing. When he protested, I told him the plan was already in motion and was too late to stop it from being carried through to its end." "What the fuck," Geoff breathed. "Jean, those were people; you killed them," his voice shook. "And your point is what, exactly?" The vampire drawled. "You should have had them arrested." "Oh, really?" His drawl gained an edge. "And then what, pray tell? Send them all to a trial? Waste months of time on men and women who are clearly guilty? Darling, it simply was not worth it." His tone lightened with his unseen smile. "They are better off dead, you see. It is less of a headache--" "They were people and you had them murdered!" "I see," the vampire licked his lips, the soft smacking sound carrying through the phone. "Yes, indeed. I see why this is bothering you. You are right, dear loup," Jean-Claude conceded, "I should have had them arrested--" "Yes!" "--and then fed to my children as punishment for their crimes." "No!" Geoff dropped his pen. "That's even worse. What--" "I am done arguing this point with you. You must realize that we are now operating under a very different set of rules. Loup, you, of all people, should know this by now..." He purred, "we are above the mortal filth that we live amongst. You must realize this, Geoff, if you have any hope to survive while doing this work."

The werewolf fell silent as he mulled over Jean-Claude's words, trying and failing to stop a shudder. "I don't like it when you remind me that you're evil." "Evil? No, no, I am not evil." The vampire laughed. "I am quite good, you see, but--" he spoke over Geoff's sputtered outrage "--we simply have different definitions of what is evil." Jean-Claude let out a long, slow breath. "I need you to arrive at seventy three fifty one South Cornwallis street. That is where you will find your body. Now hurry, Geoff; we have spent long enough on the phone. Go do whatever you need to go do and then report to me tonight. Around ten or so tonight would be wonderful. That will give us time to talk before I begin my own patrol. I shall also go and tell Mansfreid to expect you later tonight, yes. I will do that in just a moment." Jean-Claude's heeled boots once again sounded on the tile floor, tap-tapping as he made his way through the manor. "Adieu, darling loup; we shall speak soon!"

He hung up before Geoff could say another word.

Geoff stared down at his phone for a moment before dropping it to the desk. He ran his hands down his face and swore under his breath. Of course Jean-Claude would do something like this; why rely on boring old processes and procedures when a massive diversion could be staged? And, for that matter, why be subtle when racking up a body count was a possibility? Clearly, he fumed, calling in SWAT and staging a firefight was the superior option for dealing with a hushed investigation. "SWAT." He groused as he rummaged through the desk drawers. "He called in fucking SWAT. How the hell am I supposed to get on the scene now? It's going to be crawling with those bastards..."

He continued grumbling as he left the secluded office, all but gnashing his teeth as he closed the door behind him. Even though Jean-Claude had told Lieutenant Clifford about his murderous plan, he needed to talk to his lieutenant. This just sat too poorly with him to not be addressed.

Geoff began walking to Clifford's office, hoping to find him in private--

--oh.

There he was.

Lieutenant Clifford's face was as red as a certain large dog that shared his name but, unlike the dog, there was no friendly light in his eyes. Quite the opposite, in fact. "Do you know what that fucking fairy did--" Clifford was seething with rage. "Yes, sir." "--six people are dead now. We had a case against them and now they're dead--" "six?" "Get out there, Simeon, and just..." Clifford rubbed his temples, "just fucking look at the body or something. Just... just go..." "Yes, sir." Geoff went to salute but the lieutenant merely threw up his hands before stomping down the hallway.

Slightly abashed by the flippant dismissal, Geoff turned and walked out of the precinct, stopping just long enough to pick up the supplies Elizabeth had listed in her notes...

[hiruma-musouka]

Of Magic and Masonry

@fandommaniac2401​ asked me almost two months ago for my thoughts on a HMC/Naruto fusion. I hadn’t replied because after reading her post and remembering past discussions on @blackkatmagic​‘s blog about just such a verse, I had a lot of thoughts of my own and I meant to sit down to write it.

Well, I finally made myself do just that this week, so here’s a late Winter Holiday or early New Year’s present to everyone.

Title: Of Magic and Masonry [AO3 link] Series: Naruto, Howl’s Moving Castle fusion Summary: In which the Royal Witch Mito Uzumaki has a professional request for Wizard Madara and sends four of the king's retainers to convey it.(aka: In which Kagami can be partly faulted for their presence on this expedition, and Torifu begins to understand why the man is never taken aback by any tale of eccentric relatives.)

"I've heard that he eats people's hearts," Torifu said bluntly.

The four blue-clad soldiers stared up at the castle sitting near the northern mountains of Folding Valley.

It should have been almost picturesque really. A gleaming river wound its way through the foothills of the fertile valley. Trees were just beginning to turn gold and red with the advancement of autumn. Upper Folding sprawled across the land downstream, straddling the river at a sufficient distance to obscure the less lovely facets of a human town. Market Chipping was even farther off, barely visible as chimney smoke on the horizon, and the castle overlooked it all from its pride of place, settled high among the hills like a bird of prey alighted delicately on a branch.

Of course that perception required one to overlook the unnatural facts that this castle belonged to no lord, had none of the proper roads which a functioning castle would rightfully require, and, oh yes, had been twenty miles west of its current position this very morning.

It had certainly been something to witness a fortress made of countless tons of stone and masonry raise itself up under the influence of some black-orange hellfire which permeated the mortar and streamed from some unseen chimney. It was only made more unnerving by dint of its manner of relocation - which had involved four semi-translucent legs spontaneously manifesting from that same magic and carting it off. Even as they warily eyed the castle, its legs shifted slightly as if seeking greater comfort where they were folded sedately along its foundations.

The sight explained quite nicely why their horses had hours ago rebelled a mile past Upper Folding's outermost farmland and refused to carry them further.

"In fact," Torifu continued in a casual tone, interrupting the second round of Hiruzen and Danzo's lowkey disagreement over whether it was chicken or fox legs attached to the castle, "I've heard the wizard embeds his name on people's hearts, manipulates them as puppets, and then eats them."

"I'm certain he can't be as bad as rumors portray," Hiruzen said from the front of their group, standing next to Danzo and staring consideringly at their goal. He had thus missed how Torifu (who was standing behind him) had made all his statements while staring unwaveringly at the side of Kagami's head. "You know how gossip among the working class gets out of hand. They don't even get the gender of the Wizard of the Wastes right and he has occasionally been present at His Majesty's court."

"We should go up in a smaller group," Kagami suggested from his seat on the ground, panting heavily from the long climb. "We wouldn't want to- to give the wrong impression and cause offense if Wizard Madara mistakes us as a show of royal force."

"He has a patriotic duty to the country," Danzo said disapprovingly, glaring up at the enchanted stonework. "He is bound to offer his assistance when called upon."

Kagami and Torifu exchanged a look built on long familiarity before Kagami waved a hand towards their companion, smiling winsomely up at the older Akimichi. The other man sighed soundlessly but refocused on Danzo.

"It would be more diplomatic to politely request that he add his skills to the attempts to locate Prince Indra," Torifu advised. "If you'll recall, Witch Uzumaki was quite clear that we were to secure a solid agreement for that assistance before pursuing Lord Nara's alternative order. And nothing good comes out of making a great magician feel like they're being pressured, Danzo."

Especially when we are trying to conscript them into a service contract to the Kingdom.

Not that anyone would bother saying that to Danzo. He and Hiruzen both believed, from the bones outward, in personal service to a higher cause and the value of sacrificing for it. Which wasn't to say that Kagami and Torifu didn't value public service —Kagami had been the first of his family line to join the Royal Military Academy in decades and Torifu's noble house had valued military service for longer than many cities in Ingary had existed— but Danzo in particular found it difficult to accept that other people held to standards divergent from his ideals.

It made him something of an asshole at times.

"That's a good point," Hiruzen affirmed, turning halfway towards them. "Kagami, if you'll wait here along with Torifu, Danzo and I will make our way up for an initial introduction. If things go poorly, hopefully the two of you will have more luck speaking with the wizard or letting His Majesty know there's been a complication."

Kagami gave a wordless salute from the ground while Torifu nodded.

The two men watched their fellows climb up the steep hill. Coincidentally enough, as soon as they'd moved far enough away to be outside easy listening distance, Kagami stopped breathing so heavily.

Torifu sent him an unimpressed look. "Finished recovering are you?"

Kagami rolled his eyes, bracing his arms on his knees before wincing, stretching out his spine, and leaning backwards on his elbows. "Did you want to traipse up the hill with the friend I personally vote most likely to offend a magic user into cursing us? Oh, and Hiruzen too."

"Speaking of which," Torifu said, knocking a foot against Kagami's outstretched ankle, "and I mean this in the most platonic and offensive manner possible: fuck you and your big mouth sincerely, Kagami."

"Torifu! You're breaking my heart here." Kagami frowned with false hurt and genuine annoyance. "Besides, I wasn't the one who lost track of our thick-headed friend and his weirdly specific inadequacy issues in time for it to all bite us in the ass once again. You were supposed to keep Danzo out of my curls and away from Witch Mito long enough for me to get Hiruzen set up for this assignment."

"You don't have any curls; you have a mop," Torifu countered, ignoring Kagami's blithe claim of blasphemy at the insult. "And it would have been helpful to know that in advance if you had actually wanted Danzo distracted rather than shoving him at me with a 'introduce him to women for me before he gets married to his own sword.' I am never forgiving you for that mental image."

Kagami stared at Torifu blankly until the Akimichi raised his eyebrows meaningfully. It was obvious when Kagami finally got the euphemism too because he snorted with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. "That's your own terrible fault not mine, ugh. Ugh. Oh that's wretched. You have just— You have ruined so many things for me, damn you, Torifu. You owe me good liquor for this."

"I owe you nothing. If you hadn't tried to set up Hiruzen so he would be landed with this duty, we wouldn't be here alongside him."

"Hey," Kagami defended, pointing accusingly up the hill at the distant figures. "That is entirely Danzo's fault for butting in unexpectedly. I had told Witch Mito —rightfully!— that Hiruzen was the most charismatic among us who had any experience with magicians. Danzo somehow persuaded her to send the lot of us instead of just that guy and Homura!"

"Did you happen to wax poetic about Hiruzen while speaking with Lady Uzumaki?" Torifu asked rhetorically.

"Why did you have to phrase it that way? We are supposed to be friends, Torifu. Never say that again and what do you think I did?"

Torifu sighed, shaking his head and sitting down on the grassy hill next to Kagami. He removed his cap and gloves and ran fingers through his hair, welcoming the slight breeze from the east. "Well that explains why Danzo felt the need to involve us in this endeavor. Now why were you so determined that we do otherwise?"

"Look at this," Kagami gestured grandly, arm outflung to indicate Upper Folding and its environs. "Look at this quaint, charming, backwater beauty filled with nature and quietude, countryfolk, cow pies, and curses! And all for the very reasonable price of far too long on bloody horses and a guaranteed blemish on our reputations when we fail the King's request. What's not to love?! Especially in comparison with remaining in the capital where we could enjoy Kingsbury's accommodations while pursuing an investigation into that murder spree of minor practitioners. Why, I'd even rate it above traveling to Porthaven to make the same request of Wizard Jenkins—" There was an oddly cynical emphasis on the name "—and that's also bound to failure. However, I suppose being consoled by days on horseback while listening to our dear friends is much preferred to visiting a few of my hospitable relatives who've settled in that seaside village."

"I take your meaning," Torifu said, slapping his cap against the buttoned front of Kagami's wool uniform, stopping the torrent of drama. "Now without prevarication, explain why you're certain we'll fail."

A slight pause. "Well you can't expect success when the man's ignored all messages from His Majesty's Royal Witch before, now can you?"

Torifu yawned, fanning himself with his blue cap and bracing an arm on his knee as he stared at Kagami.

It took a few minutes before Kagami sighed, glancing over his shoulder towards Hiruzen and Danzo's position before looking skyward. "He might... be a cousin of mine."

Torifu considered that. "You are related to Wizard Madara of Folding Valley's Moving Castle?" he asked, seeking confirmation. Kagami shrugged, rubbing the nape of his neck. "You inherited a remarkably modest portion of the family sense of drama, haven't you?"

"Oh ha. You haven't even met any of my family outside my mother. We definitely don't have the same drama surrounding us that perfumes your noble house's politicking, Heir Akimichi," Kagami countered. "Madara's mostly an outlier. He, his foxfire demon, and his new freaky live-in tenant don't count."

"You do realize that Hiruzen at least will notice your family resemblance immediately once the man answers his door?"

Kagami looked terribly unconcerned as he laid down fully, arms folded behind his head. "That requires Madara to actually be there to answer the door, doesn't it?"

"Kagami," Torifu began slowly, temper beginning to surface. "Did we just journey across half the country because you wouldn't tell us the man is traveling elsewhere?"

"Exactly how was I supposed to let you know that without Witch Mito - and the royal family through her - learning that my extended family produced a wizard of Madara's caliber?" Kagami asked skeptically, unperturbed and unrepentant.

"There's no shame in that. Magicians are of great status and use to—" Torifu cut himself off, realization dawning as Kagami stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Ah."

" 'Ah', indeed!" Kagami exclaimed. "You are perfectly correct that magicians are of great use to the crown! They have such respect and influence that King Hagoromo had to entice the Uzumaki to immigrate to Ingary in order to find a magician willing to take his endorsement as Royal Sorcerer after he finally locked up his lunatic mother!"

Kagami shuddered, blanching a bit at the thought of what his grandmother —frail or not— would do to him if it got out that the Uchiha still had magicians sprouting up here and there. It may have been forty years since the crazy Queen Mother had last had a magician disappeared to do... whatever horrors it was she inflicted on them before their murder, but she was only in seclusion, not dead. The backstreets of the capital still had persistent rumors started by frightened maids that Kaguya looked as young as the day her sons had dethroned her.

If Kagami ruined all of his grandmother and her siblings' past work at getting the magic users of their family to bend to using pseudonyms, he'd be up a creek without a paddle. At best, he'd never hear the end of it. At worst, he'd end up ostracized or turned into some sort of farm animal and left to an undignified life in a pasture or pen owned by one of his mess of cousins.

Kagami had too much to live for to end up as poultry or pork.

"Anyway!" Kagami said, waving a hand and hurrying to move on from the unpleasant topic. "What's done is done. We're all here, Madara is safely off visiting a newborn niece or nephew, we've got some fresh air and sunshine, you'll please never mention this to anyone, and all will be well."

"Fine, but you're getting your lazy self up," Torifu informed him, rising to his own feet. "I'm not clear on why you faked exhaustion to avoid knocking on an empty door but..." Torifu shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up at the castle. "I thought you said the wizard was absent? They just entered through the front door."

"He is," Kagami confirmed, brushing off his pants. "The creepy cursed tenant must have stayed behind as I expected he would. And for your information, that's why I didn't want to knock rather than laziness - the hill isn't that steep, thank you."

"Cursed?"

"That's what Hikaku says and my cousin's apprenticed under Madara." Kagami shoved his hat back on, folding his arms. "Apparently it's some nasty piece of work - woven through every last wrinkle and hair on the elderly man's body. Lord knows how the fellow actually hiked his way up to the castle. Anyway, Hikaku's got a deft touch and Madara's, well—" Kagami motioned to the enormous, bespelled castle "—he's Madara, but neither of them can pry the curse off the guy or even off his voice box. The first attempt sent him into heart palpitations serious enough that Hikaku's pretty sure it's a death curse twisted from its purpose. Although it's beyond me how a mutated death curse could throw Hashirama Senju back out the door from twenty feet away."

Torifu frowned at that. The Wizard of the Wastes certainly wasn't a lightweight by any means. Torifu had only met him the once when the man had started paying court to Lady Uzumaki, but no one who's trying and beginning to succeed in the ludicrous endeavor of recovering The Wastes into fertile, arable land could be minor hedge wizard. "Could it be related to the Kingsbury murders?"

Kagami started to shake his head but abruptly stopped, licking his lips. "We're halfway across the country," he said slowly, "and the man's supposed to have red eyes which would throw out eye color as a second commonality among the victims. But that's all I know of the case from Homura and Koharu unless they mentioned more details to you...?"

"Just that they all had a touch of magic," Torifu said as he started to climb. "This tenant has magic, right?"

"He has something creepy at least," Kagami muttered behind him. "Hikaku doesn't start drinking so he can falsely complain about reanimated spines crawling up the stairs and dead mice walking themselves into trash bins while teacups instantaneously transport to the creepy man's elbow. I have no idea how he and Madara live wiTH—"

Kagami choked on his words, grabbing the back of Torifu's jacket and shaking him violently. Torifu spun, caught sight of Kagami's aghast expression directed towards their right, and then looked for himself.

The... thing that was squirming up the footpath might have been a scarecrow once upon a moon. Might. Whatever it qualified as now was some bastardized melding of that and something living. Unnatural shifting lumps were half hidden under its tattered, royal blue suit jacket. Vines swung and curled from the cuffs of its ripped shirtsleeves. Thick mobile roots emerged from its jacket in place of a scarecrow's wooden shaft, carrying it swiftly towards them in an undulating movement.

And in horrifying pride of place, replacing the hay-stuffed sack that should have served as its head, a twisted pink bud grew, sharp leaves engulfing its base and wrinkled petals contorted into a distorted face.

The stink of cursed magic wafted off the warped sapling-scarecrow like a chamber pot as it ran at them. They both lunged off the path and out of its way, nearly falling down the hill in their urgency.

"What is that?!" Torifu demanded.

"Why are you asking me?! I don't have magic!" Kagami yelped.

"Your cousin—"

"Distant cousin, distant! And Madara sets things on fire and triggers dramatics with gunk and shadows when he gets aggravated! He doesn't do whatever thoh shit..." Kagami breathed, eyes widening.

Madara's Moving Castle, regardless of the absence of its master, had apparently taken note of the approaching malicious construct. It didn't look too happy about it either, which was not a thought Torifu had ever imagined having about a building before. Numerous windows on the upper levels of the towers had lit up blindingly with the same unnerving magic that was propelling it up onto its crouched legs once more. However, the windows were backlit by a bleeding luminous red glow rather than a black-orange shade, and two openings were left dark in the centers of the glass clusters like gigantic pupils on artificial eyes.

The castle door opened onto sheer nothingness.

"DOWN!"

They both dropped flat to the ground as a fiery tongue-like protrusion shot out of the entrance. It wrapped around the scarecrow and then hurtled back inside with its captive, recoiling at lightning speed. The door slammed, reopened onto the vague image of an entryway, illuminated by the same black-orange light, and with a malicious inhuman cackle that echoed among the hills, three balls of magic were catapulted across the sky.

Two of the fireballs were screaming as they flew towards the horizon. They sounded familiar.

The castle door stayed open for a brief moment as Torifu and Kagami stared wordlessly. There came the faint sound of an old man yelling disapprovingly from inside —something about hospitality and respect— but it was barely audible over the laughter that seemingly emanated from the stonework itself.

Eventually the door snapped shut, but the snickers continued, an undertone of foxlike yips and crackling wood in its voice as the castle casually meandered away.

With caution, they stood up.

"I don't suppose," Torifu started calmly, still staring at the departing castle, "that the sibling your wizard cousin is visiting happens to be nearby?"

"Izuna, uh, Izuna lives nearby in Market Chipping to the south," Kagami replied numbly, staring after the fading smoke trails, two of which had to have been Hiruzen and Danzo. "But it's one of the others having the babe. I don't remember which but they're not here. Do you... do you think it would be faster to return to the capital and ask Witch Mito to borrow those Seven-League Boots prototypes she's working on?"

"Can we track them through the sky?" Torifu asked, pulling his uniform straight.

Kagami eyed the castle's previous location, traced the path the different magic spheres had taken through the sky, and squinted into the distance. "... probably," he conceded.

"Then we'd be better off getting started. You start walking; I'll fetch the horses."

 (Review and reblog if you enjoyed yourself - AO3 link)

[wikimakemoney]

The Trade Desk SVP helps agencies understand the changing trends in media consumption

30-second summary:

ClickZ interviews The Trade Desk’s Philippa Snare, SVP of EMEA, for our ongoing Peer Network series.

In her Peer Network briefing, Snare discusses the benefits of ethical ad buying, addresses the changes in media consumption during COVID-19, and provides some insight on how this is impacting marketing trends.

Snare notes that people’s media consumption habits are changing, in part due to being home more. People are consuming audio and visual content in more traditional ways, and this includes younger generations who are watching TV on connected devices.

Snare emphasizes the importance of continued consumer outreach during COVID-19. Ads should not go dark, but it should also be thoughtful and appear beside good quality, trusted content.

Two specific areas of growth from The Trade Desk include connected TV (CTV) and digital out of home advertising.

Snare recommends marketers visit The Trade Desk’s Edge Academy and enroll for free to learn more about CTV and how marketers can use it in their portfolio of channels.

For our ongoing Peer Network Series, ClickZ was honored to feature Philippa Snare. As SVP of EMEA at The Trade Desk, Snare leads the operational headquarters in driving revenue and new client acquisition strategy across Europe, the Middle East, and Africa.

Prior to joining The Trade Desk, Snare led Facebook’s Global Business Marketing division, overseeing large teams across EMEA.

Before that, Snare served as CMO for Microsoft UK, overseeing marketing for the entire Microsoft portfolio. She’s also a fellow of the Global Marketing Academy.

In her Peer Network briefing, Snare discusses the benefits of ethical ad buying, addresses the changes in media consumption during COVID-19, and provides some insight on how this is impacting marketing trends.

Facilitating the purchase of ethical ad buying

The Trade Desk helps clients and agencies buy programmatic advertising and place ads on the best possible sites for the best return on their marketing investments.

Says Snare, “The Trade Desk is a buying platform, but what makes it unique is we’re trying to support the open internet. We want to make sure that we have access to high quality, ad-funded journalism  while making sure those ads are ethical and that the entire buying platform is transparent.”

Changes in media consumption force marketers to adapt

People are at home more because of COVID-19 and this is changing how they consume news.

“Being home has shifted the way consumers are consuming news, including what devices they’re using,” explains Snare. “People want factual data. They don’t want to hear opinions or sensationalized information, so they’re turning away from social platforms to more trustworthy sources like the BBC in the UK to regain their confidence in the content that’s being provided.”

Snare pointed out that this is true of the younger generations too, with Gen Z (the “TikTok” generation) consuming information via audio and TV.

“There’s a beautiful love affair rekindling for high quality content and production,” says Snare.

In Snare’s view, COVID-19 has been an incredible accelerator of digital marketing because of digital’s agility compared with traditional linear advertisements that can take months to plan, create, and launch.

She notes an example from her time at Microsoft.

“We were doing some Office 365 advertising and we had one of the first versions of digital billboards go live,” explains Snare. “Well, we put up a billboard that was poorly targeted, but got feedback very quickly via social channels. We were able to change that billboard within 24 hours, and answer some of the criticisms that were showing up on social media. That got loads of traction because we could show we were listening to what customers were saying.”

Trust, truth, data, and CTV

Snare notes that big brands provide confidence to consumers, particularly during times of crisis. Now is the time to support customers and instill confidence in them, not to go dark on your advertising.

“Going dark creates more ambiguity and less confidence for your consumers,” explains Snare. “The brands that have showed up throughout the pandemic, in whatever format they’ve chosen, are the ones that are going to continue to gain market share for their own products and services.

Snare also emphasized the importance of making sure your brand’s ads are next to really good quality content. People are moving away from social platforms because they don’t trust that the news is factual, and brands are doing the same.

Says Snare, “Companies don’t want their brand next to fake information. What I find most interesting is that brands who have boycotted these platforms have said it’s made absolutely no difference to their return on investment.”

Another trend that Snare identified is the focus on a data driven approach to marketing as a much more secure way for marketers to prove ROI and have confidence that they’re investing budgets wisely.

“The two specific areas where we’ve seen biggest growth from a Trade Desk point of view is connected TV (CTV) and digital out of home,” says Snare.

“Out of home might not be in airports and transit and travel areas now, but in shopping malls in Dubai and in highly targeted digital out of home there’s still a massive opportunity.

More on CTV

The Trade Desk is seeing an enormous adoption of CTV, but consumers are also more discerning about what they want to pay for regarding subscription services like sports channels.

Source: The Trade Desk

Says Snare, “The way we’re consuming entertainment is causing marketing teams to be much more focused on an omnichannel approach, on making sure they’re using the right channel or the right screen for the right audience.”

Younger audiences are engaging with TV in a way that they’ve never done before.

A data driven approach can target those audiences in a much more specific way, identify patterns, and help marketers understand how people are consuming media on different channels.

Snare recommends marketers visit The Trade Desk’s Edge Academy and enroll for free to learn more about CTV and how marketers can use it in their portfolio of channels.

“There are many different content modules that can help you learn, from the basics of how to use a buying platform all the way to the virtues of using CTV or VOD as a channel,” says Snare.

“You can also learn how CTV connects with display on the traditional or native advertising you might already have running.”

The changing role of the CMO

When asked about the changing role of the CMO, Snare pointed out that marketing used to be distributed throughout organizations.

“The role was more of a support service to pre and post sales, but it’s shifted,” says Snare. “Marketing is now a revenue generating function, especially if the CMO owns the digital channels. It’s about online sales and completion. The CMO can bring just as much valuable data, content, and insights to the customer as the commercial leaders. COVID-19 has been one of the biggest accelerators of the shift to digital with the introduction of a new revenue stream online. That is the job of the CMO. Now, they have a credible place at the table.”

The post The Trade Desk SVP helps agencies understand the changing trends in media consumption appeared first on ClickZ.

source http://wikimakemoney.com/2020/09/22/the-trade-desk-svp-helps-agencies-understand-the-changing-trends-in-media-consumption/

[bughead-fic-request]

I would like to thank @leaalda for making these amazing banners.

This is an effort to spread the word about all fan fiction writers in our little fandom. If you would like to be featured or nominate a writer, please contact me. Please reblog this post if you can and check out some of @sylwrites work!

1. First things first, if someone wanted to read your stories where can they find them?

They’re posted exclusively on AO3.

2. Tell us a little about yourself.

I’m in my mid-twenties and I live in Canada. I have a giant dog that’s a lumbering buffoon of an animal and less free time than I’d like.

3. What do you never leave home without?

As a true millennial, my cell phone.

4. Are you an early bird or a night owl?

Early bird.

5. If you could live in any fictional world, which one would you choose and why?

Probably something totally unachievable like Harry Potter, just to be escapist.

6. Who is the most famous person you’ve ever met.

Literally no one. I saw Billy Bush from afar once (pre-Trump tape days), but that’s it.

7. What are some of your favorite movies/TV?

I’m a big fan of mafia movies from the 70s through the 90s, like Casino and Goodfellas. Shows like Riverdale are a guilty pleasure, but I also love Game of Thrones and Westworld.

8. What are some of your favorite bands/musicians?

I mostly listen to alternative rock/pop and indie, but honestly lately I mostly listen to podcasts.

9. Favorite Books?

For purely sentimental reasons, Harry Potter. I’m also a pretty big fan of dystopian fiction (like 1984, not YA).

10. Favorite Food?

Chicken, probably, in various forms.

11. Biggest pet peeve?

They’re probably all driving-related. I have hella road rage.

12. What did you want to be when you were little? What do you want to be now?

I wanted to be a writer when I was little. Now I am pretty fulfilled in my current job and its career path, but to be super-broad, I just want to contribute meaningfully.

13. What are your biggest fears? Do you have any strange fears?

I have thalassophobia (a persistent fear of the sea or of sea travel), for sure, and I really hate earthworms for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

14. When you are on your deathbed what would be the one you’d regret not doing?

Not travelling more, probably.

Okay… lets talk about your writing!

15. Which is your favorite of the fics you've written for the Bughead fandom?

My favourite fic I’ve written is ”a million ways to bleed”.

16. Which was the hardest to write, in terms of plot?

Honestly, the most recent one – “meet the morning”. It wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do for no reason at all and it ended up as sort of a fluffy garbage-fest, which still made a lot of people happy, but it’s not my best work by a long shot and it’s put a little bit of a hit in my self-image haha.

17. How do you come up with the ideas for you fic(s)? Do you people watch? Listen to music? Get inspired by TV/movies?

Usually it starts with a basic plot point. In the case of Fall in Light, for example, it was – hey, let’s write a roommates AU. Then it just got way darker. Sometimes it’s informed by life experiences (I’ll go camping then suddenly sit with an idea about camping for two days, for example).

18. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?

I’m still trying to figure out a way to write some kind of a Jason-Blossom-never-died canon divergent thing, but I’ve never hit on a great plot driver and at this point a lot of fics with that premise have been done so I’m no longer that interested in it.

19. Least favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

I shall refer you to question 16 :)

20. Favorite plot point/chapter/moment you’ve written?

Man, I’m not really sure I can pick a favourite. I tried really hard to handle a certain event that happens to Betty in Fall in Light with as much respect, sensitivity and care as I possibly could, and I am pretty satisfied with how it turned out, so maybe that.

21.Favorite character to write?

Betty, because as a fellow Type A overachiever, I relate too hard.

22. Favorite line or lines of dialogue that you've written?

I don’t have any specific lines of dialogue that I have been proud of in terms of their phrasing or anything like that. To be honest I think my fics are a little heavier on the prose than dialogue.

23. Best comment/review you’ve ever received?

Any review where people are able to break down multiple things in a chapter that they liked and explain them and why they liked them is my favourite. Particularly on new and/or ongoing fics; I hope those people understand how valuable I find the detailed feedback to be and just how much it gives me confidence to continue. A lot of these people are also writers, like @lessoleilscouchants and @onceuponamirror but there are a lot of them on and off tumblr that I am so grateful for.

I suppose if I had to pick one or two, there were a few people that reached out to me about Fall in Light who said that they were sexual assault survivors and that they were grateful to see their recovery experiences reflected in a respectful way, which I really valued. It wasn’t something I wanted to discuss if I couldn’t do it right.

24. How do you handle bad reviews or comments?

Really, really poorly, which is why my anon ask is not on and why for the first bit I didn’t even allow anonymous commenting on AO3. I totally welcome and love legitimate feedback, but rudeness for the sake of rudeness isn’t something I deal with well.

25. If you could change anything in any of your stories, what would it be?

Never look back, man, you’re not going that way.

26. What is your favorite story you’ve ever written? Any fandom?

Ever? Man, probably Fall in Light and its codas, honestly. Before this I wrote a little for The 100 and before that, I hadn’t written in many years, so there’s not that much to choose from.

27. What are you reading right now? Both fan fiction and general fiction?

I’m reading a fair bit of fic, I think. Trying to keep updated on a few long-running multi-chapters that likely everyone else is also reading. There are a lot of others out there that I need to catch up on/start reading as well, but I’m waiting for a little more free time to hit me as I do have a really stressful job and a pretty demanding ‘real life’.  

As far as general fiction goes, I’m not actually reading anything at the moment. I try to keep as updated on current events as possible and consume what is probably an unhealthy amount of news media instead. I am aware that this is not ideal, thank you in advance for your concern :)

28. Do you have an advice for writers that want to get into this fandom but might be scared?

A few key points:

Make a plan/outline, that’ll help to keep you going forward if you get distracted or lose your drive halfway through

Get a beta reader to help keep you consistent, in-character and on track

Get a tumblr to introduce yourself to the community and help promote your work

Then, once you have a finished product: just post it! What’s the worst that can happen?

If people are wondering about comment/kudo ratio and hit count and ways to increase all of those things, I’d say that length and frequency of updates are a couple other contributing factors to success (in addition to what a lot of other people have said in great posts elsewhere on tumblr). If you’re concerned about not having a lot of time to write in between updates, I encourage people to stockpile a few updates and release them at a reasonable rate so that you don’t put a lot of undue stress on yourself later when you have twenty-five asks all bugging you for updates. I think this goes without saying, but nobody who is writing fic is doing it for any reason other than enjoyment, and if it starts to cause you stress and unhappiness, that goes against its entire purpose. This is one of those areas where I am a big hypocrite, because I never do that (see: my impatience, greed, and need for validation through the kindness of internet strangers), but I do think it’s a great concept if you would like to keep your fic in the top few most recent pages of the Bughead tag without sacrificing quality because of frantic late-night writing that’s done simply to appease reviewer644 in Tulsa, or whatever.

[theaveragekenyan]

Highway to Hell...

“Driving to a Safer Future”

Driving Safety Forum hosted by UK Aid and NTSA – National Transport and Safety Authority Kenya.

28th January 2020

A selection of minutes of the Forum.

Kiproadrage.

OK, thanks very much for your participation and introductions. Now, what I’d like to do is to start the forum off with a small and fun exercise, where I’d like you to call out some words that you think best describe Kenyan Drivers…LONG SILENT PAUSE…So again, I’d like you to call out some words that you think best describe Kenyan Drivers, who wants to go first?

Nmaniac.

Good

Kiproadrage.

Thank you, Good…. WRITES ‘GOOD’ ON FLIP-CHART…another word please…

Bambula.

Really Good.

Kiproadrage.

Errr…Thank you, an expansion of Good… WRITES ‘REALLY GOOD’ ON FLIP-CHART…who’s next?

Achoo

Confident

Kiproadrage.

Yes, thanks…very good…Kenyans are confident drivers…. WRITES ‘CONFIDENT’ ON FLIP-CHART …Keep them coming…

Killyou

Clean Cars

Kiproadrage

Yes, the cars are very clean WRITES ‘CLEAN CARS’ ON FLIP-CHART…what else? particularly with more thought on the skills of drivers…

Jones.

Dangerous…Inconsiderate…Rude…Blind…Corrupt…Idiot…Wanker….Cunt….Stupid Cunt…Absolute Cunt….Knob-head…Fuck-Face….Fuck-Nut…..Retard….Spacker….Shitfer-Brains… Actual Zombie…

SILENT ROOM FOR 1 MINUTE

Kiproadrage

Wow, don’t hold back….

Jones.

Stevie Wonder on Acid…Twatchester United….Bobby Ollock …Brian Ellend…Shatatu….I mean, I could go on…

Kiproadrage.

No…No….No….Thanks very much for coming everyone, it’s been a wonderful day and we’ve learnt a lot.

Achoo

Can we still have Tea?

END OF MINUTES

Driving in Kenya is insane.

When I’m driving on the roads of Kenya, I can safely assume my life expectancy reduces to about 10 minutes. Until one drives here, it is impossible to describe the full experience as it changes every day, and also a new challenge, or scenario, occurs that could only happen here.

Bizarrely, the whole experience is deceptive. The road users drive on the left, where there are signs, they look familiar and in some places, they have traffic lights, but don’t be deceived as the roads just about function, it’s the drivers that are problem.

Let’s start right at the beginning. To learn to drive in Kenya you have to be 18 or over and have enough cash for lessons and a license. Or as is often rumored, to have enough cash to bribe the relevant agencies to produce a license for you.  

With this in mind, it can explain why there is a such a low level of driving skill displayed on the roads of Kenya.

Let me back this up with some facts.

Kenya Road Fatalities 2018

The World Health Organization’s new global survey of road safety reports that 13,463 Kenyans died in crashes on the country’s roads.

United Kingdom Road Fatalities 2018

1,770 reported road deaths

Not bringing any happiness to this comparison, but that’s about 7.5 times more dangerous here.

When I learnt to drive, one of the key principles I first learnt, and this principle is still taught today, is MSM, Mirrors – Signal – Manoeuvre.

In Kenya, I can only assume the same principal has been simplified to Manoeuvre.

Mirrors are a general waste of time and therefore should be removed to increase aerodynamics, reduce excess weight and increase fuel efficiency. This increase in fuel efficiency is the only way I can turn the blatant disregard of safety into a positive.

Most cars you see will have their mirrors not set up correctly. I doubt the average Kenyan understands the notion of “If I can’t see you in your mirrors, then you can’t see me”

Motorbikes mirrors often point up to the sky, which is ironic, as that’s where so many of them end up each day.

Now, the indicator, as always the clues in the title here.

An Indicator alerts other users of your intended travel direction.

Left indicator flashing = I’m moving / turning Left.

Right indicator flashing = I’m moving / turning Right.

Left and Right indicators = Warning, Hazard, I have a problem.

That’s it, no other interpretation of indicators was ever invented by car manufacturers.

To the average Kenyan, indicators have many more meanings than car manufacturers intended. I’ve asked many of my Kenyan friends what these other signals mean? and they say they’re not entirely sure, but seem to think it’s to do with overtaking, something like that.

Left Indicator on = Don’t overtake

Right Indicator = Overtake

Still, confusing.

From my observations, it can also mean, I’m staying in this lane holding my position and driving slowly, or I’ve forgotten to turn my indicator off, which is most often the case. Thinking about this now, this could even formulate some bizarre Kenyan logic of, let me not turn the indicator on so that I don’t forget to turn it off. So many Kenyan’s fail to use their indicators.

My favorite signal here though is the left and right signal together AKA hazard warning. This is used quite a lot by Kenyans whilst driving along the roads.

This interpretation is simple, it’s either; I’m lost, I’m wonky, I’m stupid and avoid at all costs.

When it comes to maneuvering, this is where the average Kenyan excels. The roads are poorly marked here, so every inch of tarmac comes into play.

Moving Forward is the only maneuvering skill the drivers here choose to engage.

So by taking out the mirrors and signal aspect, it does become a challenge.

When driving you have to drive with a cyclist’s mentality, which is to watch every inch of the road and stay about 5 to 10 seconds ahead of every other road users thought process.

It’s not just drivers that are out to trash your car, but pot-holes are a real menace too. Many of the roads are festooned with pot-craters, pot caves, sometimes pot-mines so often travelling at a speed anything above 20kph is tricky.

Roads are often re-laid, but sadly upgraded, with the mentality of keeping the quality down so as to ensure another future contract fixing the upgrade of the upgrade of the upgrade until thy kingdom come happens. This is yet another example of the cycle of corruption here.

It's a fact that the roads here are nothing but money earners, the importance of the roads here are different to other countries priorities. For sane countries, the priority of the road is efficiency and safety, here it’s solely about profit.

So, this is why the most bizarre, unstructured, dangerous and ludicrous transport system is in place.

There is no Public Transport.

The Transport industry is run by a mafia with a Million buses, or Matatu’s as they’re called here.

It’s an informal industry which just happens, and which millions of Kenyan’s put their lives in risk each and every day.

There are no official routes or designated numbers for routes, just a splurge of Matatu’s travelling all at once. They are the number one cause of accidents, delays and deaths on the roads here in Kenya. They are by far worse a threat to Kenya than any terrorist organisation in the world. I’m surprised America hasn’t started a war with them yet.

In Nairobi, all the buses head to the CBD, City Centre or “Town” as it’s called. They originate at a destination outside of the main city area and then hurtle through the main arterial roads into Town. So, to try and work out how to navigate cross-town is difficult for anybody to understand, let alone anybody with a respect of structure. Owing to this state of no structure, you can have as many as 500 buses careering back and forth on any given main road, it’s just too much. They have to meet daily financial quotas for paying the driver, the conductor (they’re called a Tout) and then the owners of the buses will then take their cut as well, let alone any higher involvement in the business model.

Therefore, to meet these daily quotas, the only solution is speed, recklessness and danger.

My only advice, when driving on the roads, is to never get involved with a Matatu. It took me a about 2 years of high-blood pressure, anger and pure wanton vengeance to reach that level of maturity and understanding. To the Driver and Tout of the Matatu their only logic is earn cash and ironically, considering they are driving a coffin, their own personal survival in life.

All logic that someone may possess because they learnt to drive in a country with sane road structure is worthless and a waste of time.

The saddest thing about driving on Kenyan roads is the microcosm and snapshot it creates of society. All roads should be filled with courtesy, manners, consideration and a respect of the rules. However, these road principles, to the average Kenyan, are not even understood throughout society, let alone on the roads.

I used to think that so many Kenyan drivers were rude.

Of course, this is because I drove for 25 years on the roads of the UK. Roads where drivers will be penalised for failing to have insurance, failing to have an MOT (Ministry of Transport vehicle safety and road worthiness license, there are no MOT regulations for Cars in Kenya) failing to stop at a red light, lane hogging etc etc.

Drivers here rarely let you out at junctions, drivers will cut you up, pull out on you, refuse to allow you to overtake, overtake on blind corners, overtake on the wrong wide of the road, drive through red lights, tailgate, but it’s not because they’re rude, it’s just how the average Kenyan is. Their version of rude is very different. I have been in situations where I have rationally and calmly explained, to fellow road users, their moments of rudeness and every time they have been supremely and honestly apologetic once seeing they’ve been accused of rudeness.

Number 1 ‘Rule of the Road’ here, don’t get stressed, just have an abundance of cuss words to throw out the window and just hope that driverless cars and transport gets the hell in here quick!

[blackkudos]

Charlie Parker

Charles "Charlie" Parker, Jr. (August 29, 1920 – March 12, 1955), also known as Yardbird and Bird, was an American jazz saxophonist and composer.

Parker was a highly influential jazz soloist and a leading figure in the development of bebop, a form of jazz characterized by fast tempos, virtuosic technique and advanced harmonies. Parker was a blazingly fast virtuoso, and he introduced revolutionary harmonic ideas including rapid passing chords, new variants of altered chords, and chord substitutions. His tone ranged from clean and penetrating to sweet and somber. Parker acquired the nickname "Yardbird" early in his career. This, and the shortened form "Bird", continued to be used for the rest of his life, inspiring the titles of a number of Parker compositions, such as "Yardbird Suite", "Ornithology", "Bird Gets the Worm", and "Bird of Paradise". Parker was an icon for the hipster subculture and later the Beat Generation, personifying the jazz musician as an uncompromising artist and intellectual rather than just an entertainer.

Childhood

Charles Parker, Jr. was born in Kansas City, Kansas, and raised in Kansas City, Missouri, the only child of Adelaide "Addie" (Bailey) and Charles Parker. He attended Lincoln High School in September 1934, but withdrew in December 1935, just before joining the local musicians' union.

Parker began playing the saxophone at age 11, and at age 14 he joined his school's band using a rented school instrument. His father, Charles, was often absent but provided some musical influence; he was a pianist, dancer and singer on the T.O.B.A. circuit. He later became a Pullman waiter or chef on the railways. Parker's mother Addie worked nights at the local Western Union office. His biggest influence at that time was a young trombone player who taught him the basics of improvisation.

Career

Early career

In the late 1930s Parker began to practice diligently. During this period he mastered improvisation and developed some of the ideas that led to bebop. In an interview with Paul Desmond, he said that he spent three to four years practicing up to 15 hours a day.

Bands led by Count Basie and Bennie Moten certainly influenced Parker. He played with local bands in jazz clubs around Kansas City, Missouri, where he perfected his technique, with the assistance of Buster Smith, whose dynamic transitions to double and triple time influenced Parker's developing style.

In 1937, Parker played at a jam session at the Reno Club in Kansas City. His attempt to improvise failed when he lost track of the chord changes. This prompted Jo Jones, the drummer for Count Basie's Orchestra, to contemptuously throw a cymbal at his feet as a signal to leave the stage. However, rather than discouraging Parker, the incident caused him to vow to practice harder, and turned out to be a seminal moment in the young musician's career when he returned as a new man a year later.

In 1938 Parker joined pianist Jay McShann's territory band. The band toured nightclubs and other venues of the southwest, as well as Chicago and New York City. Parker made his professional recording debut with McShann's band.

As a teenager, Parker developed a morphine addiction while hospitalized after an automobile accident, and subsequently became addicted to heroin. He continued using heroin throughout his life, and it ultimately contributed to his death.

New York City

In 1939 Parker moved to New York City, to pursue a career in music. He held several other jobs as well. He worked for nine dollars a week as a dishwasher at Jimmie's Chicken Shack, where pianist Art Tatum performed.

In 1942 Parker left McShann's band and played for one year with Earl Hines, whose band included Dizzy Gillespie, who later played with Parker as a duo. This period is virtually undocumented, due to the strike of 1942–1943 by the American Federation of Musicians, during which time few professional recordings were made. Parker joined a group of young musicians, and played in after-hours clubs in Harlem, such as [[Clark Monroe's Uptown House. These young iconoclasts included Gillespie, pianist Thelonious Monk, guitarist Charlie Christian, and drummer Kenny Clarke. The beboppers' attitude was summed up in a famous quotation attributed to Monk by Mary Lou Williams: "We wanted a music that they couldn't play" – "they" referring to white bandleaders who had usurped and profited from swing music. The group played in venues on 52nd Street, including Three Deuces and the Onyx. While in New York City, Parker studied with his music teacher, Maury Deutsch.

Bebop

According to an interview Parker gave in the 1950s, one night in 1939 he was playing "Cherokee" in a jam session with guitarist William "Biddy" Fleet when he hit upon a method for developing his solos that enabled one of his main musical innovations. He realized that the 12 semitones of the chromatic scale can lead melodically to any key, breaking some of the confines of simpler jazz soloing.

Early in its development, this new type of jazz was rejected by many of the established, traditional jazz musicians who disdained their younger counterparts. The beboppers responded by calling these traditionalists "moldy figs". However, some musicians, such as Coleman Hawkins and Tatum, were more positive about its development, and participated in jam sessions and recording dates in the new approach with its adherents.

Because of the two-year Musicians' Union ban of all commercial recordings from 1942 to 1944, much of bebop's early development was not captured for posterity. As a result, it gained limited radio exposure. Bebop musicians had a difficult time gaining widespread recognition. It was not until 1945, when the recording ban was lifted, that Parker's collaborations with Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Bud Powell and others had a substantial effect on the jazz world. (One of their first small-group performances together was rediscovered and issued in 2005: a concert in New York's Town Hall on June 22, 1945.) Bebop soon gained wider appeal among musicians and fans alike.

On November 26, 1945, Parker led a record date for the Savoy label, marketed as the "greatest Jazz session ever." Recording as Charlie Parker's Reboppers, Parker enlisted such sidemen as Gillespie and Miles Davis on trumpet, Curly Russell on bass and Roach on drums. The tracks recorded during this session include "Ko-Ko", "Billie's Bounce" and "Now's the Time".

Shortly afterward, the Parker/Gillespie band traveled to an unsuccessful engagement at Billy Berg's club in Los Angeles. Most of the group returned to New York, but Parker remained in California, cashing in his return ticket to buy heroin. He experienced great hardship in California, eventually being committed to Camarillo State Mental Hospital for a six-month period.

Charlie Parker with Strings

A longstanding desire of Parker's was to perform with a string section. He was a keen student of classical music, and contemporaries reported he was most interested in the music and formal innovations of Igor Stravinsky and longed to engage in a project akin to what later became known as Third Stream, a new kind of music, incorporating both jazz and classical elements as opposed to merely incorporating a string section into performance of jazz standards. On November 30, 1949, Norman Granz arranged for Parker to record an album of ballads with a mixed group of jazz and chamber orchestra musicians. Six master takes from this session comprised the album Charlie Parker with Strings: "Just Friends", "Everything Happens to Me", "April in Paris", "Summertime", "I Didn't Know What Time It Was", and "If I Should Lose You".

Jazz at Massey Hall

In 1953, Parker performed at Massey Hall in Toronto, Canada, joined by Gillespie, Mingus, Powell and Roach. Unfortunately, the concert happened at the same time as a televised heavyweight boxing match between Rocky Marciano and Jersey Joe Walcott, so the musical event was poorly attended. Mingus recorded the concert, resulting in the album Jazz at Massey Hall. At this concert, Parker played a plastic Grafton saxophone. At this point in his career he was experimenting with new sounds and materials. Parker himself explained the purpose of the plastic saxophone in a May 9, 1953 broadcast from Birdland and did so again in a subsequent May 1953 broadcast. Parker is known to have played several saxophones, including the Conn 6M, the Martin Handicraft and Selmer Model 22. He is also known to have performed with a King "Super 20" saxophone. Parker's King Super 20 saxophone was made specially for him in 1947.

Personal life

Addiction

Parker's addiction to heroin caused him to miss performances and be considered unemployable. He frequently resorted to busking, receiving loans from fellow musicians and admirers, and pawning his saxophones for drug money. Heroin use was rampant in the jazz scene, and users could acquire it with little difficulty.

Although he produced many brilliant recordings during this period, Parker's behavior became increasingly erratic. Heroin was difficult to obtain once he moved to California, where the drug was less abundant, so he used alcohol as a substitute. A recording for the Dial label from July 29, 1946, provides evidence of his condition. Before this session, Parker drank a quart of whiskey. According to the liner notes of Charlie Parker on Dial Volume 1, Parker missed most of the first two bars of his first chorus on the track, "Max Making Wax". When he finally did come in, he swayed wildly and once spun all the way around, away from his microphone. On the next tune, "Lover Man", producer Ross Russell physically supported Parker. On "Bebop" (the final track Parker recorded that evening) he begins a solo with a solid first eight bars; on his second eight bars, however, he begins to struggle, and a desperate Howard McGhee, the trumpeter on this session, shouts, "Blow!" at him. Charles Mingus considered this version of "Lover Man" to be among Parker's greatest recordings, despite its flaws. Nevertheless, Parker hated the recording and never forgave Ross Russell for releasing it. He re-recorded the tune in 1951 for Verve.

When Parker received his discharge from the hospital, he was clean and healthy. Before leaving California, he recorded "Relaxin' at Camarillo" in reference to his hospital stay. He returned to New York, resumed his addiction to heroin and recorded dozens of sides for the Savoy and Dial labels, which remain some of the high points of his recorded output. Many of these were with his so-called "classic quintet" including Davis and Roach.

Death

Parker died on March 12, 1955, in the suite of his friend and patroness Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter at the Stanhope Hotel in New York City, while watching The Dorsey Brothers' Stage Show on television. The official causes of death were lobar pneumonia and a bleeding ulcer, but Parker also had an advanced case of cirrhosis and had suffered a heart attack. The coroner who performed his autopsy mistakenly estimated Parker's 34-year-old body to be between 50 and 60 years of age.

Since 1950, Parker had been living with Chan Berg, the mother of his son Baird (who lived until 2014) and his daughter Pree (who died as an infant of cystic fibrosis). He considered Chan his wife although he never married her, nor did he divorce his previous wife, Doris, whom he had married in 1948. His marital status complicated the settling of Parker's estate and would ultimately serve to frustrate his wish to be quietly interred in New York City.

Dizzy Gillespie paid for the funeral arrangements and organized a lying-in-state, a Harlem procession officiated by Congressman and Reverend Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., as well as a memorial concert. Parker's body was flown back to Missouri, in accordance with his mother's wishes. Parker's widow criticized the dead man's family for giving him a Christian funeral even though they knew he was a confirmed atheist. Parker was buried at Lincoln Cemetery in Missouri, in a hamlet known as Blue Summit, located close to I-435 and East Truman Road.

Parker's estate is managed by CMG Worldwide.

Music

Parker's style of composition involved interpolation of original melodies over existing jazz forms and standards, a practice known as contrafact and still common in jazz today. Examples include "Ornithology" (which borrows the chord progression of jazz standard "How High the Moon" and is said to be co-written with trumpet player Little Benny Harris), and "Moose The Mooche" (one of many Parker compositions based on the chord progression of "I Got Rhythm"). The practice was not uncommon prior to bebop, but it became a signature of the movement as artists began to move away from arranging popular standards and toward composing their own material.

While tunes such as "Now's The Time", "Billie's Bounce", "Au Privave", "Barbados", "Relaxin' at Camarillo", "Bloomdido", and "Cool Blues" were based on conventional 12-bar blues changes, Parker also created a unique version of the 12-bar blues for tunes such as "Blues for Alice", "Laird Baird", and "Si Si." These unique chords are known popularly as "Bird Changes". Like his solos, some of his compositions are characterized by long, complex melodic lines and a minimum of repetition although he did employ the use of repetition in some tunes, most notably "Now's The Time".

Parker contributed greatly to the modern jazz solo, one in which triplets and pick-up notes were used in unorthodox ways to lead into chord tones, affording the soloist with more freedom to use passing tones, which soloists previously avoided. Parker was admired for his unique style of phrasing and innovative use of rhythm. Via his recordings and the popularity of the posthumously published Charlie Parker Omnibook, Parker's identifiable style dominated jazz for many years to come.

Other well-known Parker compositions include "Ah-Leu-Cha", "Anthropology", co-written with Gillespie, "Confirmation", "Constellation", "Donna Lee", "Moose the Mooche", "Scrapple from the Apple" and "Yardbird Suite", the vocal version of which is called "What Price Love", with lyrics by Parker. .

Miles Davis once said, "You can tell the history of jazz in four words: Louis Armstrong. Charlie Parker."

Discography

Awards and recognitions

Grammy Award

Grammy Hall of Fame

Recordings of Charlie Parker were inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame, which is a special Grammy award established in 1973 to honor recordings that are at least twenty-five years old, and that have "qualitative or historical significance."

Inductions

Government honors

In 1995, the U.S. Postal Service issued a 32-cent commemorative postage stamp in Parker's honor.

In 2002, the Library of Congress honored his recording "Ko-Ko" (1945) by adding it to the National Recording Registry.

Musical tributes

Jack Kerouac's spoken poem "Charlie Parker" to backing piano by Steve Allen on Poetry for the Beat Generation (1959)

Lennie Tristano's overdubbed solo piano piece "Requiem" was recorded in tribute to Parker shortly after his death.

Street musician Moondog wrote his famous "Bird's Lament" in his memory; published on the 1969 album Moondog.

Since 1972, the Californian ensemble Supersax harmonized many of Parker's improvisations for a five-piece saxophone section.

In 1973, guitarist Joe Pass released his album I Remember Charlie Parker in Parker's honor.

Weather Report's jazz fusion track and highly acclaimed big band standard "Birdland", from the Heavy Weather album (1977), was a dedication by bandleader Joe Zawinul to both Charlie Parker and the New York 52nd Street club itself.

The biographical song "Parker's Band" was recorded by Steely Dan on its 1974 album Pretzel Logic.

The avant-garde trombonist George Lewis recorded Homage to Charles Parker (1979).

The opera Charlie Parker's Yardbird by Daniel Schnyder, libretto by Bridgette A. Wimberly, was premiered by Opera Philadelphia on June 5, 2015, with Lawrence Brownlee in the title role.

Charlie Parker Residence

From 1950 to 1954, Parker and his common-law wife, Chan Berg, lived in the ground floor of the townhouse at 151 Avenue B, across from Tompkins Square Park in Manhattan's East Village. The Gothic Revival building, which was built about 1849, was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1994, and was designated a New York City landmark in 1999. Avenue B between East 7th and East 10th Streets was given the honorary designation Charlie Parker Place in 1992.

Other tributes

The 1957 story "Sonny's Blues" by James Baldwin features a jazz/blues playing virtuoso who names Bird as the "greatest" jazz musician, whose style he hopes to emulate.

In 1949, the New York night club Birdland was named in his honor. Three years later, George Shearing wrote "Lullaby of Birdland", named for both Parker and the nightclub.

A memorial to Parker was dedicated in 1999 in Kansas City at 17th Terrace and The Paseo, near the American Jazz Museum located at 18th and Vine, featuring a 10-foot (3 m) tall bronze head sculpted by Robert Graham.

The Charlie Parker Jazz Festival is a free two-day music festival that takes place every summer on the last weekend of August in Manhattan, New York City, at Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem and Tompkins Square Park in the Lower East Side, sponsored by the non-profit organization City Parks Foundation. The festival marked its 17th anniversary in 2009.

The Annual Charlie Parker Celebration is an annual festival held in Kansas City, Kansas since 2014. It is held for 10 days and celebrates all aspects of Parker, from live jazz music and bootcamps, to tours of his haunts in the city, to exhibits at the American Jazz Museum.

In one of his most famous short story collections, Las armas secretas (The Secret Weapons), Julio Cortázar dedicated "El perseguidor" ("The Pursuer") to the memory of Charlie Parker. This piece examines the last days of Johnny, a drug-addict saxophonist, through the eyes of Bruno, his biographer. Some qualify this story as one of Cortázar's masterpieces in the genre.

A biographical film called Bird, starring Forest Whitaker as Parker and directed by Clint Eastwood, was released in 1988.

In 1984, legendary modern dance choreographer Alvin Ailey created the piece For Bird – With Love in honor of Parker. The piece chronicles his life, from his early career to his failing health.

In 2005, the Selmer Paris saxophone manufacturer commissioned a special "Tribute to Bird" alto saxophone, commemorating the 50th anniversary of the death of Charlie Parker (1955–2005).

Parker's performances of "I Remember You" and "Parker's Mood" (recorded for the Savoy label in 1948, with the Charlie Parker All Stars, comprising Parker on alto sax, Miles Davis on trumpet, John Lewis on piano, Curley Russell on bass, and Max Roach on drums) were selected by Harold Bloom for inclusion on his shortlist of the "twentieth-century American Sublime", the greatest works of American art produced in the 20th century. A vocalese version of "Parker's Mood" was a popular success for King Pleasure.

Jean-Michel Basquiat created many pieces to honour Charlie Parker, including Charles the First, CPRKR, Bird on Money, and Discography I.

Charlie Watts, drummer for the Rolling Stones, wrote a children's book entitled Ode to a High Flying Bird as a tribute to Parker. Watts has cited Parker as a major influence in his life as a youth learning to play jazz.

The 2014 film Whiplash repeatedly makes reference to the 1937 incident at the Reno Cafe, changing the aim point of the cymbals to his head and pointing to it as proof that true genius is not born but made by relentless practice and pitiless peers.

Jazz historian Phil Schaap hosts Bird Flight, a radio show on WKCR New York that is dedicated solely to Parker's music.

Wikipedia

[gyrlversion]

Aged just nine, Lauren lost both parents to contaminated HIV blood

When nine-year-old Lauren Palmer was summoned to a family meeting her first thought was that she might be getting another pet.

Or could it be about the washing-up rota that she and her two brothers were always being threatened with? The truth, however, was horrifying.

‘Mum told us that she was very poorly with something called HIV and that she wouldn’t get better,’ recalls Lauren, now 35. 

‘She said my dad had it, too. I’d never heard of it, but instinctively knew that this was awful news and burst into tears. Mum was also crying and put her arm around me.’

Within weeks, in August 1993, both of Lauren’s parents were dead – eight days apart. Her brothers, from her mother’s first marriage, went to live with their father. Lauren, now an orphan, moved in with relatives who she says resented her presence.

This Dickensian series of tragic events would be no less heartbreaking for Lauren had her parents been drug addicts.

But in fact she came from a respectable family and home was a pristine semi-detached property in the small village where her father Stephen had been an engineer, before becoming too ill to work.

He had haemophilia, the bleeding disorder, and was among those given contaminated blood products in what has been described as ‘the worst treatment disaster in the history of the NHS’.

Both Lauren Palmer’s parents died weeks apart after contracting HIV and hepatitis C from infected blood her father Stephen was given to treat haemophilia

Stephen contracted HIV and hepatitis C within the first two years of Lauren’s life, and in turn infected her mother Barbara. So great was the stigma attached to HIV and Aids at the time that Lauren and her brothers had been kept completely in the dark.

‘We knew my dad was extremely poorly as his body began shutting down during his final years,’ says Lauren, in her first interview since presenting her testimony at the Infected Blood Public Inquiry.

‘He would have blackouts and get very angry about his situation, and lash out at mum. Recent research into HIV shows it can cause a form of dementia in the brain. I was largely kept away from him, and it deprived us of a close relationship. Dad was losing control.’

Lauren is fighting for an acceptance of liability from the Government because it allowed contaminated blood products to be imported from America in the 1980s. 

Shockingly, imports continued even when doctors in the US warned that its citizens with haemophilia were dying after being given factor VIII concentrate, a clotting agent created from mixing together cells from thousands of donors. Stephen was given this on NHS prescription and administered it to himself at home.

Ravaged by Aids and barely mobile, he also suffered from bronchopneumonia, pancreatitis, jaundice and even paranoid psychosis. Stephen became so ill his own parents insisted that he move in with them to be cared for properly.

Lauren’s memories of her mother are happier.

Due to the stigma attached to HIV and Aids at the time Lauren and her brothers had been kept in the dark after their parent’s illness. Pictured is Lauren Palmer (aged around 18 months) and her mother, Barbara 

‘I had a porcelain doll collection and mum would take me to fairs so I could buy new ones,’ she said. ‘Some of my fondest memories are of us drawing and painting together, then snuggling up to watch my favourite Disney film, Lady and the Tramp.’

Two years before her death, however, Barbara developed a drink problem. From studying her mother’s medical records, Lauren knows this was a direct reaction to her fatal diagnosis which came at around that time.

‘Everyone was aware that HIV was a death sentence, so I can only imagine how terrified she felt,’ said Lauren. ‘She used alcohol as a way of coping. As a child, seeing the mum I adored in that drunken state was horrible and I still struggle with those memories.’

There may also have been resentment on her mother’s part. Lauren’s father’s medical records show that he had initially ignored advice to use contraception because he ‘didn’t think the risk of infecting my mother was worth wearing condoms for’. 

While her mother struggled to hold things together at home, Lauren looks back fondly on time outdoors with her brothers, four and eight years her senior, riding bikes and playing. 

Shortly after her mother broke the awful news to them, relatives moved in to help and Barbara was admitted to the Oxford Haemophilia Centre.

Stephen was being treated in the same hospital but the couple, now estranged, were kept apart and Lauren never saw her father.

This is the only picture Lauren Palmer has of her father. This article in the local newspaper was published because she was born on Christmas Day and show her with both her parents 

She vividly recalls sitting on her mother’s hospital bed, aware that she was very sick but having no idea that, aged 40, she was so close to death.

On August 19, as Lauren and her brothers were having breakfast with their relatives, a call came from the hospital to say that they should come quickly. As they were about to leave, the phone rang again. It was too late, their mother had already died.

Lauren recalls little of what happened in the immediate aftermath and believes blocking it out was her way of coping with the trauma.

She has since been told that she was offered the chance to attend her mother’s funeral and, in her grief-stricken state, declined.

She also vaguely remembers being informed that her father had died, aged 35, eight days before her mother. Lauren and her brothers were tested for HIV and, mercifully, found to be clear.

Shortly before her mother’s death there was a dispute about where Lauren would live. Her father’s family wanted to take her, while her mother was insisting she should stay with relatives on her side. Social services ensured her mother’s wishes were fulfilled.

‘Mum’s relatives didn’t live locally, and the hardest part was moving away from the area and being separated from my brothers,’ said Lauren, closing her eyes in a vain effort to block out this memory.

‘It wasn’t an option for me to go to their dad, but he’s a lovely man and I think if he could have financially supported me, he probably would have given me a home.’

It is nothing short of scandalous that the state, responsible for prescribing the contaminated medicine that caused the death of both her parents, did not step in and provide support to let Lauren stay with her siblings.

Lauren Palmer as a baby with her late mother Barbara who, along with her husband Stephen died from HIV in 1993 after he was given contaminated blood products for his severe haemophilia

Instead she had to make do with visiting them three times a year during school holidays. Although they never discussed their mother these were the only times she actually felt happy during an otherwise bleak childhood.

‘Where they lived was very rural and I loved the fact they had chickens roaming around the garden and dogs,’ said Lauren.

‘My cocker spaniel, Lady, was given away to a farmer after I moved in with mum’s relatives because there wasn’t room in the tiny cottage. Leaving my brothers always felt like another bereavement and it would take weeks for me to recover.’

As she told the inquiry, she was made to feel like a burden to the new parents she lived with. The marriage broke down soon after she moved in – leaving the mother struggling both financially and emotionally.

She explained that the daughter in the family, perhaps not surprisingly, resented her and she found herself living in a ‘cold’ environment.

She said: ‘I remember being told before my first day at my new school that I couldn’t breathe a word about how my parents had died – apparently even the headteacher was hesitant about giving me a place – because otherwise we would all have been ostracised. Back then, people were spray-painting obscenities on the houses of people with HIV, which I guess is not surprising given the terrifying ad campaigns, featuring tombstones, combined with the general belief that those who had this disease were all druggies and prostitutes, who some felt deserved it.

A letter written by David Rendel MP to Barbara Palmer who later died along with her husband Stephen from HIV in 1993

‘Thankfully, I loved school and escaped into my work, which meant I got good GCSEs.’

Lauren recalls visits from social workers who would try to talk to her about what she had been through, but believes they stopped coming because she struggled to open up: ‘I was quiet and withdrawn, mainly because I didn’t want to be any trouble to anyone. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to strangers.’

She spent much of the second half of her childhood, when at home, in her room, only coming downstairs for meals eaten in silence. Aged 17, Lauren moved in with a friend’s family.

Her relatives, she said, subsequently returned any birthday and Christmas cards she sent them, unopened, and she has not seen any of them since.

‘If outside agencies had stayed in touch and offered appropriate support, things could have turned out very differently,’ she said.

While this sounds like yet another thing Lauren could justifiably be resentful about, she doesn’t do bitter. For this, she feels indebted to her mother, whose favourite poem, Thinking, by 19th century poet Walter D Wintle, includes the line: ‘For out in the world you find success begins with a fellow’s will. It’s all in the state of mind.’

Having spent her late teens and early 20s working in retail, she went on to work on cruise ships for four years, a job that allowed her to travel the world.

She’s had boyfriends but, having being independent from such a young age, doesn’t feel the need that so many do for a life partner.

She also closed her mind to thoughts of having children when a doctor told her, shortly before her mother died, that she carried the haemophilia gene, meaning there is a 50 per cent chance any son she had would be born with the condition.

Lauren Palmer outside Fleetwood House after giving evidence to the Infected Blood Inquiry earlier this month 

In her late 20s Lauren settled in Bristol and landed a job working for cosmetics company Mac. While doing her pre-interview research she came across the company’s charity, the Mac AIDS Fund, supporting people living with the disease, and told bosses that this was a subject very close to her heart.

She said: ‘Having told no one, other than my very closest friends, how my parents had died – it wasn’t even recorded on their death certificates – it was a huge relief finally being able to open up. After 20 years, I realised I had no reason to feel ashamed. They made me the charity’s ambassador in the South West.’

But it wasn’t until 2017 – while watching the Panorama documentary, Contaminated Blood: The Search for Truth – that Lauren discovered her parents were among 2,000 people who had died, or became seriously ill, as a result of infected blood.

She contacted Jason Evans who founded Factor 8 – The Independent Haemophilia Group and whose father, also a haemophiliac, died in 1993 after being infected with AIDS and hepatitis C.

So passionate was Lauren about helping to secure justice for those affected by the scandal that she gave up her job at Mac, taking on a less demanding role elsewhere, to support the charity’s campaign for a third public inquiry. This began on April 30 and will run for six months. Victims branded both previous inquiries whitewashes.

The latest inquiry’s findings could be used to support litigation in the High Court, where claims for adequate compensation for those affected have been paused, awaiting chairman Sir Brian Langstaff’s report.

However Lauren doesn’t expect any cash that may be awarded stretching to compensate relatives like her.

She is still close to her brothers, who support her campaigning but, for personal and professional reasons, don’t want to be involved. ‘The devastation caused by this didn’t stop with my parents’ deaths, it affects our family to this day,’ she said. ‘We were innocent victims, pushed to the sidelines of society and left to pick up the pieces.

‘I’m not hopeful that we, the children, will get compensation. We have been very much neglected in all of this and haven’t received any support, certainly not financially.

‘We will probably have to make do with getting the truth, on behalf of all of our relatives who died in shame. That should not have happened, because they were all innocent in this.’

Surely it’s now time someone stepped in and gave this brave young woman the helping hand so shamefully withheld three decades ago?

The post Aged just nine, Lauren lost both parents to contaminated HIV blood appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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[how2to18]

SEVERAL LEDES are buried within journalist Snigdha Poonam’s Dreamers: How Young Indians Are Changing the World. Three-quarters of the way through, she writes: “Rare exceptions aside, my wide-ranging forays into the madness of modern India boiled down to the same thing: the anxieties of young men who no longer know their place in the world. What they find hardest to deal with are women who do.”

The chapter in question, “The Angry Young Woman,” profiles Richa Singh (no relation), a young politician whose confidence and bravery led her to take on the hostile masculinity she found at Allahabad University, where she won an unprecedented victory. A woman had never dared run for president of the students’ union in the 127-year history of the campus. In Allahabad, men dominated all social spaces around town, from the tea shops to the campus facilities, and especially the ins and outs of politics. By winning the election, Singh temporarily changed everything.

But this chapter is the only one in which a woman is profiled. Throughout the rest of 280 pages, Poonam’s intrepid reportage comes from the depths of young male rage and desperation, where everyone seems determined to out-scam everyone else on multiple levels. Stemming from a “whatever works,” “do-or-die” attitude, the men Poonam profiles will stop at nothing to get ahead, no matter who they have to cheat along the way. The title, Dreamers, is deceiving in its optimism because not much of anything hopeful appears in this book.

Right now, over half of India’s population, perhaps 600 million people, are under the age of 25, making them the largest number of young people for any country on earth. This generation’s male population, Poonam writes, are the most desperate since India’s independence. Every month, one million Indian youths enter the workforce, yet only 10,000 of them get jobs — a staggering statistic. The rest feel left behind and abandoned by their own country, so they turn to scams and violence to make money.

As a result, the men Poonam writes about are not driven by morality, but by how fast can they achieve money and fame. Their ability to flip between right and wrong depends only on what they stand to win or lose. Anxious about their future, these men feel they must succeed now or else risk being left behind. Since India’s infrastructure still operates on a foundation of bribery, scams, and corruption from bottom to top — so much, that corruption is often viewed as a virtue — this generation of young Indian men, Poonam writes, will cheat their way to their dreams because it’s all they ever see from politicians, businessmen, and celebrities. If these young men don’t embark on such an ideology right now, they will lose their shot at world domination.

“No matter how poorly placed they find themselves now, they make up the world’s largest ever cohort of like-minded young people, and they see absolutely no reason why the world shouldn’t run by their rules,” Poonam writes.

The consequences for the rest of us, inside and outside of India, of young India’s determination, won’t just be economic. The idea that only they can help themselves will lead this generation of Indians to redefine everything according to their perspective: work, success, morality. It will change our world in ways we can’t yet imagine.

The whole book provides explicit examples of this. In one chapter, Poonam brings us deep inside elaborate call center scams where hierarchies of young men are bilking American seniors out of their pensions with the nonchalance of a lazy afterschool project. In another chapter, various men known as “fixers” operate in rural slums, scamming residents for services they can often get for free. We also meet “talent management” companies ruthlessly exploiting wannabe superstars longing for Bollywood-style fame. These young men, often frustrated or rejected, are desperate for notoriety, only to end up with their aspirations destroyed.

She also investigates dubious English-language instruction centers exploiting the beliefs of young people who think that learning even mangled English will convert them from “losers” into “winners” and help them manufacture a global identity. This dovetails with people wanting to learn just enough cut-price English to get jobs writing punchy, obnoxious content for clickbait websites — exactly what happens in many scenarios.

“The version of English they speak — with colleagues, waiters, customer care executives — will define the future of the language in this country, and, in fact, the future of English worldwide,” Poonam writes. “With India expected to have the largest number of English speakers in the world in the next ten years — overtaking the U.S. — the English they speak will be the English of the future.”

If millions of young Indians are learning whichever bare-bones flavor of English facilitates their ability to scam people and elevate themselves in the corruption hierarchy, then it will have dramatic effects on international business, politics, and entertainment. Such gloomy observations appear all throughout the book.

In each case, the level of fraud and corruption does not unfold in just one direction. Those being supervised in how to perpetrate the scams are often simultaneously scamming their bosses, or even hiring middlemen they can exploit in the process. After someone works long enough in a fraudulent call center operation — whether it’s in tech support, insurance, banking, or travel — he might then quit to start up his own fraudulent call center. After spending a few years with such people, Poonam discovered that the scam soldiers were taking over the scams. Once they learned the tricks of the trade, they gave up on the long hours and started their own operation.

“What did you need to run a tech support scam?” Poonam writes. “A team of five, a rented room, computers, mobile phones, a stash of software, a pop-up vendor, and a friend in the U.S. or U.K. to lend you their bank account.”

The tech-support scammers run the whole operation on Facebook, using pop-up boxes to remotely take over someone’s computer and eventually scam gullible American seniors out of millions. Every petty scammer is now a mastermind on his way to an imagined lifestyle of parties, beautiful girls, and fast cars — things he never had before.

Poonam’s investigations also take her into the dark underworld of mob violence. In the most disturbing chapter among many, she embeds herself with the gau rakshaks, vigilante cow-protection armies, whose logo is a gilded torso of a cow flanked by a pair of swords and AK-47s. Commanders are elected, foot soldiers are chosen, and the groups operate as organized fundamentalist Hindu mobs of angry young men targeting anyone, but especially Muslims and Dalits, who might be smuggling cattle somewhere. Out of social isolation, anxiety, sexual rejection, and the “restless anger of a budding dictator,” the gau rakshaks Poonam investigates all seem frightened by the prospect of a global secular society diminishing their religiosity. They respond by finding solace in the power of violence.

As if that wasn’t enough, Poonam also explores grotesque “anti-Valentine’s Day jihads,” where any violent young man might tie an iron bar to the back of his motorcycle for the purpose of swinging it at couples on Valentine’s Day — all just to injure happy lovers for no other reason. Single, broke, and doubtful that he will ever find a job or a woman that likes him, the type of man who does this, Poonam writes, is

what think pieces explaining the Trump and Brexit verdicts term a loser of globalization, one of the millions of leftover youths whose anger is transforming world politics. […] On an elemental level, he doesn’t know if he matters to the world. There’s only one way left for him to make that happen: punish everyone who’s moved ahead of him in that queue. This is what he thinks politics is about.

Which is obviously why Poonam elevates the female politician Richa Singh above the toxic stew depicted in the rest of the book. Poonam describes Singh as someone inspired by true change, someone who can actually call herself a politician. In a landmark series of events, Singh united minority factions and won an election at Allahabad University. She even sat in on a hunger strike to block the right-wing Hindu nationalist preacher Yogi Adityanath from appearing on campus, which later became pointless since he wound up as the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh anyway.

At times, though, Poonam doesn’t shy away from taking sides, admitting that she was rooting for Singh, “in guilt and in bewilderment.” In one of several confessional passages, Poonam feels a connection with Singh’s causes, but says she doesn’t have Singh’s guts or idealism.

“Singh’s fight against caste, communalism and patriarchy — what she called ‘muscle power’ — voiced most of my issues with the country’s politics,” Poonam writes. “I was drawn to stories of women putting up a fight; reporting and writing about their fight was almost a compensation for not participating in it.”

With the understanding that Dreamers only represents a tiny sample base, the book does not leave any sense of optimism in the reader. Even though Poonam dangles a few threads of hope near the end — Richa Singh’s success is now inspiring more women to enter university politics — one doesn’t come away feeling that anything good can possibly come from the exploits of millions of young men defrauding their fellow humans. The book functions like a damning, almost apocalyptic forewarning.

Whatever does become of half a billion young Indians will have a dramatic effect on the rest of the world, Poonam writes. For example, in the United States and Europe, many people are just becoming aware of Facebook’s and Twitter’s role in the spreading of hatred, misogyny, and religious intolerance. In India, those scenarios are amplified by multiple degrees, and by millions upon millions of perpetrators who want in on the action. The damage caused by troll armies, endless harassment, abuse, and fake stories are far beyond their counterparts in the West, as are millions of Indian twentysomethings pooling their resources to operate call center scams and professional fraud networks on Facebook.

For these men, if their only ideology in life is to cheat their way to the top — “whatever works” — then the planet needs to pay serious attention, Poonam warns. Americans or anyone in the West who thinks they needn’t keep tabs on the rest of the world are in for a dire awakening.

¤

Gary Singh was recently a Steinbeck Fellow in Creative Writing at San Jose State University and is the author of The San Jose Earthquakes: A Seismic Soccer Legacy (2015, The History Press). For 13 years, his columns have appeared in Metro Silicon Valley, San Jose’s alternative weekly newspaper.

The post The Million Trumps of India appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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The Life-Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video

We made a plan for ourselves to go somewhere outside of the city over the weekend. It was something we had neglected to do for most of the summer. Late May, June, and most of July had raced by, and slowly the existence of the world outside of the metropole creeped into our minds. The idea of taking a trip to the country manifested itself as a feeling strangely reminiscent of shame, or maybe embarrassment, as if the recognition of our isolation in the great grid of urban space made us feel cheap and inadequate.

Looking back on it all now, I am willing to concede that the acknowledgement of our failure to visit the world outside of our city lives and the peculiar shame it brought with it, also made us think of how much our day-to-day lives with one another was founded on the comfort of routine and habit. Chicago’s claustrophobic loneliness underscored the daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly schedules (both formal and informal) that comprised the bulk of our adulthood. Work, school, trains, buses, availabilities, timing, coordinations, events, and invitations; a never-ending logistical mapping that just led to the planning of future life-operations; a broad-spectrum self-administered micromanagement.

Sadly, our relationship with one another was not much different. We managed the breaks and flows of our intimacies basically the same way we did the rest of our lives. We coordinated time spent together, we maintained open lines of communication in regards to our competing responsibilities, and we provided regular feedback to one another regarding our satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the course of our romance. After several years, it was a functional relationship, and it was precisely that functionality that appeared ugly to us, that made us feel shame. The habits and routines of our love seemed to betray the passion implied by the term, “love,” as if our affections for one another were a struggle of rational planning and familiar procedures, not the ribald feelings of uncontrollable desire and delirium commonly associated with the term.

We decided we would take a trip outside of the city, to temporarily assuage the feelings of shame we felt towards ourselves for maintaining such a functional coexistence.

Sandy had always appeared pleasing to me. At first the attraction had been sexual, then sentimental, and now merely reassuring. It was as if I had come to treat her body with a degree of objectification far deeper than that of petty chauvinism. Beyond the realm of sexual objectification was the objectification that came with the quotidian familiarity of a long term romantic relationship. Her body to me held the same status as an old blanket or a favorite stuffed animal. Something that generated a placid sensation of calmness and security; an object that is so present in one’s life, that it is not even there, unnoticed because of its consistent use as a source for emotional relief.

As I looked at her then, when this all began, her features served to reinforce her invisibility. Her tall slender build, her short brown hair, her round face, he slightly accented cheeks, her elusive green eyes, her black, wire rim glasses, her pale complexion, her thighs, her armpits, the small of her back, the moles, the acne, the pimples, the rashes, the scars, the bare skin; she was an endless collage of normal things that gave substance to the phrase, “everyday life.” Sandy was everyday life. Her body was the lived experience of this notion that separated my existence as a private self from the public world of large populations and faceless institutions. My discreet, private love.     

So we journeyed outside the city. Maybe I subconsciously suspected that looking at Sandy in an unknown context might change my own self, might make me feel differently in someway and even reduce some of the shame I felt for living so functionally.

We drove for an hour or two to a state park we had looked up online. The park was a series of trails spread through a large forest preserve. There was flora and there was fauna. There were a lot of people who seemed to have had the same idea that we did. Different families and couples and friends and even lone individuals, all drawn in someway to spend time in this serene space of pure nature preserved for the pleasure of human society. A place to go in order to forget the immense logistical project of living. I felt somewhat disappointed by the crowd, initially because I felt like it would undermine the tranquility of our idealized destination but later I understood that all my fellow day-trippers were revealing the underlying pathetic logic of our own micro-vacation; like a forest full of terrible mirrors, unrelenting in their savage reflections.

Sandy and I walked through the woods, mostly in silence. I felt the need to maintain a certain air of reverence, not because I felt any spiritual connection to my surroundings, but because I felt obligated to imitate an attitude I wish I was capable of maintaining. I had not felt much reverence for anything for many years. Sandy followed behind me, letting me guide our travels with my quiet, yet obscenely performative respect for the natural kingdom. We trudged our way down to a small creek at the base of a long hill. We sat by the water for a long time and Sandy laid her head in my lap as we both watched the sun drift through the foliage of the ancient trees and the dragon flies zip and zoom across the surface of the water. I felt hypnotized by the beauty around us, or at least, that’s how I would have characterized my feelings if someone had asked me how I was feeling.

In truth I don’t think I really felt that at all. I don’t think I really felt anything.     

***

On the way back from our little weekend trip, we stopped at a thrift store we had never been to before and that we never returned to again. It was there that we found the first tape. It was stuck on the rack in the bottom right corner, between, Planet of the Apes, and, Honey I Shrunk the Kids. The cover of the case featured a hazy and worn image of a peaceful beach, with waves lapping the shore beneath a tranquil sunset. Overlaid across the image of the beach was the faint outlines of a sleeping body, its head tucked into its arms as if in the fetal position. At the very bottom read the title: The Life-Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video.

Sandy and I bought the tape along with a new lamp shade and a couple of cheap framed pictures.

When we came home we were tired from the long drive, and soon settled in the bedroom, in front of the television and the old VHS player. We found ourselves playing the tape, anticipating a strange, mildly amusing collection of video sequences that would soon be forgotten.

The tape began with a calm and soothing voice providing an introduction over a series of calming nature stills. The voice introduced itself as Dr. Bill Convex, co-founder and chief hypnotherapist at Open Horizons, the company responsible for the production of The Life Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video. Dr. Convex explained how the tape currently in our possession contained a scientifically developed mixture of audio and visual stimulation designed to enhance the critical and creative skills of the mind. While the video would only appear to be calming footage of placid natural environments, the footage also contained visual and auditory lines of communication perceivable only by the subconscious; secret sounds and pictures underneath the surface of what the conscious mind would see and hear. These secrets were tools for the scientific reinvigoration of the brain; a power to change lives.  Sustained viewing of the tape’s contents over a prolonged period of time (along with other media products offered by Open Horizons) would cause the viewer to experience an increase in mental focus, streamlining the viewer’s cognitive abilities allowing him or her to maximize the full potential of their body and mind.

Over the next 45 minutes, Sandy and I watched with varying degrees of attentiveness as the tape played in its entirety. It didn’t seem terribly remarkable to me. There was a certain lightly pleasing cheesiness to the scenes of forests and beaches scored by the abstract non-linear tones of mid-80’s synthesizers. But beyond that limited scope, I didn’t feel as if the tape had anything much else to offer. After it had finished playing, I said as much to Sandy. She expressed no opinion, in fact she said very little at all after the video was over.  

***

The next day was a Monday and I usually got home from work later than Sandy, who

Got off a few hours earlier but has to leave the house as I’m just waking up. At some point throughout the day I vaguely recalled waking up in a daze in the middle of the night and noticing that Sandy was not in the bed next to me, but the thought dissipated from my mind soon after it had first occurred to me.

When I did arrive home, I walked in to find Sandy watching The Life Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video by herself in the poorly lit living room. We only had one VCR that we normally kept in our bedroom, which means she had brought the tape player out of the room and hooked it up out here. She was lying back on the gray couch casually smoking a cigarette. Other than wearing her socks, she was completely naked.

When I stepped into the apartment she stared at me blankly yet deeply, as if she were acknowledging the strangeness of what she was doing but was not going to attempt to justify her behavior. I decided to remain mute on the subject and instead reached out to her side and helped myself to one of her cigarettes. We both sat there smoking together in silence, as the dulcet tones of the tape’s soundtrack filled the room, accompanied only by the creaking of the ceiling fan whirring away above our heads. The tobacco smoke drifted out from our lungs and lilted in the air as the shifting colors of the tv screen shimmered across the haze we created. It was as if the smoke from our mouths and the light beams of the tv were the point where our bodies met and blended with the video content; the indeterminate porousness that exists between the viewers and the screen.      

Over the course of the night, Sandy must of watched the tape dozens of times while I skulked around, unable to ask her what she was doing. Early in the morning, I went out to the living room and turned off the blank blue screen as she slept on the couch in a rather awkward position that I could only imagine was terribly uncomfortable. Although I turned off the television, I did not attempt to reposition her. I did not think of it this way at the time, but I think I was afraid of waking her.

***

The rest of the week transformed the first night into a routine. Sandy kept watching the tape and I quietly avoided her new fixation. I didn’t know how to interact with her unusual behavior. Perhaps I lacked the emotional depth.

***

Eventually, Sandy decided to find out more about Open Horizons and their other media products as well as hypnotherapy media prophet Dr. Bill Convex. The history was not hard to find, but the facts, once related, led to further questions.

Sandy calmly gave me the details she had uncovered one night as we ate dinner. Or, at least I was eating, Sandy mainly discussed the details of her findings and pushed her food around with her fork. She had recently started to eat less and lose weight.

Dr. Bill Convex had been a revolutionary clinical psychologist working in experimental new media therapy treatments in the late 1970’s. Dr. Convex claimed to have created a method of video and audio manipulation that unlocked the persuasive potential of video, allowing for a radical increase in the effectiveness of therapeutic treatment. Dr. Convex had apparently been shunned by the mainstream scientific community, but had overtime built a national community of committed followers through his popular self-help videotapes; like the one that was now sitting in our home tape-player.

By the early 1980’s, Dr. Convex had become partners with an eccentric hedge-fund manager that was enamored with Convex’s therapeutic program, stating on record that it was responsible for his skyrocketing business success. The two men constructed a pioneering medical clinic in a small suburban town on Lake Michigan. The clinic was envisioned as both a research laboratory and an active treatment center where Dr. Convex could pursue his future studies while still working directly with patients.

One day, soon after the clinic had been officially opened, a fire erupted on the grounds and Dr. Convex as well as a number of his most devoted followers died in the blaze. The fire was due to an electric malfunction. An electrical thing. A freak surge in the power system that overwhelmed the wiring and sparked a flame. Dr. Convex was killed, along with his groundbreaking approach to video hypnotherapy. Today, Dr. Convex’s work had drifted into relative obscurity, and the clinic where he was to further his radical approach to treatment had been abandoned and forgotten - apparently nothing more than a collection of ruins on an uninhabited island just off the coast of the Michigan suburb.

Sandy seemed overwhelmed with the gravity of this background once she had summarized it for me. I leaned forward in my chair and asked her if she was okay and she smiled softly assuring me that yes, she was fine. She asked me if I thought burning was a painful death and I said I didn’t know. I said that I was pretty sure most people who died in fires died of asphyxiation rather than the heat of the blaze and she nodded gently. I speculated that death by choking was probably just as unpleasant as death by burning. She sat there silently, mulling over this cruel but probably truthful observation. Then, she quietly closed her eyes and a thin smile spread across her face as we sat there at the table. Somehow, I knew that her self-induced state of tranquility was being brought on by thoughts of the video in her mind. She was mentally replaying the sights and the sounds of Dr. Convex’s persuasion video as we sat together at the table. She was focusing her mind in accordance with the stated influences of Dr. Convex’s audiovisual inventions. I sat there awkwardly, unsure how to proceed.

***

Sandy started to skip work. At first she used up all her sick days, and then she simply stopped going without bothering to excuse her absence. She said she had to keep working on her new project. She said it would be fine for her to dip a bit into her savings in order to contribute to rent and other expenses.

Her new project was locating copies of Open Horizon’s other media products. She continued to watch the one tape we had found, but she decided that she wanted to seek out more of Dr. Convex’s special treatments. She earnestly told me that the first tape was working, that she could feel her mind growing sharper, more focused and effective. But, she went on to say, she knew there was so much more room for improvement. The enhancement of her mind revealed to her just how much more she could be enhanced by Dr. Convex’s brilliance. Her words, not mine.

She began at home by surveying the internet for any available copies of his old video catalogue. Apparently Bill Convex had been a fairly prolific hypnotherapist. Open Horizons had released 96 different persuasion video titles, supposedly composed of unique audio and video content unrepeated in any of the other tapes. In other words, each one was special, and had its own specific effect on the mind of the viewer. Sandy’s internet exploring yielded her several copies which she had shipped to the house immediately, but it was by no means the entire catalogue.

Next, she moved onto the city thrift stores and retail shops. She systematically outlined a schedule for regularly visiting every second-hand shop she felt was a reliable source for rare Open Horizon titles like the one we had found. She was now kept busy biking across the city, popping in at one of the spots on her list and carefully searching through their collections of old VHS tapes.

By the end of the second week of her new project, Sandy was a proud owner of 34 of the 96 original titles and she planned to watch them all several times. I wondered if she would ever go back to work.

***

When she wasn’t searching for more tapes, Sandy was busy watching them. She would go for hour long periods lying nearly motionless on the couch or on the floor just staring at montages of nature scenes that endlessly flashed across the screen. I would sometimes watch them with her, maybe with a book by my side as I would regularly lose interest pretty quickly. I was still struggling to understand what she saw in these tapes, and her borderline obsession was starting to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps I secretly enjoyed her in a state of hypnosis. Our relationship slipped into a new routine that proceeded according to Sandy’s continual viewings of Open Horizon’s many media products. Maybe that meant that Dr. Convex’s secret mind-enhancing techniques were really working.

She repeatedly claimed that the tapes were having an effect on her. She insisted that her mind was sharper, more acute, more focused. I pointed out that all she was focused on now was the tapes, which was technically a kind of focusing, one that basically eliminated her awareness of any other problem in her life. She nodded in agreement, with a slightly confused look of obliviousness. Apparently Sandy had understood my criticism as just further validation of the treatment’s success and didn’t pick up on the point I was trying to make.

Sandy had grown thinner every day. She was paler now too, a result of her spending days at a time indoors in front of the television screen. Convex’s tapes were causing her body to disappear while they enhanced her mind. The tapes were helping Sandy fulfill the great philosophical endeavor: a life of the mind. Sandy was quickly becoming a disfigured monster of cartesian modernity; the thinking thing beyond the limitations of the body; a kind of sickening transformation from primitive embodiment into pure mental energy, eliminating the illusory significance of daily reality. Everything else was fake. Doubtable. The tapes were real. They brought on a purity of mind that was impossible to replicate with the forgery that was normality.  

I imagined Sandy mutating into a balloon, her head growing large as it inflated with air, while her body became smaller and thinner until it was only the weakest of string hanging beneath her expanding mind. She floated away into the sky, drifting in the wind until she was nothing but a dot in the horizon - a floating head lost to the heavens.

Dr. Convex’s videos had her undivided attention. He was delivering what he promised. He was focusing her mind.    

***

One day Sandy asked me to go with her to the ruins of Dr. Convex’s forgotten clinic. She argued very forcefully that we needed to go and walk in the shadows of Dr. Convex’s videographic-neurological revolution. Her words, not mine.

I objected. I listed several reasons why this was a bad idea, reasons which ranged from the practical (i.e. I would have to take off work, we would have to make travel arrangements, we didn’t know how to find the place) to the psychological (i.e. her unhealthy new fixation with Dr. Convex and his hypnotherapy video tapes).

None of my arguments swayed her. The tapes had worked as advertised. Her mind was now endowed with a laser focus, and it was focused on bringing herself as close as she could to the dead Convex and his lost treatments.

In the time that Sandy had been watching and re-watching Convex’s therapy tapes, I had come to grow more and more resentful of them, the tapes that is. I felt like I had been left out, somehow. Why did the tapes have no effect on me? It was like Sandy had been selected for this video-induced madness and I had not, like it was gym class and she had been picked for a team while I had been left standing in the crowd of unwanted nerds. What was so special about Sandy, I wondered, that the hypnotherapy should work on her but not on me? Why was it that my mind had been left unsharpened and dull. I had had time to reflect on these tapes, and the confused theory of video that they were based on. My feelings of being left out evolved into a more refined critique of Dr. Convex’s entire conceptual artifice. Convex had claimed to have discovered radical new techniques of video hypnosis but wasn’t video itself a radical technique of hypnosis? What was so radical about Convex’s treatments that wasn’t already an integral part of the medium of video already? What really dated Convex’s works was not their music or their production value, it was the premise on which they were based: the misguided assumption that Convex had unlocked the hypnotic power of video. That was a hypnotic power that was already there. Video was already life-changing and persuasive.

Regardless of its insightfulness, my critique of Convex had fallen on deaf ears. Sandy remained transfixed, which only served to annoy me further. It felt almost embarrassing that she would fall victim to something explicitly called hypnosis. It seemed so much more obvious than more insidious and subtle forms of hypnosis like politics or art. Getting driven to obsession by self-described hypnosis was like falling for a con artist who tells you they are conning you while they do it.

***

Of course, my critique and my resentments were only a cover for my jealousy at not being affected by the hypnotherapy like Sandy was. I can admit that now, but at the time I was too emotionally immature to realize this, invested as I was in holding Sandy’s attention. I never realized how much I had depended on Sandy’s regular attention, something that was now stolen from me by this dead hypnotist.

***

Anyways, Sandy insisted that we go to visit Convex’s burnt out old clinic. She insisted that we walk through the forgotten ruins of a once futuristic and hopeful program for the psycho-emotional improvement of the mind. Soon we were planning a trip out west, to see the decaying palaces built on the dollars of persuasive video.

The car ride there took us through the city into the suburbs and corporate campuses collected in business parks along the highway. We rode together in silence while the radio blared pop song after forgettable pop song. Over time the clean and sleek contours of the suburbs gave way to the emptiness of soy, grown over long stretches of lonely farm plots. The sun moved across the sky and we drove and drove. We slept overnight at a cheap motel, just about where we had assumed we would stop when we were planning this little excursion. In total, we probably spoke no more than ten to fifteen words to each other throughout the whole day. The loneliness I had been feeling in our home had followed me on our trip out into the country and it had brought a creeping sense of dread along with it.

The next day we continued on our journey, deeper and deeper into the rural heart of America, past billboards and exits leading into unknown towns. We travelled up into Michigan, driving through empty roadways crowded by forests casting dark shadows on the highway.

Sandy did all the driving, even though I offered to take her place. She seemed slightly suspicious that if she were to let me drive, I might turn back or go somewhere other than our stated destination. Thinking back on it now, I probably would have.

***

I was reminded of that trip we had taken a few months ago, the one motivated by our shame; the banal trip out into the country that had felt so cheap. Our trip now felt nothing like that. There was an authenticity to it that was downright evil. I felt a queasiness in my stomach that I hadn’t felt in years, a primordial reaction to lingering anxieties creeping from the forgotten depths of childhood terrors. During the long car ride through the soybean fields, I kept thinking to myself that I should not have been so disdainful towards our past life as a functional heterosexual couple. Now that I was confronting the real I couldn’t find in our old life, I regret abandoning the illusion of comfort that it offered. Our new trip was one driven by obsession, by unchecked psychosis, by a violently real force of desire. I missed the trip motivated by shame; it seemed so peaceful in retrospect.

***  

When we finally arrived in the town that sat on the coast of Lake Michigan just outside the abandoned island clinic, it was around four in the afternoon. Without stopping at a motel to check into a room or asking me what I wanted to do, Sandy drove us straight to the docks on the lake so we could find a boat to take us to the island. She was uncompromising. She wanted to see the ruins immediately.

It took over an hour, but Sandy was able to secure a small motorized boat for the evening to take us to the island. The boat was owned by an old man who seemed to have lived in the town for quite some time. When Sandy explained to the boat’s owner where we wanted to take it, he was surprised but also somewhat indifferent. Sandy had offered him quite a bit of money that we couldn’t really afford to be spending and the sum had convinced the man that renting his boat to some strange out-of-towners was still worth it. He laughed at us and said we wouldn’t find anything except charred buildings crumbling underneath the weight of nature which was quickly taking back the island that that wacky doctor had tried to claim as his own. His words, not mine. Sandy ignored this comment as she piled into the boat with one of her bags. If I hadn’t hopped in when I did, she probably would have taken off without me.

The last word the boat owner said to us before we departed was, “Careful.”

***

The ruins of Dr. Convex’s clinic were both majestical and horrendous, like roaming through a beautiful nightmare. I was reminded of the eerie glow created by the television screen late at night when Sandy played the doctor’s tapes. It was a feeling of entrancement mixed with a feverish nervous energy that bubbled somewhere in the stomach. Although I continually searched her face, Sandy did not seem to be sharing any of my feelings of anxiety. Instead, she seemed completely lost in the corroded elegance of the forgotten buildings, as if she were walking through the awe-inspiring constructions of an ancient civilization. Sandy’s borderline spiritual reverence intensified my feelings of anxiety, as I was suddenly struck with the thought that her and I were completely alone on this abandoned island and that only the aging boat owner knew we were here. It was at this moment that I also realized that I had become truly scared of Sandy, as I had no idea what she had become capable of since her prolonged exposure to Convex’s video hypnotism.

When we landed on the island, we came across an old dilapidated dock that must have served as the clinic’s main access point. We skipped landing at the dock as it appeared unsafe. Sandy brought the boat directly onto shore and we proceeded on foot from there. The front building to the clinic was a large square structure with a massive, unintended opening at its center that must have been caused by the fire. There was a front desk area that was smashed to pieces and the plant life surrounding the building had grown through the massive hole caused by the fire, as if the opening were an invitation to the earth to enter the forgotten building. Sandy stepped into the rapidly reforesting entrance and flicked on a flashlight that illuminated the hallway at the center of the first building.

After that first building, the clinic was essentially a large hexagon, with different sized sections. There were examination rooms, dormitories, a modest cafeteria, large meeting rooms for group therapy, a library of tapes (both audio and cassette) and, of course, a central complex for viewing video therapy. The viewing center featured both a small theater with a projector as well as private individual viewing rooms. In total the clinic probably comprised about seventy thousand square feet of space, spread out into a disjointed formation reminiscent of a small academic campus.

The first room beyond the main entrance was the meeting room connected with the cafeteria. These sections had suffered some fire damage but not as severe as the rest of the facility. I was struck by the fact that folding chairs were still assembled against the wall gathering dust. The buildings contained almost no other furniture, nor papers or debris or other materials one would assume would be left in an abandoned medical clinic where no one had taken the time to remove leftover objects after the fire. Why had they left these folding chairs? Surely collapsible seating would be the easiest objects to remove, why had they been left when much larger objects had been taken?

Sandy stepped towards the chairs and kneeled in front of one. Her posture appeared as if she were praying.

I turned to the left and looked over at the wall. A single phrase had been spray-painted in black letters across it. The paint had dripped down the wall, making the letters look like violent cuts in human flesh; the left over blood smears of slices made to spell out a simple command that made my anxiety boil over into real fear.

“Go Away,” read the spray-paint.

I called out to Sandy, still kneeling before the forgotten folding chairs and asked her if we could leave, maybe come back tomorrow. She ignored me and proceeded into the next room. Still feeling the fear, I asked again but she kept walking. I had no choice but to follow.

In the next room were the lost offices of Dr. Convex as well as his private examination rooms for one-on-one therapeutic sessions. Sandy now seemed to be completely lost in the hypnotic allure of this place, like she was being transported back to the heyday of Dr. Convex’s video-work. The office was almost totally decimated by fire damage, something that seemed strange seeing as the fire had left the main meeting room untouched but had created such a gigantic opening in the main entrance. It was as if the fire had been selective in its destruction, targeting the areas it felt most deserving of its unrelenting consumption.

Sandy spent what felt like an eternity in the offices and examination rooms. It was only her desire to move further into the ruins that allowed us to leave. At this point I was twitching and shaking, reacting to every sound around me as if we could be confronted by the writer of the unnerving graffiti at any moment. We stepped into the dormitories and Sandy began rummaging through the raw debris contained in each room. The living quarters for the patients were connected by a long corridor with entrances and exits on either end, with doors leading into each room running along either side. The doors into the main hallway of the dorms were still standing on their hinges, and swung in and out when pushed. As Sandy continued her bizarre exploration of each room I stood still in the hallway, counting each second and gritting my teeth. For some reason I slowly turned around to look at the doors to the hallway that were now swinging shut. Scrawled in the same hasty letters of black spray-paint we saw earlier was a request even more ominous than the previous message.

“Leave Me Alone,” it read.

I called out to Sandy and found her in one of the rooms. She was pushing around piles of decomposing ceiling panelling, what she was trying to find I did not know. I yelled at her then, I admit it. I shouted in her face that we needed to leave, that there was someone else who had come to this place after the fire, someone that didn’t want us to be there. I was scared and my fear manifested itself as anger, a panicked anger that was driven by an animalistic feeling of alarm at a looming threat to my own mortality. I had gripped her arms and my hands and I was still shouting.

She struggled free of my violent grasp and began running into another building of the destroyed clinic, taking her flashlight with her. I immediately began running after her, continuing to yell as I did. All I could do was follow the beam of her flashlight, as I was being left in the darkness of this dead place. The thought of being left in the dark here terrified me and, I admit it, increased my feelings of anger at Sandy for seeking to abandon me. I continued to shout as she ran deeper into that terrible hexagon, taking the safety of the light with her.

Suddenly, Sandy threw a door open and slammed it shut, cutting me off completely from her light. For a moment I descended into pure darkness, surrounded by the nightmare world of Dr. Convex’s lost dreams. I reached the door and threw it open to find that Sandy had stopped running. She was standing totally still in the new room she had entered; it was the viewing center where Dr. Convex’s patients would consume his therapeutic video creations.

The room looked like the site of a recent demolition. It was filled with the bits and pieces of smashed and crushed equipment and videotape - a sprawling pile of annihilated audio-video devices that had once comprised the heart of Dr. Convex’s treatment center. It was a gigantic pit of wires, broken screens, jagged chips and thousands and thousands of miles of magnetic tape. Eviscerated televisions lay about the room, their electronic innards discarded on the ground like dead antelope felled by some unseen predator. I almost expected to see a group of hyenas feasting on the chunks of spilled television guts. The fire had reached in here, but so had something else; maybe someone else. The fire had not destroyed all this equipment or all of the videotapes. There was a mysterious source of violence that had left the signs of its presence lingering around the ruins of the clinic.

As the realization of this unknown force of destruction crossed my mind, Sandy began weeping. The sight of Convex’s work reduced to rubble was too much for her and she was lost in despair.

It took a moment for me to see it, but when I did, I knew I would never forget the simple, unmitigated feeling of pure fear that it struck in my heart. On the far back wall of the viewing center was another message written in black spray-paint. It was perhaps the most direct command yet, and, in a slightly off-putting way, expressed my most immediate desire in a short, little statement.

“Leave now,” it read.

***

I woke up in the middle of the night as Sandy was putting on her shoes by the doorway of our motel room.

We had finally made our way out of that horrible clinic, back to the boat, out onto the lake and back to the home of the old man who we had said almost nothing to as we returned the keys. We had driven around the small town until we found a cheap, dirty motel and checked into our room. We had laid down and I had drifted off to a sleep, aided by the immense feeling of relief I felt that we were able to get off that terrible island.

Now I was awake in the night and I knew before she said anything that Sandy was getting ready to go back there, alone.

I jumped up out of the bed, only in my underwear and I began shouting at her again. I was pathetic and stupid, it was the only way I knew how to express my fear. After I had shouted for awhile, I stood and looked at her with big, alarmed eyes of - blurred and puffy from interrupted sleep. She gave me a look that still frightens me to this day, a look that I still think about alone at night and feel a sensation of cold dread that paralyzes me every time. She smiled at me. She gave me this big bright beaming smile and laughed. She laughed and shook her head like I didn’t understand her, like I could never understand her. She smiled and laughed and shook her head and she said that she couldn’t sleep, that she was too excited and so she had to go back to the island right now.

I lost it. I did. I can’t deny that now. I was so angry, so upset that she had decided to do this, that she would put herself in so much danger as this. The sickness in her mind, brought on by Dr. Convex’s videos, it was pushing her into a darkness that seemed inescapable to me and this made me even angrier. I remember telling her to go, then. That if she wanted to take her own life into her hands, she was welcome to do so. That I couldn’t stand what she had become. That maybe she deserved to get lost in the ruins of that horrible island. That she should go if that’s what she really wanted. Of course, it was what she really wanted and she quickly disappeared out the door and I didn’t go after her, I didn’t try to stop her, I didn’t try to convince her to stay and wait till morning. I didn’t try to convince her to be with me for the night and try to remember the way she once felt before she was hypnotized by the dead doctor who had captured her mind from beyond the grave. I didn’t do any of that. I laid back down on the bed and fell back asleep.

***

That night in the motel room was the last time I saw Sandy.

She left in the night and never returned.

The next morning I rented a boat and traveled out to the Island and searched every inch of that decrepit graveyard and found nothing, no sign of her. No campsite or footsteps or fire to stay warm: nothing. Like she had never made it there or, if she had, she had left no trace.

I returned to the mainland and called the police. I filed a missing person’s report and explained to the local sheriff everything that had happened, why we had come there and why we had gone to the island. He seemed suspicious but he made the report. He suggested though that she may have left and gone home somehow, seeing as though we had had an argument. I told him that he was wrong, she would never leave the clinic.

Within the next day I had spoken to one of our neighbors who said he hadn’t seen any sign of Sandy at our apartment. He had knocked on the front door and received no answer. It was at that point that I alerted her family.

A few days later Sandra Clara Livingston had become a full-fledged missing person and the police were searching for her in earnest. The case was being covered by the media and her parents were pleading with cameras for their daughter to come home if she was out there. Search parties were formed with paid police from neighboring counties and willing volunteers from the town by the lake where we had been staying. A huge group of searchers were dispatched to the island and they had found just what I had: no sign of Sandy.

I told Sandy’s family everything that had happened, perhaps in too much detail. I remember at one point Sandy’s father had shouted in my face, much the same way I had done that night to Sandy. He screamed that I had killed their daughter, that I had doomed her to death because I had done nothing to help her with what was obviously some sort of mental illness, something that could have been treated. I briefly tried to argue that she had technically been undergoing a kind of mental health treatment, and that that was the problem. He did not find this argument convincing. I at least tried to tell him that it was not my fault, it was the videos that had done it to her, but I knew that he was probably right. I was responsible. I watched Sandy fall into the depths of madness and I had done nothing but enable her descent.

No matter what was done, Sandy was gone. Vanished without a trace. Gone. Lost somewhere in the ruins of Dr. Convex’s temple-turned-tomb of video hypnotherapy. No more to be seen and no more to watch the specially-crafted images of therapeutic mind-focusing technology Convex had given to the world.

***

Years later comedy would follow the tragedy.

Dr. Convex’s videos are becoming popular, more popular maybe then they had ever been. There is a growing cult following driven by internet exposure on Youtube and Vimeo. Popular Instagram accounts began converting screenshots from Convex’s hypnosis videos into popular memes. Decades after his research had began, Dr. Convex was finally gaining traction, but maybe not in the way he had necessarily intended.

Also propelling the videos into their rediscovery by a contemporary audience was the juicy novelty of the disappearances connected to them. That’s right, there were more people like Sandy, people who had also had their minds radically focused and were drawn to the ruins of Convex’s clinic like moths to the flame. Each one of them had left behind family and friends and entered into some invisible realm beyond life and death; the world of the unsolved disappearance; surrounded by mystery; locations unknown; possibly alive; probably dead. Each one of them featuring a collection of people like me who had watched their loved one slip through their fingers and failed to respond to their increasing hypnosis.  

Eventually the hypnotherapy videos were all made available online. Full unlimited streaming on both Netflix and Hulu. Their new accessibility almost made me laugh thinking back at how desperately Sandy had searched for those tapes, and she had never located all of them. Now they were only a credit card and a click away. Available for the world to see in an instant.

And the ruins of the destroyed clinic had been woven into this new surge in popularity. It had turned into some sort of vacation spot for hipsters who wanted to explore the strange and ironically amusing world of the forgotten facility. The traveling fans sought out the clinic like Sandy and I had sought out the nature preserve so many years ago that day we went hiking and found the tape. Convex’s dead clinic was becoming the nature preserve of the future. It made me angry thinking of all these fools trudging around the island that Sandy had held in such reverence, it almost felt like they were desecrating something a loved one viewed as sacred. These feelings in turn would haunt me, as they only served to remind of Sandy, gone somewhere in the world, out there lost in the hypnosis of persuasive video.

Myself, I am still trying to find her. But I have given up finding her in the world of living. I know now that she will only be found in the world of video. The dead world of synchronized sound and imagery, the detached world of the recorded image. I know she is somewhere in that glow of the screen, having transcended her earthly form, she must now be some sort of pixelated angel. I spend hours, days even, watching and re-watching Dr. Convex’s Open Horizons videos, waiting for a glimpse of her sitting serenely on one of those beaches, or maybe casually dozing underneath a tree in one of the peaceful forests.

And most of all, I want to be hypnotized, like Sandy was. I’ll admit it. I want my mind focused on the videos. I want to lose myself in the power of persuasion video and finally discover what it was that Sandy discovered in those endless hours of dulcet synth tones and nature scenes. When will my life be truly changed by the hypnotherapy? When will I finally find Sandy and understand the power of persuasion video?

Any day now it will come. Any day now my mind will be changed. Soon I will finally understand. Soon.