#never been that far north on our side of the Atlantic though

[friggsdc]

Title: little delinquent pt ii

part i | part ii | part iii

Warnings: Female!reader (bat!sis), mostly family fluff, AU, hurt/comfort, language

word count: 4000~

It had Bruce and Dick sharing a look for a moment before the latter spoke up, “It’s not like I’m against continuing to expand the family, but…” he eyed the child you held nervously, “please don’t start bringing home every child you find…” he tilted his head, “he’s bad enough.” Bruce settled a light glare at his first son (that definitely wasn’t what Bruce was thinking), though Dick was stilled by the way your eyes narrowed at him instead.

“His name is Terrence,” that was all you said, brushing past as they were suddenly on guard at the inherited Wayne-scowl on your face.

-

a/n:  still no jaybird lmao I’m sorry, but I brought in mamabat duke, because he’s the best at being a mamabat without smothering you like your other siblings. Steph too because she’s your sweet bean partner in crime u v u)9 For my sanity, Metropolis is in Deleware across the bay from Jersey (tho Gotham is still north of Atlantic City).

-

He wasn’t certain if he should be proud or upset at how quickly you’d turned Tim against him, the two of you now working in unison, playing ‘keep away from big papa Bruce.’ No matter when he tried to approach you, something always seemed to happen or come up, and it was actually starting to get on his nerves. Worse was Damian seemed to be joining in, his rebellious nature being nurtured by the influence of both Tim and yourself.

He knew it would be difficult to deal with you and your ability to hide anything, just like you could hide yourself, but… Now he had to deal with more than just you, and Tim wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. Oh no, this was going to be a headache with you two. And Damian… He couldn’t trust that his son wouldn’t give away anything he did to you, his loyalties giving out to the growing childish nature he was developing. Bruce was again at a loss, should he be happy Damian was acting his age, or upset that he was more interested in working with the ‘opposition?.’ 

“It’s not a mission,” Damian had commented, so it was “fair game.”

He rested his head in his hands, fingers lightly massaging his temples as his elbows supported him, propping him up on the ornate desk in his study.  Fucking hell, he had to outsmart both the tech sleuth and the stealth agent of the family. Information was literally their game. Rather than giving into the growing frustration in his stomach, he stood up, now a bat on a mission as he quickly headed down to the cave. He thanked his moody bat heart that it was just two of his kids (he wasn’t certain of Damian yet, the wild card), and not… more…

The League computers would definitely come in handy right about now.

He was gonna go full fucking vigilante detective bat mode on his kids.

Again.

He groaned.

-

[bigR] Dad took off for the League, bet you can guess why.

Flipping your personal phone closed with a light snort, you refocused your attention on buckling the toddler into the hand-me-down car seat. You’d definitely have to get him a new one on your shopping trip, you just hoped Duke’s car could fit everything…

Damian was securing his sword between him and the kid before he crawled in, closing the door and putting on his safety belt. You grinned at him as he avoided your smile, looking away instead, “hurry up.” Shaking your head, you leaned in to rub your nose against Terrence’s own, his chubby fingers coming up to grab at your face, hair, clothes, ears, and earrings ohgodstop. Having cooed at him enough, and having been assaulted by his little nails, scratches now on your chin, you leaned back and out of his reach, closing the door softly.

“Are you sure it’s okay to shirk off for the day? You’re the one usually patrolling at this time…” you headed to the passenger side, “Big guy said it was fine, besides…” Duke smiled and nodded his head towards the car with a wink, “wouldn’t want to leave you alone with a bunch of kids.” It’s not like he was wrong, but you were skilled enough to handle your brother and… son… ah… that was going to get some getting used to. A smile and spread on your face with a light laugh as you climbed in, settling, and closed the door behind you, “ready to get going?” Damian glared at you before refocusing his attention on Terrence, ignoring your obviously dumb question, “Pennyworth mentioned Todd having finally gotten back before I left.”

Duke had started up the car and checked over everything before heading down the manor drive, now officially on the road. Meanwhile, you hummed happily, “guess I’ll have to go see him when we get back.” Damian made a face, “gross.” You rolled your eyes in amusement, “you knew what my reaction was gonna be.”

The two were ridiculous in how they treated each other, honestly.

“It’s still gross.”

The ride down the ocean side drive was calming, the windows lowered to let the cool ocean breeze in. Damian was back to his “poking the toddler’s nose” game, having gotten used to the sound of a baby, and no longer acting like it wasn’t his fault when he made the toddler laugh.

Meanwhile,

“So, who made you the baby-sitter?” Duke kept his eyes on the road, the ever-responsible budding adult that he was, “Bruce, actually.” He grinned at the way you looked at him, catching sight from the corner of his eye, “surprising, I know. Woulda thunk Tim’d have asked, huh?”

Nodding, you leaned back, “well, I mean, yeah. He’s been pretty upset since the other day, he won’t leave Terrence and I alone at the manor. He’s been staying over...” You might have felt bad for lying to Duke, but the truth was that you were lying to everyone but Tim at this point. Not that it was the first time you’d lied to them. You told the truth so often that they took you at your word, never catching on when you did fib, but you were pretty certain this would blow up in your face.

They’d catch you eventually.

This wasn’t one of those easy to digest lies either, that was the complicated part. It terrified you how they’d react once they learned the truth.

Then…

Before that happened, you made the silent determination that you’d make your… son a part of the family. They won’t be able to decide anything for him then, they’d be in too deep, you’d make certain.

Yeah, you could be a little… manipulative sometimes.

Probably something you got from your father.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, sorry, nothing. My mind was just wandering,” Duke frowned a little, flipping on his blinker while coming to a slow crawl, “not believing you.”

Turning your head to him, your grin was a bit scary, “okay, so, I was just thinking about if your car can fit everything I’m going to want to buy.” It was enough to distract him, a groan finding its way out as he pulled into the ticketing line for the ferry.

“If..??”

Now, to really drive it home, you pulled something from your purse and waved it at him, “Is… is that…” he eyed it nervously. “Yes, yes it is, dear brother.” His ears burned as he turned his eyes from you, hand now outstretched in your direction.

“You’re paying the ferry, then…” he muttered.

You put your dad’s credit card on his palm,

“Rich little daddy’s girl.”

This time the snort came from the back seat, “I have one as well, Thomas. You need only ask father.”

Duke sputtered and refused to acknowledge either of you till after having crossed the Deleware Bay.

Rich kids. Honestly.

-

Metropolis always amazed you, honestly, the bright skies overhead and the amount of people without a care in the world was enviable. Still, it just wasn’t… home. By now you’d developed some serious Stockholm for the cesspit that is Gotham. Even so, you preferred to go shopping here, their selection of high-quality stores mixed with less people recognizing you, and your family, were boons.

As you stared up at the towering high rise in front of you, Damian having disappeared inside minutes before, there was one other reason for coming to Metropolis…

“You’re always so slow! I told you to hurry up!!”

“Who’s slow?! You’re the slow one!!”

“Boys, please—”

The loud sound of twin crashes echo’d out the opened lobby door, the two boys in question bounding out with plenty of energy and two very red chins. “That… looks painful…” you smiled, walking over to check Damian’s face for actual injury.

“Tt, I’m fine.” He smacked your hand away, glaring at the super next to him, rubbing his own, already healing chin. “Hey Jon, enjoying Metropolis?” The bright-eyed boy, sans cape, grinned at you from ear to ear, “There’s so much to do here!” he almost lifted off the ground in his excitement, “but I miss the farm.” A chuckle came from the entrance to the building, deep and warm and just as kind as the child now sticking his tongue out at your youngest brother. On the man’s broad shoulder was an overnight bag, and a sheepish smile on his face as if he felt guilty. 

He probably did, the two boys were a handful.

Duke was leaning against the roof of the car with a huge dopey smile on his face, waving at the man approaching, “Hello, you must be the chaperone, Duke Thomas?” your newest brother nodded enthusiastically, almost at a loss for words, “Yup! I-I mean y-yes, it’s nice to meet you, sir!” Clark only chuckled, far too used to such formalities, “Clark is fine, our families are… close, after all.” He watched the boys pull at each other’s faces in mock battle.

“Ah, Clark! It’s been a while!” the older male smiled as he stopped a few feet from you and the car, hands resting on his hips, “Miss Wayne.” Near immediately, his eyes shifted to the backseat of the car and he leaned against the door, looking in.

“Bruce has another kid? He looks like how I always imagined him to look as a kid, suspiciously innocent,” you froze, and he would have laughed at the thought of Bruce with more secret kids, but he straightened. Looking at you in concern instead, he started, “I know he’s not… the most affectionate father, but…” you quickly shook your head, attempting damage control. “It… no, he’s not dad’s…” You laughed nervously at the look on his face, his hand raising to point at you as his mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to process.

“Yup. He’s… His name is Terrence, and he’s… my… son…” your tone turned warm and kind, and your eyes settled on the babe in the car with all the grace of a mother, just like Lois when Jon had been born, the older super nodded thoughtfully. “I’m glad it’s you, then. If anyone in that family can raise a good kid, it’ll be you.” The two of you shared an understanding smile, though yours was accompanied by a twitch or two, swearing he enjoyed his little joke, before he turned his head painfully in surprise, as if an enemy had suddenly appeared.

Following his sight, you had to laugh at the dark glare on Damian’s face directed at Clark, “well, I think it’s time I take my leave, then.” He scratched the back of his head, avoiding the kid’s gaze. He wanted to inquire more about the new addition to the family, but it would have to wait. Jon gave his dad a huge hug, getting his hair ruffled in the process as Clark waved at Duke, chucking the overnight bag into the car.

With a last good-bye to you, he turned high-tail and ran, as if he were almost eager to get away. Watching him jog slowly inside the building, you almost swore his steps were far lighter than his build, “probably prefers to float…” looking away, you missed him trip.

“Alright, c’mon you two. Get in.” when you’d opened the door, the two boys stared in horror, “I’m not sitting in the middle.” Damian ground out before Jon pushed him with more force than Damian could resist, “HE’S YOUR BROTHER!!! YOU SIT IN THE MIDDLE!”

“STUPID! HE’S MY NEPHEW!”

“Still, you sit next to him…” Jon pouted, and combined with your stare, Damian crawled in with a grumble, “Stupid super.” Jon ignored him without issue, and you’d have to ask Damian about it later, curious as to why his best friend was so used to his insults like it was a common occurrence? Then he climbed in after, shutting the door behind him.

“Nerves of steel, that one,” you mumbled, getting back in the car as Duke laughed lightly, starting the car up before heading a bit further into the city. After a few minutes and a few stop lights, Duke gave in to the side-glances you kept giving him, having caught them from the corner of his own eyes, “what now?” The growing devious grin on your face had him on edge, “speaking of nerves of steel…” a shiver hit the back of his neck, “please don’t.” His begging stopped nothing, “fanboy,” but of course you would, and he did his best to pay attention to the road, “don’t make me ignore you all day.”

“I thought it was cute though? Haha, Izzy would be jealous.”

“It’s… I mean, he was…” his ears were burning, especially at the mention of Isabella’s name, and he pouted worse than Jon had.

“I know, but still. You know you’ve met him before, right?” Duke looked like he wanted to disappear in his seat, “just… in costume…” you hummed in amusement.

It didn’t take long for Duke to pull into the parking lot at one of the high-end furniture stores, resting his head on the steering wheel for a moment after parking. The two boys were already out of the car, bickering and racing into the store, “you have no taste! It’s all dark! You can’t put a baby in a depressing room!”

“YOU WANT TO BLIND HIM WITH BRIGHT COLORS!”

“YOU WANT TO SCARE HIM WITH DOOM AND GLOOM!”

The two were practically racing at this point, shoving each other back and forth, though Jon often made Damian stumble through raw strength, and Damian often made Jon trip through dirty tricks.

“Aaaaand there they go.” You were already out of the car as you said it, heading to the driver’s backside door. Duke stepped out before stilling, his face falling at the straps in your hand, outstretched towards him, “you have got to be kidding.”

“Nope, you’re the babysitter today, Papa Duke.”

He took the child carrier from you, strapping the pack on with a depressed aura of resignation, “this so doesn’t look cool.” You snickered as you transferred Terrence over to the pack on Duke’s front, “yeah, but people won’t mess with a big guy like you. Besides, I can handle Damian better than you, can you take care of our son?” you teased him.

“Yeah, I can take care of… him…” Duke eyed the child looking around at everything he could, taking in every sight with silent baby contemplation skills, thumb in his mouth.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Izzy about us,” you thought for a moment as he ignored your comments, switching tactics. Eyeing him before patting him on the shoulder, you began heading after the two boys, “when you get back, tell Izzy you think she looks like a piece of candy.”

He had a confused look as he followed after you, catching up in a speed walk, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Not only did his ears turn red, but his entire face and neck burned hot at the suggestive smile on your face, “Oh… wait, w-why out of nowhere though?!”

“You forget, I live with nothing but men. Harper’s not around often and Steph is the only female I see on a regular basis.”

“Get some friends,” he groaned.

“That’s what family is for.”

Ugh.

-

Shopping actually went a lot better than expected, and you were able to get a new car seat at the behest of Damian, “no way you’re using a hand-me-down,” he all but threatened. There were some smaller things you could easily fit into the car, a few boxes, one for a mobile, one for a few bed sets, a giant pregnancy pillow -- regardless that you weren’t pregnant, you wanted the giant horseshoe pillow. Jon was jealous of it, now wanting one of his own, as you picked up some non-essentials.

The bigger things would have to be shipped, a crib for a few months till he was big enough, small bed with side bars so he wouldn’t fall out when ready to swap out the crib. They even had a huge rocking chair! It was probably one of the most comfortable things you had ever sat in, its ability to “rock” you back and forth on its slides without losing much momentum was heaven.

And you could curl up in it.

Somewhere in all the chaos, just as expected, you’d gone and lost both the boys. Or, well, more like they lost you. Duke was still dutiful with Terrence, and he was also really amazing at looking at details and knowing what item was better than the next. Sure, you’d been taught the same skills, but you were preoccupied with Damian and Jon (until you weren’t).

“Hum… hey, I’m gonna go check out next door, okay?” Duke turned to you from the different curtains in his hand, having taken to looking at a few general things for the room; curtains, bookshelves, a desk or two.

Unlike your father and most of your family, you had far more free time to do these small things yourself, never needing to hire an assistant to do all the work. You only needed some help with moving things, of course. It was something you’d picked up from both Alfred and the Kents, the equally uneasy and comforting feeling of being humble.

“Sure, which one?”

“The clothing store, I think there’s a dedicated kid store a bit further down the mall strip, I’ll probably make my way towards that.” Duke pouted, “leaving me alone with the kids?”

“Just one.” To emphasis your point, Terrence decided to start pulling on the same curtain as Duke, though Duke swatted his hands away quickly. A one-sided glaring contest began as the kid kept his frown on Duke, not looking away.

Duke looked around ignoring him, “that’s… true…”

“Thanks Papa Duke!” you gave him a hug, burying your face in Terrence’s and pelting him with kisses, pulling back only when his laughter echoed around the three of you. Duke refused to look at you as you cooed at the child strapped to his chest, awkward, “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

He snorted and went back to picking out curtains, “and don’t you forget it.”

“You have my card still, right?” He nodded, not even bothering to ask if you needed it. He knew you didn’t carry paper notes around, having seen you use your phone to pay for things physically too often.

Taking that as your cue, you turned to leave, “text if you need anything, and keep an eye out for the boys, I’ll… look, too,” and a moment later you were outside the store, stretching in the sun with a big breath of fresh air. Dang you loved Gotham, but also? Dang you loved Metropolis, too.

-

[steph] hey, herd u like

[steph] have a baby now???!

[steph] ;)))))

The buzzing of your personal phone caught your attention,

[you] tim? also, switching over for a bit.

You switched recipients,

[you] ready.

Turning the phone off and flipping it closed, you began walking in the opposite direction that Duke had been told, popping the back of the case off and pulling out the battery.

You’d asked Tim to redirect a dummy signal for your phone, keeping it within a five-foot radius of Duke for the next forty minutes or so. He’d given you the thumbs up, your telling him everything when you got back being his payment for helping.

He was very curious as to why you were breaking in to the LexCorp building.

The rather fast-paced walk (almost a light jog) to the building wasn’t that long, you’d made certain the stores you chose were close on purpose. Taking out your business phone, you opened it to another text as you started up a rather… illegal app. Your phone’d been rooted from the moment you had it, and it was hooked up to a very specific closed network.

This outing was one of the only chances you’d get, having lucked out with the more lenient Duke, as your other siblings were far more vigilant. Damian meanwhile was distracted by Jon, the two acting more like brawling siblings than best friends. Though Damian preferred the term rivals, but Jon was just happy to have a close friend he could be himself with.

[splr] he couldn’t contain himself

[splr] was vibin’ like flash lol

There were very few people who had access to this phone, and unfortunately for Tim, it was a hazard for both of you to have any kind of connection to him on your work phone. Stephanie however was one of the very few people who got to have that privilege.

[you] remind me to thank him for stealing my thundr

The family had the Bat-computer, Batman had the League’s Womb mainframe, the Robins had their Nest, and you? You had access to something older, reborn too many times, and set up and now maintained by some genius mastermind you’d never heard of. 

It was a mostly defunct information network by this point.

You’d met some really interesting people when you used to tail your father, and through repeated encounters, you’d met even more interesting uh... “friends.” Eventually you weren’t stalking your dad, instead, you were learning to do what you did best: Spy-games and recon.

And you’d impressed the wrong people.

But you didn’t mind, you liked the constant link to “their” information hubs.

[splr] lol

[splr] coffee tmrrw?

The Society’s Networks.

You knew your dad suspected some of your activities, but he never approached you about them. Probably because Batman enjoyed your access to these networks often when they were online, having come to you on multiple occasions to see if you could help with his detective work. 

You were playing double agent, compiling what you could from the chatter picked up from specific phones hooked into the closed channels. Sure, they weren’t always active and so sometimes you had to go with information from recon, but you did what you could, your bias for your bats, and birds, too strong. For your family.

[you] the same-same

[splr] c u tmrw then ;)

[splr] don’t forget the kid lol

Not that you’d ever shown him, if Batman knew what kind of information the Society had in their databases, well… you were pretty certain the world would burn. 

He once said it was best he didn’t know, something about helping to keep a balance between the good and the bad, causing both sides to stay in check.

The database’s app held all kinds of information, and as you downloaded the LexCorp building plans (sans recent modifications), you stared at the towering complex in front of you. Before you went further, you made certain the matrix encryption program was running, after all, “no reason to let anyone know I’m here.”

“Done this tons of times, can totally do this again,” but LexCorp was terrifying, Lex Luthor was terrifying, almost as much as Wayne Enterprises. Here’s to hoping your dad’s technology and Tim’s brain were smarter than anything Lex could cook up.

Besides, wasn’t he under house arrest right now?

It did nothing to calm your nerves.

“Nerves of steel, totally.”

You had to be fast.

[everybodyscupoftea]

hockey!jj: road to the nhl

the ncaa and the stress of being an nhl prospect

@sunnypogue​​ and i are back at it folks - and with this, we’ve finally established all of jj’s backstory

(the next thing we’re working on is the masterlist linking all of our hockey!jj and coho!rafe content - we’re posting on both of our blogs and @sunnypogue​ has a ton of coho!rafe stuff written already for you to catch up on his backstory)

warnings: cursing

Ward knew the Major-Junior leagues were a great opportunity and that they funneled players straight into the NHL - JJ’s end goal

The OHL came knocking as soon as JJ was draft eligible, but the idea of leaving the outer banks during high school to move somewhere way up north to play with even richer kids than he already did was intimidating to him

Then Rafe started looking at college hockey and opened the ncaa option to JJ, which he much preferred

As soon as Ward learned that JJ was considering college hockey, he started contacting coaches from the top hockey schools in the nation

Ward had a whole whiteboard full of schools and corresponding contacts posted up in his office

He sent out JJ’s highlight tape to any D1 school he could get in touch with

(JJ was oblivious - just playin’ hockey & working at the mechanics in his free time)

Actually, outside of playing hockey, JJ had very little to do with the process

Ward would send the emails, field the calls, etc.

Ward even accompanied him on a few recruiting trips, asking all the right questions.

(Did Ward miss one of Rafe’s games to attend the BU recruiting trip? Yes.)

And it paid off - JJ had a lot of college offers from some really good schools

Most of which JJ had no idea existed - Quinnipac? Northeastern? Clarkson?

Of course, there were a few he recognized - Michigan, BU, Denver

(tbh his favorite was Arizona State, but Ward refused because - “what kind of hockey did they play on the West Coast?”)

(JJ imagined it was similar to the hockey they played in North Carolina, but kept his mouth shut - for once.)

After much debate, he decided to attend University of North Dakota

JJ had grown up watching Toews & Oshie college highlights - he couldn’t help but have a soft spot for the school

Plus, the concept of living in North Dakota was hilarious to him

Ward moved JJ in mid-June, sticking around for an additional week to “keep an eye on him”

Despite Ward practically adopting JJ, he still didn’t really trust him

JJ caught Ward hovering at his practices, chatting up the coaching staff, the Athletic Director, his RA - JJ could only imagine what Ward was instructing them to do.

JJ dealt with it the way he dealt with most Ward-related things - he put his head down and played hockey.

JJ’s birthday was mid-September, so he had the luxury of being able to enroll at UND without worrying about the upcoming draft - he wasn’t eligible for another year.

UND was great, the guys were really nice and it was like a fresh start for him - no Ward, no Luke.

No one knew he was just a poor kid from some beach town on the Atlantic Coast with a deadbeat dad - he was “just JJ”

Road trips were his favorite - he’d never really gotten to travel in this region of the US before

He loved the bus rides with his teammates - even the early morning ones.

Plus, his teammates actually LIKED him - unlike his travel team back in NC, who never really embraced him as “one of their own”

(Ward said they were jealous - JJ knew better.)

The team was significantly more laidback than his travel team - despite being one of the best teams in the country

Most of the guys weren’t actively trying for the NHL and were a lot more chill which helped his nerves

Some of the older guys were already drafted, allowed to return back to UND for a year or two before joining their respective clubs

They took JJ under their wing, recognizing his talent immediately

They were always willing to hang around after practice, offering an opportunity for JJ to get a couple more drills in, or hit the gym with him a little extra.

They were full of advice for what to do and what not to do as a prospect

One thing they all advised? Attend the combine

JJ got an invite, late his freshman year, opting to attend despite being pretty unknown.

No one was really talking about him, this scrappy kid from North Carolina, who somehow got a full ride to UND.

He had a pretty impressive combine despite being on the smaller side; the physical testing went well, even though he almost threw up after the Wingate Test

(The kid before him puked twice)

The team interviews were harder, he was unfamiliar with it, unlike the junior hockey boys, his only experience coming from meeting with college coaches

JJ definitely said the Wrong Thing more than once

Ward had always handled the harder questions, the harder conversations - suddenly JJ was getting asked about his attitude issues, what he thought about legalizing marijuana, what he would do if there was a 25 foot python in a room with him - JJ was LOST.

(Also if he got ONE MORE question about his size, he was going to Lose It.)

He felt really alienated because they all seemed to know each other; it was like an exclusive clique.

Thankfully, one of his older teammates from UND was there too - they stuck together despite not really being good friends.

Somehow, he survived the combine (even after he snarked off in an interview when they questioned him about his height - JJ aptly responded with a “well, I’m taller than you, aren’t I?”)

Ward did not like that one.

His prospect status grew. Teams were very interested in him and he got on the media’s radar. Analysts predicted him going late first round, early second even.

Some of his UND teammates got wind of his newfound popularity and googled his name + elite prospects to check out his page

JJ was a little astounded to see how in depth they’d gone on his stats and a little embarrassed by all the teasing, but it was never mean-spirited

Kinda helped him feel like one of the guys which was unfamiliar after being ostracized in his younger years for not having the same economic status

JJ felt a little sick when he entered the draft.

He had been having a recurring dream where he attended the first and second rounds, only to not get picked at all, left sitting in the stands, desperately waiting to hear his name.

Deep down he knew he’d get selected by someone, but there was the inherent fear that teams hated him and would pass on him.

What if he didn’t get picked at all?

Of course, several teams were interested in him - he had a great freshman year, an excellent showing in the Frozen Four (UND lost in the semis, but JJ really put the team on his back), and his name was popping up all over Twitter as a “sleeper first round pick”

He had been in contact with scouts from Philadelphia, Columbus, Nashville and Dallas - he knew they were interested.

Ward regularly kept up with JJ, checking in to make sure his grades were good and he was getting his workouts in to stay in top form for the draft.

“Scouts are going to start attending your games, if they haven’t already.”

“They’ve even popped up at a few of Rafe’s games - they’ll be at yours.”

(That’s how JJ found out Rafe was interested in trying out for the Canes after graduation)

JJ felt stupid, but he was really praying Carolina wasn’t interested in him - he’d rather go undrafted than end up on a team with Rafe again

Hell, he was hoping they wouldn’t be in the same division, much less the same conference - the less he saw of Rafe, the better.

Silly boy thought he’d be in the AHL

JJ didn’t attend the draft because he wasn’t predicted to go super early (also, you know - the nightmares)

He ended up staying in North Dakota to keep practicing and working out with some of his teammates who stuck around

The night of the first round, the group of them ordered food and hung out in one of the boys apartments to watch together. JJ was pretty sure he wouldn’t go in the first round, but his curiosity won out.

He sat in a corner chair, staring blankly at his hands the majority of the evening, too nervous to really even watch

To his surprise, his name was called late in the first round, the Dallas Stars using the 28th pick on him.

(JJ was pretty dejected at this point - Philly and Nashville had passed him up, despite showing a ton of interest earlier in the week)

He was struck still and wordless, barely registering the boys jumping up and down, shaking him, and screaming all around him

“Fuck, dude, you get to play with Seguin and Benn”

Soon after the first round ended, the Stars GM called and he put it on speaker to talk to him

“We love your game, son, we feel you’ll be a good fit for our team. I’m calling to invite you to prospect camp this year, we want the opportunity to see what you can really do. Can’t wait to see you in a Stars uniform.”

Ward called him next, already talking about getting JJ an agent and flight details to get down to Dallas for camp. It was all a blur, and the fluttering in JJ’s stomach got stronger as he realized he’d really made it.

Well, almost made it.

Prospect camp was insane. He felt like he barely slept, it was just eating, media, and hockey. The facilities were amazing and the other guys were so talented.

The competitive atmosphere was nothing like he’d ever felt before, and he thrived, consistently rising to the challenge.

Everyone wanted an invite to training camp, but spots were limited.

The practices were on another level - JJ was bone tired the whole week, body aching from the constant skating & checking.

Scrimmages were fun - JJ loved playing with guys outside the NCAA, enjoying the challenge that came with playing with talented, older prospects.

At the end, he got an invite to training camp

Playing with actual NHLers, some that he’d even grown up watching, was insane.

He was legitimately starstruck when Joe Pavelski checked him into the boards during a practice scrimmage - it took him a couple of seconds to recover.

JJ was the youngest at training camp by far - living out of a suitcase in a random Dallas hotel, trying to figure out whether he needed to re-enroll at UND or not, fielding daily calls from Ward - it was stressful.

(And apparently, his stress was palpable, because the next day, after practice, Tyler Seguin smacked him on the head, demanding that he meet him for dinner that night at Nick & Sam’s)

(JJ did not know what the fuck Nick & Sam’s was, but he figured it out)

Tyler sat JJ down, ordered him a big ol’ steak, & told JJ to tell him what was on his mind because “you’ve been looking constipated for about a week, now.”

JJ just...unloads on him. Tells him everything he’s stressed about - leaving school, moving to Dallas, whether he’s actually good enough to stay on NHL roster - he’s nearly panting by the time he’s done talking.

Tyler, shockingly, is an excellent listener. He offers advice about signing a contract & reassures JJ that he’s talented (“dude, you’re not going down to Austin. They’d be insane.”).

They also discuss the merits of maybe playing an extra season of NCAA before committing fully to the NHL because he was young and it was intimidating

Tyler gave his perspective and mistakes he made as a bit of a warning to starting too young

If anything, the dinner made JJ more confused about his future - would he fuck everything up if he waited another year? What if he got injured at UND, and never actually made the NHL?

He didn’t sleep that night - or the night after.

Ultimately, Ward ended up deciding for him, pushing him into signing an ELC & leaving UND.

“At least you’re guaranteed some money, son. That’s gotta be enough inspiration.”

[ragingbookdragon]

You Can Take Off All My Clothes And Never See Me Naked PT. 7

A Haytham Kenway x Reader Story

Word Count: 1,600 Warnings: Explicit Language

Author’s Note: Fluff! Come get your fluff! Next chapter is the whammer my friends, ready yourselves...angst is coming. -Thorne

She stood beside him as they sailed across the North Atlantic. The waves crashed against the hull of the ship, and the smell of salt surrounded them. Her breath came in and out in puffs of white and she couldn’t help but pull the leather jacket tighter around her to preserve heat. She’d almost taken him up on that offer of using one of his fur lined coats. An amused chuckle sounded beside her.

           “If it’s too cold for you, lass, you’re more than welcome to go below deck.”

           She scowled and leaned on the railing. “I don’t like being under the deck.”

           “Why not?” his question held genuine curiosity.

           “I feel cramped and it gets too hot” Her lip turned up in disgust. “I don’t even like being on the wa—”

           A hand clamped over mouth and she froze, eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare as she looked at him; he frowned, condemning, “(Y/N). Don’t insult the ocean.”

           “I will bite the shit out of you.” She mumbled from behind his gloved hand and he pulled away.

           “I’m just trying to save you from angering the Lady of The Seas.”

           (Y/N) rolled her eyes. “The ocean is inanimate, Shay. It’s not alive.”

           “Says who?” he retorted with his hands propped on his hips like a child who’d been told off by their parent.

           “Says science and basic fucking weather patterns.” She countered, grabbing the wheel; she narrowly avoided an iceberg. “For the love of God, steer the ship. I don’t want to die now.”

           Shay snorted but took the wheel back. “Relax, (Y/N). We’re not gonna die.”

           “You say that,” she said, “But drowning isn’t the way I wanna go. I’ve heard it sucks.”

           “Only for a little bit.”

           (Y/N) looked over at him. “Holy shit, that was morbid, even by my standards.”

           “I wasn’t aware you had standards, lass.”

           Her eyes narrowed. “Alright, now you’re just being an asshole.”

           Shay snorted, but conceded, asking, “So if you hate being on the water, why are you out here?” She mumbled something and his brows furrowed. “What?”

           (Y/N) heaved a sigh and repeated a bit louder, “Haytham asked me.” A big smirk crossed his lips and she pointed at him. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up, I don’t wanna hear it.”

           Evidently, he wasn’t afraid of her because he leaned over and with a singsong tone, he said, “You’re in love~”

           She elbowed him in the ribs as hard as she could, smiling with satisfaction as he hacked and bent over.

           “That…wasn’t nice.” He gasped, halfway leaning on the wheel.

           “I have no sympathy to spare you.” (Y/N) remarked.

           Shay glared at her. “You’re not capable of sympathy, you witch.”

           She cackled. “Witch? That’s a new one.”

           “It suits you.”

           (Y/N) looked at him, elbow propped on the railing. “Gonna call a religious inquisition on me?”

           “Don’t tempt me,” he threatened, though it was heatless.

           “If I’m going down for blasphemy, Cormac, you are too.”

           They glowered at each other but after an upturned corner on their lips, they burst into howling laughter, leaning on one another as tears fell down their cheeks.

           When their laughter had finally subsided, Shay let out a loud sigh. “Aye, I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.”

           She nodded. “Neither have I.” Her lips graced an easy smile. “I think I needed it.”

           “Same here.” He gazed at her. “You’ve been unhappy for some time now, (Y/N).”

           She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Uh huh. And how do you figure that one?”

           He shrugged. “You looked like he was cracking your heart in two when he asked you to go while he stayed in New York to take care of business.”

           “There’s no fucking way I’m that easy to read. Even I know I keep my emotions hidden better than that.” (Y/N) griped.

           “Oh, you do,” he agreed. “But since the dinner, you’ve been rather open with us—him the most.” He met her eyes. “Like you’re finally okay with wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

           “Can I vomit yet? I feel like vomiting.”

           “Lass, that’s love.”

           “No, I really wanna vomit. Like right now.”

           “I dreamed my love came in my sleep~” (Y/N) pulled a face at the song. “Lowlands, lowlands awa—Urk!” he grunted as she elbowed him again.

           “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” She hissed. “I’m not in love with him.”

           “You…are…God, what have you got in your sleeve?” He caught his breath, then demanded, “Fine, if that’s how you wanna be, tell me what you think about him.”

           “I—” she started then murmured, “I think he’s responsible…and brave…and a good boss who is way too nosey for my taste.”

           “Okay, now that you’ve got the basics out of the way, tell me what you really think about him.”

           Her eyes were narrowed into a glower, but with a heavy sigh, she admitted, “I think he’s handsome…and kind and—” unbeknownst to her, a smile had come across her face, “And he’s always there when I need him.” (Y/N) looked at Shay who wore a grin.

           “That’s love, lass.”

           Her face dropped. “Oh…” her eyes went wide. “Oh!” (Y/N) gaped at him. “Oh my god! I’m in love with Haytham.”

           Shay leaned on the wheel and gestured to her, murmuring, “I wish I had a portrait done of your face just now because nothing will ever bring me such sick enjoyment as that moment.”

           She shifted, walking away on numb legs. “Oh my god, I’m in love with him.”

           “Lass? You okay?” he worried.

           She waved a hand, continuing to mutter to herself and Gist passed her on the way to the quarterdeck. He stood beside Shay. “Is Miss (Y/N) alright?”

           Shay snorted. “Oh, she’s fine. She’s just coming to terms with reality.” Gist cocked an eyebrow, and he shook his head. “You’ll see when we get back to New York.”

***One Week Later, Back In New York***

           As soon as her boots hit the pier, she was tempted to kiss the ground and Shay could tell because he chuckled as he stood beside her. “Glad to be back?”

           (Y/N) didn’t have the energy to make a smart remark. “God, yes. I’m getting a hot meal when we get to the tavern and then I’m going to bed for forty-eight hours straight.”

           “You gonna give Haytham a goodnight kiss before you do?” he quipped.

           Evidently, she wasn’t that tired, immediately looping her arm around his neck to dig her knuckles into his scalp. He laughed but it quickly dissolved into a grunt of pain.

           “Ow! Ow lass that hurts! Quit!” Shay plead with her.

           “Nope! I suffered a week of your stupid jabs and now it’s payback time!”

           He yanked against her and they tumbled to the ground, but she was on him, trying to shove his face in the dirt. “Eat it! Eat the fucking dirt!”

           The crew leaned over the side of the ship, watching the two of them wrestle around, shouting out bets on both of them—(Y/N) was winning so far. Just as they were about to start throwing actual punches, someone cleared their throat above them, and they instantly froze, heads tilting to see Lee glowering down at them.

           “If you two are quite finished?”

           (Y/N) let Shay out of the headlock and rolled off him, clambering to her feet before helping him up. They brushed themselves off, feeling warmth on their cheeks and Lee sighed.

           “You’re both so childish. I can’t believe Master Kenway has such faith in you.”

           She glared at him and spat, “Say it to my face, you stupid motherfuck—”

           Shay cleared his throat rather loudly. “To speak for my colleague, what are you doing here?” (Y/N) knew Shay wasn’t that fond of Lee either.

           Lee continued to glare at them, but his tone turned snotty. “Master Kenway has asked me to come and collect the two of you.”

           “What for?” (Y/N) inquired, arms crossing over her chest.

           “To introduce you to a new associate who’s been providing quite a great deal of money to our cause.”

           “I wasn’t aware we needed monetary gains.” Shay muttered. “I thought we were all swimming in money.”

           (Y/N) elbowed him the ribs. “We are, you’re not.” She grinned. “You know, ‘cause you’re poor and—”

           He glared at her. “I got it.”

           She snorted, looking back to Lee. “So, who is it?”

           Lee raised his chin rather haughtily. “He’s an Italian businessman by the name of Ausilio Viviani.”

           Her arms went slack, falling by her sides and her breathing became uneven. Shay seemed to notice her immediate shift in demeanor.

           “Lass?” his voice was full of concern, but she couldn’t hear him.

           (Y/N) jerked forward and gripped the lapels of Lee’s jacket, ignoring his cry of shock. She yanked him to her until they were nose to nose. “What did you just say?”

           He shook his head and sputtered, “W-what are you talking about?”

           “His name!” she screeched. “Tell me his name again!”

           “It—it’s Ausilio Viviani.” He stammered and she shoved him away, not caring that he fell to the ground. Her blood went cold, and she broke into a dead sprint across the docks.

           “(Y/N)! Wait!” Shay called, but it was no use, she wasn’t stopping. He yanked Lee off the ground. “Come on!”

           They started after her, trying to keep her in their sights, but with the way she weaved in and out of people, they were losing her.

           “What’s wrong with her?!” Lee yelled.

           Shay watched her back, feeling panic surge in his veins. “I don’t know.”

[littlewhitemice-blog]

The Voyage of the Thursday Princess

Up to three hundred years ago Europe was a happening place. Culture. Literature. Knowledge. Soaring cathedrals. Kingdoms bristling with warriors and weapons. But then something happened. Like a candle being snuffed out. The llamapox hit, along with polio, chagas fever, and the mould. Within a few years 98% of the population had died. The forests reclaimed the farms, the villages, even the cities. Skeletons were left scattered over the earth.

About the same time dozens of new foodstuffs appeared. Hot peppers. Chocolate. Corn. Potatoes. And potent medicines, rumoured to have come from Atlantis. Coincidence? Who could tell? Everyone was dead, and civilization had evaporated.

Africa wasn't hit as hard. It expanded to fill the vacuum. Within two hundred years all of Europe was split into colonies of Morocco, Ethiopia, and the Bantu Nation. Wales was now a wholly owned property of the Western European Trading Association. A company archaeologist who had been digging in Portugal found documents which suggested that Atlantis was real, it had been the source of hot peppers, and it had also been the source of the mould. The records of Atlantis were sketchy and fantasmic. Something about golden cities, living lights, and visions. Which brings us to the present day: I, David, a lowly Welsh slave, shoveling coal aboard an iron trading ship of the WETA flying the Bantu flag, setting off across the Atlantic to rediscover Atlantis.

Atlantis was a mythical evil we'd been taught since childhood. The laws against venturing West were still rigorously enforced. We set sail from Oko aboard the Thursday Princess with little fanfare. The cover story was that we were headed to Ireland. But where we should have hugged the coast of Africa and turned north, we took down the sails, fired up the boilers, and we continued due west. The iron ships had evolved naturally from the making and the defense from cannons. My iron boiler was a recent novelty from my own country. Messy, temperamental, often fatally explosive. But, combined with a screw, with the power to cross unheard of distances quickly. Our ship doctor had another forbidden preparation: a stash of malaria mosquitoes, tsetse flies, guinea worms, plague rats, smallpox blankets, and all the other nasties the company had been able to gather covertly on short notice.

The Atlantic knocked us about with its usual violence, but we plowed straight through it. What we didn't know, exactly, was how far Atlantis WAS. We knew the earth was round. About 25,000 miles in circumference. And we could account for about 10,000 miles of that. We had enough coal to drive us three months at 10 knots. If we were lucky, we could get there and back no trouble. Unlucky, we could just get there. Our crew was heavy on skilled slaves; our cargo heavy on war supplies and cannons.

To our great surprise, we made land after only three weeks. How could we be this close without there already being active trade routes? We hoisted sails and turned off the boilers. The land was low, sandy, with palm trees. To the south the land stretched east, so we'd actually sailed further than we needed to. We sent a landing party in, but they found no inhabitants. Campfires, paths, yes. Inhabitants, no. No wildlife larger than a squirrel, either. On the beach there was a pole with a board with squares of squiggles, and a cartoon of a campfire with a blue slash through it. The landing party planted the Bantu flag, claiming Atlantis in the name of the WEPA. The doctor let loose some of his nasties. They gathered some of the local plants. Then returned to the ship in hopes of finding a town. We followed the land southeast.

At dusk we saw more signs of habitation. Some huts, docks, boats and rafts. But no people. Suddenly, a thin glowing beam came from the shore, twisting slightly in the wind. It cut through our mast, which fell burning to the deck. People covered head to toe in white suits appeared from hiding, mounted rafts, and started paddling towards us. Our captain, a big black bald headed fellow, was yelling to the crew to fire the cannons. As soon as the gunports opened though, the beam appeared again, along with cries and awful noises from the cannon crew. It smelled like steak. A cannon let loose aimlessly, punching a hole in the dock. They closed the gunports, but the beam cut through the iron siding like paper. There was an explosion belowdecks. The captain issued new orders: retreat! We found, though, that our ship had been anchored. Crewmen started dropping like flies. I felt a prick, saw a dart sticking out of my arm, then everything went dark.

When I came to, I was tied up in a stone cell with a thick wooden door on iron hinges. A black-haired swarthy fellow with a wide mouth was squatting on a stool next to me, dressed in a white tunic and skirt with a rope around his waist. "You're being held as an accomplice to attempted murder," he said, in passable Bantu. "I expect it to be as an accomplice to actual murder shortly. You are NOT going back home, ever. Or at least until we've conquered you Aztecs. Now, do you have any questions? We've got all the time in the world."

I asked what Aztecs were. He said it was a general term for senselessly violent, but backwards, people.

After talking awhile they untied me and let me go. I was in a city like none I'd ever seen. Streets of yellow brick. Main thoroughfares with steps right in the middle of them. Houses crafted from living trees. Occasionally, a giant sloth, bigger than a house, that they'd bred for hauling. And their fruit! Their food! Indescribably good, and varied. And some food made you happy, or relaxed, or energetic, or sweaty, or have strange dreams. Whatever you wanted.

Pretty soon I had a smiling girl, Akna, hanging on my elbow, too. They even gave me apprentices to learn how to build and operate boilers. Good ones, too. Apparently, gears and engines had never occurred to them! Even though they had wheels and complicated manual devices. They'd always used manual power. I was able to give them a bunch of metal making tips too, since boilers are finicky that way. They'd never taken ships seriously either. Or carts. Or pulleys.

They had apparently tamed lightning, for that death ray we'd seen (it was lightning and metal shavings), and to make machines that could reason and remember, and to talk at great distances. Just the other day one of my apprentices brought in a lightning-driven engine they'd just put together. They were simultaneously proud, and apologetic they hadn't done it ages ago. This lightning craft is beyond me.

And they'd tamed life. They'd been expecting the doctor's nasties and could actually cure most of them. But what is more, they were able to breed new things almost at will. They were going on about cells and atoms, with pictures drawn by lightning, but so far I haven't followed. When the Portuguese first visited Atlantis, the visitors had seen fungus on rags that had been bred to glow bright enough to read for hours when the rag was soaked in sugar water. That was three hundred years ago. It would be child's play for them now.

It's been several years, and true to their word, they never let me go back. I don't know what happened to the rest of the crew. But why WOULD I go back? Back there, I was a cog in their machine. Here, they tell me to tell them stories and eat their roasted sloth. And I've got my Akna.

[nowisthewinter]

“Powder Monkey”

A quick writing assignment where the prompt was “pirates” and nothing more. Just write something involving pirates. So, here’s a short story....?........first chapter.....? I don’t know. This was so out of my wheel house but I still went for it. It gave me an excuse to do some pirate research as well, which, frankly, is always a plus for me. And away we go.....

“Damn fool of a powder monkey. Never ever whistle while we are out to sea.”

  Seamus felt his cheek. The heat from the slap was rising across his skin. The pain turned from a sharp sting to pins and needles. He blinked. More stunned than anything else.

  “The Devil is always listening,” hissed Sea Cook as he grabbed the boy by his collar and brought him close. The two were almost nose to nose. “You want to bring up a storm to drown us all?”

  Seamus knew he should shake his head but he was too afraid to do anything other than to stare into the man’s one good eye. 

  Silence stood between them for an uncomfortable moment. Neither of them said a thing until Sea Cook let out a disgusted grunt and shoved the young man away from himself. Seamus stumbled backward almost losing his footing. He caught himself and straightened up, looking back at Sea Cook with still wide eyes.

  Sea Cook’s face softened for a flicker at the sight of Seamus before hardening back even tighter. He let out another heated grunt as he turned his back. “Damn fool of a powder monkey, indeed.” He started to make his way back to the galley. “Hook yourself somewhere else tonight, boy. I want your cursed hide as far away from me while I sleep. Let the Devil think you are a stranger to me.” With that he vanished into the shadow of the hatch below like a hermit crab crawling back in its shell.

  Seamus stared at the open portal in the deck. He still had no idea what had just happened. One moment he had come up from below after doing a powder check and was on his way to help knock down a few casks to make up much needed space when Sea Cook rushed out from his hole like a raging bull and slapped him across his face. 

  What had he done?

  “I whistled,” he said out loud as if this would make things clearer. 

  “Aye, you whistled.”

  Seamus turned to the voice. 

  There across the deck sitting on a large cask was the ship’s surgeon, Mr. Grant. His work, the mending of one of the Captain’s shirts, for if he could sew up a gash he could sew up a shirt, rested in his lap as he raised his head to look at the young man. “It’s bad luck to whistle out in the open seas. Don’t you know that?”

  “No…”

  Mr. Grant raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “How could that be, boy? What ships have you served before this one?”

  “I was only on one, sir. A Royal Navy-”

  “Say no more,” chuckled the man, “Of course the crew on those vessels would have no respect for the Devil when the officers there think of themselves as gods.” He smiled, “Well, you are on a pirate ship now, lad. And here, there be no God, Himself. No saints. No angels. Not even Mother Mary to give you comfort in her bosom. That sea out there? That’s the Devil’s realm. Hell below. And you best pay him mind. He doesn’t like the sound of merry in your whistle. He feels that you mock him when you do.”

  “But I do not!” Seamus protested as he approached the man. The young man’s face was twisted with worry. This had been his first outing on the sloop, The Stalker. Five days in total. Beforehand, he was on the British galleon, The Virgin Queen, as a “powder monkey,” a gunner’s assistant. It was the only job he could get that would take him away from the poverty of Dublin. Though in the long run, the Hell he stumbled into on the ship turned out to be far worse than the one back home. As a mere boy of fourteen, the higher ups saw he was worked to the bone with little sleep, little eat and worse, little pay. However, the scorn he received was plenty. To the English Protestant Officers, he had two strikes against him. He was Irish and he was a dreaded Catholic. But, again, he was young and galleons like that went through boys like rags. He had the worn off fingerprints on his fingers’ nubs to prove it. Worse, he had been made the ship’s scapegoat. If something went missing or in error, his name was bellowed out like a curse across the board. This usually ended up with him being made to “kiss the wooden lady,” to be forced to stand, facing the mast with his arms wrapped around it and wrists bound together. There anyone was free to humiliate him however they wished short of flogging him with the cat-o-nine tails. Being yelled straight into the ear, hair pulling, being spat at and repeatedly kicked in the rear was the usual treatment. 

  This went on for months as the ship crossed the Atlantic to Virginia. As soon as it docked, he fled in the dead of the night as the day crew slept off the local punch and the night crew was too busy to notice an underfed, undersized sunburnt runt sneaking off the ship into the darkness. He ran as far south as he could go on foot. When his body was about to break, he started to slip on the backs of wagons under the noses of drivers until he found himself on the shores of North Carolina. He had overheard the whispers of there being pirates on Ocracoke Island. How if you could find yourself on one of their ships, you would be guaranteed to be treated to a state that was more fair and inviting than the Royal Navy could ever provide. 

  In a tavern, he came across two men speaking in what they thought were hushed tones about needing a gunner’s assistant for a run. Spain was doing its seasonal round to San Jaun De Ulula. Taking the Spanish treasure fleet, the Flota, there with its hulls filled with gold and silver 

that it had mined from its South American colonies in exchange for goods and money. Ships 

going, ships coming, either way, it was a pirate’s dream come true to get a hold of one of those vessels. Even one chest from a single ship could pay an entire sloop’s crew for a whole year. The problem was it was a massive risk. The Spanish were not to be trifled with. Ruthless as any pirate, they would rather slit their own throats and sink their own ships than let a pirate take them. But on occasion, a pirate ship was able to get their hands on a few chests before the rest sank to the bottom of the Devil’s realm, making it worth the venture. 

  And with the rumors of Spain making a go for it, now was the time for every pirate worth their salt to set sail. All that was needed was a full crew. 

  Seamus jumped into this conversation and demanded that they take him on. Even when they grabbed him, pulled him over the table they were sitting at and pressed their knives against his throat with a threat to open him from chin to groin he insisted that they let him serve. He begged them with a fury in his eyes that they could not deny. 

  And so they did. 

  That was five days ago. 

  Now he felt lost. A pirate ship was far different from a Royal vessel. Not just in measurement for a sloop was a quarter of the size of a galleon but in direction as well. There was no overly dressed Master Gunner sipping his tea with an amused look as he watched Gunners below him scream at the powder monkeys until they were red in the face. The Stalker had only one Gunner and loathed the title of “Master Gunner.” Horace was his given name. And the jacket he wore was made up more of patches than original fabric earning him the beloved nickname, “Threadbare” on the ship. 

  Seamus continued to rub his cheek. Trying to wipe the sting away. “I wasn’t mocking the Devil.” 

  “Aye, son,” said Mr. Grant as he returned to mending the Captain’s shirt, “That may be but everyone on ship is on edge at the moment. You see the ocean out there. What does it look like to you?”

  Seamus gazed past Mr. Grant. The waters were so gentle that it looked like smoky glass. Barely a wave passed by. “It’s nice.”

  “No, it’s a Paddy’s hurricane.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s too calm,” said another voice from behind the boy.

  Seamus turned his head to see Threadbare and two other midshipmen that Seamus had yet to learn the names of rolling casks across the deck. Threadbare stopped at Seamus’ feet and put the cask right side up. The two other men did the same. He pulled a mallet out from the blood red sash tied around his waist. He gave the bottom metal band a good wack. “A sea that calm is not a good omen.”

  Seamus frowned and looked back at the ocean. He turned back to Mr. Grant to see what the man thought. The surgeon nodded in agreement with Threadbare. 

  “Better a storm at the beginning of your journey than for the rest of it. Especially when you are trying to search for the Flota. A good storm might dishearten weaker pirates from taking a chance at the prize. But a sea this genial? A man on a raft would see this as the Lord’s blessing to go for it.” He pointed his needle at the ocean and narrowed his eyes. “I guarantee you that Teach is out there on the Queen Anne’s Revenge with just as strong of a thirst for that prize as we are, lad.”

  “Blackbeard?” whispered Seamus. He had heard stories about the dreadful pirate while serving on The Virgin Queen. Even the officers quaked at the mention of his name. 

  “Aye,” said Threadbare as he gave the metal band two more wacks. The hoop fell to the floor with a clang. He flipped the cask over and began to hit the other band. The men behind him continued doing the same. Flipping their casks after when their hoops fell loose. “And he is not the only one.” Threadbare lifted his eyes and exchanged stares with Mr. Grant, “Supposedly, there are close to a dozen ships out there searching for the Flota. Schooners, sloops and at least two frigates not including the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”

  Mr. Grant scoffed, “Frigates! Hell’s bells to that. We have speed on our side.”

  “And they have cannons.” He swung the mallet down hard on the band. It fell. The wooden planks that had made up the barrel fell apart. “And while we have cannons as well, they have monsters to our monkeys. One of their cannons could turn the mast into splinters.”

  “Do not jinx us.” Now it was Mr. Grant’s turn to hiss in anger. Normally, if he was on shore he would cross himself but out to sea he simply stared at the shirt in his lap. His hands began to shake as a distant memory of seeing a cannon utterly obliterate a mast played back in his mind. He barely survived that attack with his life. Threadbare was on that ship with him when it happened. He saw it too. Mr. Grant closed his eyes for a moment and calmed his anxious heart. “We don’t need another day like that. This ship is different.”

  “Mind your tongue when you say such things,” Threadbare said, reliving the same memory in his own head. He shuddered. “Or you’ll be the one jinxing us.”

  “Where are they?” interrupted Seamus.

  “Where are whom?” asked Threadbare.

  “The Spanish. I’ve been only on one voyage before this. And that was a straight shot to Virginia. I never got to see a Spanish ship. It has been five days since we’ve left port.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Do we wait longer?”

  “We wait as long as needed.”

  “What if we don’t cross their path?”

  “We go to Tortuga next.”

  “Tortuga? Is that in North Carolina?”

  “Hispaniola.”

  “I have no idea where that is.”

  “A good thing that you are not the navigator then.”

  “Master Gunner Mitchell used to talk about the Spanish on The Virgin Queen. Made them out to be like demons.”

  “And I bet the Spanish say the same of the English,” said Mr. Grant. 

  “They do,” said Threadbare for he had started off as a Spanish sailor years ago in another life before joining up with Mr. Grant. 

  “Will I ever get a dagger?” asked Seamus in a hushed tone. 

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the boy in bewilderment.

   “You don’t have a dagger?” Mr. Grant asked finally.

  Seamus shook his head slowly. 

  “And I don’t see any cutlass or pistol,” Mr. Grant continued as he looked the boy over. “Are you completely unarmed?”

  Seamus could feel his cheeks grow even warmer than before in a blush. He nodded. 

  “How?” Mr. Grant set his work aside and stood up. “How did you manage to survive this long without a weapon on you at all?”

  “Dumb luck,” said Threadbare, “That’s what it is.”

  “In that case, lad, maybe you should whistle. Maybe instead of a storm you’ll bring the Spanish to us.”

  “Do it.”

  Seamus and Mr. Grant looked at Threadbare in shock. Mr. Grant shook his head at the idea, “I was only joking.”

  “I’m not.” He stuck his mallet in his sash and folded his arms. “The seas are too calm right now. That’s our curse. We could use something, anything to stir it up. Whistle, Seamus.”

  The boy squirmed as his eyes went back and forth between Mr. Grant and Threadbare. “But Sea Cook...he doesn’t want me to whistle.”

  Threadbare grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shoved his own face close, “Let me deal with Sea Cook. But for now, whistle.”

  Seamus’ eyes stayed unblinking as he puckered his lips. He let out a slow, low whistle all the while staring back at Threadbare. For that moment it felt like the entire universe had melted away, leaving them alone in existence. 

  “By the Devil’s blessing!” yelled Mr. Grant breaking the spell between Threadbare and Seamus. “Look!”

  The two eyed at where Mr. Grant was pointing.

  There in the far distance, too far for Seamus to make out clearly were a series of dots making a line against the horizon.

  “The Flota!” gasped Threadbare. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Off the port bow! The Spanish! The Spanish are here!” He looked down at Seamus with a smile so vast that it threatened to split his face. “Well, damn my heart, boy, what a strange luck totem you’ve turned out to be.” He reached behind his back and grabbed something from his sash. He presented it to Seamus. It was a dagger. Polished bright with a Mother of Pearl handle. 

  Seamus took it and twisted it just so that the sun glinted in the blade.

  “Now,” Threadbare said as he patted the boy’s back, “Let’s see how much of a pirate you are, my dear powder monkey.”

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You A Story’

I’ll Tell You A Story (5)

“It was 2019; June to be precise when I traveled to the United Kingdom — or as you would know it, this island of divided kingdoms.” She paused, her gaze cautiously reading his features as his own gaze slipped away from hers. His eyes were narrowed and calculating, a single line marring his brow as he stared at the cave wall, seeing beyond their cramped shelter. Molly knew what he was seeing, for she was seeing it too. That Northumbrian wood; the confusion, the fear, and the ultimate determination that ruled them both that day. He had wanted her, but she had wanted her freedom. Her will had ruled.

“These lands: Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia, they do not endure as separate entities. They will combine into a single kingdom – England. That’s what it will be called,” she told him, thinking to influence his belief by offering tantalizing facts of the future she felt he would be unable to resist. She read him well, for his glazed eyes blinked into focus ere swiveling to the corner until they rested on her. A cautious grin quirked his lips, though she read little humor in his expression. She understood it was the façade he adopted when he wished to keep his true thoughts to himself; the flash of a grin only to be supplanted by a frown that conveyed the genuine depth of his interest.

“You claim to be from the future?” he asked quietly, his grin immediately dipping out of sight. The fire stood out like a live thing reflected in his stare. His eyes fixed on her while his posture appeared still, as if he wouldn’t take his next breath until he had riddled the puzzle that she was.

“Yes,” she nodded, holding his gaze.

“How?” he put to her. His expression was at once laced with a coating of cynicism, though, once settled into his question Molly recognized a gleam in his eye that gave her courage enough to believe in that questing wisdom she was relying on.

Recognizing this moment for what it was, she swallowed, gulping past her nerves as her fingers inched their way to her elbows where she held herself tightly. Only a beat of hesitation marked the moment when Molly Hatch decided to bridge the chasm that had yawned beneath her feet for so many years; to extend her hand and let somebody in. It somehow didn’t bother her that it was the Viking she was reaching for. During the past twenty-four hours he had lost his moniker and gained the identity of his person. He was Ragnar Lothbrok, a man she had a precarious history with, but the one who presently sat across from her willing to listen.

“I was on the shore,” she began, her voice thick, “in Scotland. You don’t that country because it hasn’t been formed yet, but it’s the land where you first found me.”

His head tilted as his narrowed eyes smoothed into a more pensive expression. He took his first breath.

“The rain had abated somewhat, and I don’t remember being concerned over lightning,” she continued. “My friends were waiting for me up in our rooms. There were three of them: Cathy, Ellie, and Gracie,” she said, taking care to say their names slowly, as if to savor the memory of what had once been a daily curl of her tongue. “We were visiting from our home - from America.”

She paused again, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember dates. “Do you know a Lief Erikson? Or perhaps know of him?” she wondered. She briefly remembered learning that that Viking had been one of the first, or maybe the only Northman to make it to North America before Christopher Colombus in 1492.

“I know many Lief’s,” he obliged, though looking uncertain of the question. “Why do you ask?”

“It is only that Lief Erikson will be a well-known explorer. He discovers North America. It’s the land that will eventually be my home,” she elaborated when she detected a hitch to his brow. “Do you know him?” she repeated.

“No, I cannot say that I do,” he answered. The ghost of his grin reappeared, hidden somewhat by his beard. And if Molly knew him better, knew all the quirks of his features and the glance of his expressions she would understand that the intensity of his stare was not mere focus, that the slight cant of his head no mere intrigue — but a growing triumph.

“It may be that he is after your time,” she shrugged a little disappointedly. She’d hoped that she’d unearthed a link that could be used to her advantage, unaware of the already shifting dynamic occurring between them in her favor. Molly believed that hers would be an uphill battle, trying to convince him of something she herself wouldn’t have believed in prior to experiencing it. In spite of her immersion with the culture of the time, she could not abandon the skepticism that belonged to her own culture, nor help apply it to what others would think of her story.

“This noorth umairika, you say it is the land you hail from? Where is it?” Ragnar wondered, drawing his good leg up and resting his elbow on it. He was leaning a little closer.

“Far from here,” she said, drawing her own knees up, though in a more protective stance as she hugged them to her chest. “It lies across the sea.”

“Which sea?”

“The Atlantic.”

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed again. “There is land beyond the Atlantic?”

Molly nodded, adding, “quite a lot of it. You Europeans think you’re the center of the world until the 1500’s. Or sometime around there. I was never good in history class,” she went on to explain, no doubt nonsensically to him.

“What other lands are there besides your home?” he continued with his inquiries, causing Molly to grimace slightly. She had wanted to sweeten the pot initially with these snippets of facts, but steadily she could feel her impatience mounting as the momentum she had gained for her own history was waning.

“There are many; too many to name presently, though I will tell you that there are three Americas. There is the North, Central, and South Americas and each is made up of countries . . . er, that is, a form of kingdom.”

“When does this Leif Erikson discover these lands?” he asked, already forgetting her ignorance on the dates.

“I told you, I don’t know. It must be after this time though as I’m sure you would’ve heard about him. And besides, he only landed on North America. He likely wasn’t aware of the expansiveness of the land.”

“What is the distance? How long will it take to reach your land?”

Molly blinked. “I don’t know! Months and months I’d assume.”

Ragnar’s brow furrowed. “How can you not know when you say you journeyed from that land?” His glance turned suspicious. Yet Molly could only indulge in a rueful smile as she envisioned a plane flying over his head as explanation.

“Travel does not remain the way you know it to be, Ragnar. Between the thousand years that mark your time to mine many things evolve into creations beyond imagining. I do not think you would understand even if I told you how I traveled to this island, for nothing of its kind exists today, save perhaps the winged beasts.”

Ragnar jerked his head back, his mouth wavering between that uncertain smirk and that curious frown as his eyes flicked to the mouth of the cave and back.

“You can fly?” he posed to her, clearly not believing. And Molly was glad to be able to shake her head.

“No, I cannot fly. But men have made machines that can.” And before he could ask another question, she ploughed on. “Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you - to the best of my knowledge,” she said, her voice deliberately low so that he would be inclined to listen and not speak. “I will tell you about America and all the countries that will be new to you. I will tell you of the plane, train, and automobile; how people can travel across the world in a day; how we can speak to those far, far away and hear their voices in our ear. I will tell you about Neil Armstrong and his famous footprint on the moon. I will tell you all this and more – but, first . . . first I need to tell you a story. My story.”

And she did.

Of that day she told him everything. It was either say it all, or maintain her silence – she could not imagine an in-between. As an outpouring, long bottled and static with energy waiting to be released, Molly found that the words she had mentally tripped over, prior to her decision of telling Ragnar, poured fluidly from her mouth and into his sponge-like mind – absorbing everything with ardor.

Occasionally, when her eyes would flick to his, she would watch him, noting his stillness that marked his absolute focus. He did not interrupt her again, not even to inquire over words she knew he couldn’t understand – words she couldn’t translate, though she did her best to explain. He was her audience, and as any good auditor, he knew what was required of him. When she paused to recollect a moment, or had to turn her face away to hide unbidden emotions, she was not hurried to continue.

In lieu of that courtesy, she indulged in speaking of events leading up to the trip, of bidding her parents a teary farewell at the airport; of her and her friends accidentally insulting one of the flight attendants by referring to them as English when they had, in fact, been Scottish; of landing in Heathrow and waiting over an hour for Gracie’s duffle bag. She spoke of a thousand and one things she had forgotten, lost somewhere in the hazy limbo of her interrupted life, but which now sprang forth as if resurrected.

While she spoke the night wearied, falling into shade and quiet. Hour followed hour, yet her soft tones did not dim in the presence of the watchful night. The only other companion to her voice was the snapping flames beneath the long-forgotten tea that bubbled in its neglect. It was only when the brew spilled passed the sides of the cauldron, hissing immediately at the contact with the flames, that attention was returned to it. Molly jerked out of her compact position, rising to her feet as she grabbed a fistful of her skirts to lift the cauldron from its perch, hissing herself at the heat. Quickly, she set it near the fire, releasing her grip and rubbing her hands together.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit burnt,” she told him, looking up from inspecting the brew. She swished it only to see the herbs shriveled and black.

“It is of no matter,” he said, unconcerned. “I would hear the rest of your story before soothing any stomach aches.”

From where she stood, Molly looked down at him, aware that a small smile tugged at her lips. A fanciful vision of a monk dressed as a nursemaid coming to serve out a stretched out Ragnar, undone by a serious tummy ache, distracted her momentarily as she remembered that the monk’s brew was for easing digestion. Her smile grew wider and threatened to morph into a chuckle.

Her heart was lighter. The burden of carrying her secret for so long no longer weighed on her even though she had yet to conclude her narrative. Yet, already she felt the ease of old manners returning to her as she remembered her old self. Intangible as it was, there was a certain amount of happiness that existed in simply being able to talk about her old life to another human being.

So as she resumed her seat, a tad closer to Ragnar than before, there was no pause or hesitation when she picked up the threads of her tale and continued.

“We were making a tour of the United Kingdom and Ireland, as I said, but I was always most excited to see Scotland. I’d dreamt of the Highlands and the heather, of the whiskey and kilts, of all the romantic associations with the place; my father even noted that I had an unhealthy interest in the pipes and drums.” She did stop then, only for a moment as she found what peace she could in the phantoms she’d summoned. She sighed. “I’m sure it’s best that I never got to see it in the end; it might not have lived up to my expectations.” Tentatively , she offered her companion — the one of flesh and blood, and the only one who could hear her — a glimpse of a smile that told a completely different story to the one that had just preceded it, and which forgot in that moment that he wouldn’t understand her silver-lining humor, as paltry as it was.

His eyes may be keen, either fixed as they were on her face or hovering just around her; brilliant in their intensity and strength yet, at that moment, lacking the spark of any recognition for anything she had just said.

Her face drooped suddenly, exposed as it was to the rawness of the many strong emotions required this night.

The relief that had belonged to the minute before was gone, usurped by the realization of reality. No matter the chances of ever getting close to anyone – and so far this Viking was the nearest to a heart-to-heart she’d had in six years – the nuances of her time would forever remain the property of its time; locked away behind the secrets of its knowledge that would always remain a barrier between her and others. The comfort of remembering home was hers; just not the comfort of home.

In a whirl of contained emotion, never flickering past the internal storm of her mind, Molly at once wanted to throw herself at Ragnar, cling to his chest and just be held as she sobbed and felt sorry for herself; yet in that same brand of impulsiveness she wanted to run – to run in a pointless direction, but one that took her far from the cave, far from him, and far from everything that resembled anything that had been her familiar for the past half-decade.

Swallowing, she steadied herself. Her thumbs were busy picking at each other’s nails, scoring her skin in a pattern of crescents.

She told him of the beach.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she told him of that landmark whose grey skies had blackened the water and appeared as the shores of superstition, serving as a portal that had opened for her unwilling passage.

The years spent serving Lady, then Lord Cyneric had been kind in one regard: never had she known her mind as well as she presently did. Despite her duties and chores, they claimed nothing of her time as the convenience of modern technology had. Days regularly burst at the seams with work, thoughts, and sometimes, even play. Boredom was no longer a constant in her vocabulary; indeed, she regularly forgot the word with how little she thought of it. What she did think of, however, and what had occupied her thoughts during her more menial tasks was the day in which she had stood on that shore. The tide had been low, and even then — ignorant as she had been — she had mused over thoughts of in-between places; crossroads, dusk, dawn, and of course that strip of sand, appearing only at its designated hours when the sea was low, so that that in-between area was not quite of the land, nor yet of the sea.

And that, she believed, had been her portal.

All this she told him; explaining her reasoning that found grounding in the very nature of the mystic land.

“There are stories – legends and myths, though, I don’t know their names in this speech – that tell of unwary travelers who find mischief done to them; the wanderer who does not heed the natural warnings of nature and find themselves in, what would be called, a fix. These stories are not so ancient as they once were to me, their narrative has more meaning as I now know that there is power in their messages,” she said, drawing her legs to her chest. She rested her hands atop her knees, picking at the fabric. “My sole regret is that I couldn’t have known that their significance endured even while my culture’s credence of them waned. I would not have stood on that shore otherwise.”

“Do people of your time not tell stories then?” Ragnar asked, speaking for the first time in many hours. He looked dubious, as if he was ready to argue her statements by using what he learned about her journal against her. Molly recognized it also as an admission. Despite his first hint of skepticism ere she began, and despite the natural aversion of Man’s to being fooled by seemingly impossible phenomenons, Molly had opened herself to him in a way that exposed her heart, showing him something precious and protected by unraveling her fabricated life.

Also – he had listened.

“For we have many that do much to warn the little ones away from danger,” he continued. “Maybe you did not listen as a child,” he said, pointing a finger at her nose in a playful, tsking manner. She resisted the urge to reach over and swat his hand back to his lap.

“Your people then have precautionary tales of traveling through time?” she said instead, partially rhetorical as she didn’t believe that the Norse did; though, also a little curious in case of the possibility.

Ragnar let his hand drop, adopting a rueful smile as he eyed her from under his brows. His quirked mouth turned thoughtful, however, and he gazed at her straight-on. She saw him only by the faint, ruddy glow of the now dwindled fire; more ember and ash then flame.

“You truly are from another time?” he asked quietly, almost marveling. His eyes were the only point of light on his face; two pricks of focus that somehow carried more expression than a torrent of voiced wonder.

“I am,” she answered simply. She wondered if he saw the same in her; two points of light staring back at him. The lights were disturbed when he blinked, turning his head away, looking forward as he had at the beginning. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, the formulating questions, and the now deepened curiosity that she must undeniably hold.

“Well,” he said with a grunt, adjusting his position so that he sat straighter against the wall. He returned his gaze to hers. “I suppose I must concede to your claim – you have traveled farther than me.”

“Yes,” she chuckled, “my adventurous desire of walking in the rain in a foreign country has inadvertently seen me outpace the ambitions of any Northman seeking new land.”

Molly only just caught his smile as he leaned forward, taking up one of the sticks to jab at the fire. A ripple of warmth spread suddenly, tempering the chill air of the night and reminding her that she was hugging herself tightly in defense against the cold.

“Have you ever tried to return?” Ragnar asked, keeping his eyes on his work.

“Once,” she replied after a pause. “A week after arriving in that town you and your men had sacked,” she interrupted herself in order to deliver a long-in-the-making glare. The Viking at least had sense enough to remain quiet. “I found my way back to that beach. I stayed out there until I couldn’t bear the hunger any longer. I don’t remember how many days, but nothing happened. The road that had vanished didn’t reappear, and when I returned to the village I found it immediately. It hadn’t worked.” Molly often wondered if it would if she could reach it on the anniversary date of her arrival. But as of yet, she’d never been able to make it.

“It sounds temperamental,” he remarked, uselessly twiddling the stick between his palms, working a hole through the fire.

“Extremely temperamental!” she heartily agreed. “At least with you – well, you are very consistent; I always know what to expect from you.”

“Do you think it is so? That you will always know what to expect from me,” he stopped his fiddling to stare up at her, a queer look in his eye. Molly visibly swallowed as she held herself tighter. She felt the mood turn in an instant; dangerous and intimidating.

“You said you wouldn’t force me,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep her voice steady. The knife he had given her was still somewhere near her.

“Aye, I did,” he nodded, resuming his work, and the tension lifted somewhat, “and if that is where your mind has gone it has done so on its own for I have made no mention of lying with you. I would not speak against such a proposition, but I have not suggested it,” he said, flicking his eyes up to hers once more. She felt her heart stutter.

“Then what was all that about with your, ‘do you think you’ll always know what to expect from me?’” she questioned, altering her voice to imitate his low timber.

Ragnar tossed the stick aside and rubbed his palms together, brushing away the soot and ash. His movements were leisurely, almost deliberately so, which only annoyed Molly further when she was already feeling embarrassed by his presumption that her mind had been in the gutters.

“Well?” she pressed.

Ragnar shrugged, incorporating his hands as well as his face in the movement. “Is it not the truth? Who can claim that they know another so completely that they will always know what the other will do? As, uh, sweet as our meetings have been,” he smiled at her scowl, “they have been brief. Do you really think you know me as well as you think you do?”

She opened her mouth to give a remark about first impressions or something of that nature, when she hesitated. Her own first impressions were swiftly being supplanted by more amenable notions of her . . . not friend . . . companion. Her posture loosened slightly and, guilelessly, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear unaware of the way it drew his eye.

“I feel I must know you enough to trust you with the truth,” she admitted. “You’re the first person to know . . . any of this,” she said, initially searching for a word that could encompass her facts of life. “I don’t understand it, but you’re the first person that I felt I could share it with; no one else would’ve have understood, but you, somehow, seem to.” She quirked her brows, appreciatively curios.

Through the gloom and dull, red glow a gleam of benign teeth glinted as he smiled at her. “I always knew you were something more than you appeared,” he said, sounding vindicated. “I knew there was a reason for my safe-guarding your book – for you to be present in my mind, even when time continued and the possibility of ever finding you diminished; you never left me.”

Molly looked away, running her hands up her arms to hug her shoulders. She did not care to admit that she had experienced the same magnetizing thoughts towards him, though far less complimentary. Though, she supposed it was natural to have looked back on him; their first encounter was one of the most frightening moments of her life.

Cautiously, she turned back to him and was immediately confronted with the urge to yawn as she saw him indulging in his own. He did not miss her joining him.

“The hour is late,” he relented, sounding almost bitter by the fact. “You should get some sleep,” he advised her. Night had been with them for many hours, yet they seemed only now to be aware of the time.

“What about you? You have not slept since waking this morning.”

“I may shut my eyes, but don’t concern yourself. I am used to this more than you. Besides, you will need the rest for tomorrow; I have a number of questions I would ask you.”

“And I will do my best to answer them, but at present, you are the one with an injury and I am not. I’ll watch for now. I do not mind,” she added when she saw him preparing to counter. She reasoned that the likelihood of either of them finding much sleep was slim, but the few hours remaining to the night promised quiet introspection which she yearned for ere the next round of revelations began.

Molly stood, intent on switching places with Ragnar, and showing no signs of hesitance in taking his hands to help him up as she had originally. Again he stumbled, but only slightly, regaining his balance in the next second. She released her grip on him, though when he moved to step past her, she automatically brought a hand up to stop him, just grazing his chest before she dropped it again.

“I – uh, I just want to thank you,” with an effort, she managed to bring her eyes up to his, meeting them and reading in them a softness she had not thought him capable of achieving. She swallowed, suddenly very aware that her last vestiges of fear were leaving her as a new, even more frightening, emotion took its place. He was not touching her, as he promised he would not, but his gaze may as well have been a caress for the warmth she felt under its gaze. She cleared her throat. “You listened to me when I know no one else would have. You can’t know what that means to me,” she confessed. “You returned to me a part of myself I’d forgotten about and I must thank you for that.”

In response, Ragnar leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, their noses inches apart. Molly thought for a moment that he would break his word, yet she found herself too curious to back away.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he posed to her instead.

Molly broke out into a wide grin, her teeth now the ones to gleam as she shook her head in amusement.

“Yes Ragnar Lothbrok, I suppose this means I must forgive you now – so long as you don’t try it again,” she added.

“Mmm,” he playfully groused, “that is a cruel thing to hold me to when you have made yourself even more valuable to me. You had better not smile too much,” he warned, “for I am want to lose all reason and do what I please should I see your smiling face near a boat.”

“You would have to tie me to the masthead for we both know I can swim,” she teased back.

“Don’t give me ideas. Where are you going?” he suddenly called when she abruptly turned to leave their cave.

“I thought I would search for the fairies and see if they know how I could return home.” At his arch brow she chuckled and told him truthfully that she had to relieve herself. When she returned, he was still standing, waiting. Without a word he limped past her and was swallowed by the night, likely to take care of a similar errand.

When he returned, she was already sitting, holding her legs close so that he could get by with as little difficulty as possible. From the darkened corners of the rear of the cave Molly heard his grunts, scuffles, and ultimate sighs as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Are you alright?” she felt compelled to ask.

“Fine,” he said, unconcerned.

A moment passed.

“Do you have songs from your time?” Ragnar’s voice came out from the gloom, contemplative, yet accommodating of a certain mischievous quality.

“I’m not going to sing one,” she replied immediately, not even bothering to look at him. She could, however, see his head perk up out of the corner of her eye.

“I did not ask you to,” a smile in his tone.

“You didn’t have to; I knew what you were leading to.”

“But you do have songs?” he urged, not giving up altogether.

“Of course we have songs,” she smiled at the ridiculousness. “A great many songs that would likely make you wish you were deaf. Music has evolved since the folk tune,” she told him wryly.

“You are not fond of music then?”

“On the contrary, I love music; in fact I used to love watching classic musicals with my mother. My father hated them!” she smiled, remembering. “He would walk in the room, hear Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire for a second, and make an about face. I think the only musical we ever managed to get him to sit down to was My Fair Lady. He knew Rex Harrison was in it and thought it would be a ‘decent’ movie as he termed it. He didn’t even get to ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’.”

Lost in her own memories once again, and not to mention the shadows that now enveloped Ragnar, Molly missed his puzzled expression. “You excel at saying much while revealing little.”

Molly laughed softly, understanding his plight. “My apologies, but it is difficult to translate something that hasn’t been invented yet.”

“I imagine it would be,” he considered, then added, “I envy you your knowledge; to know what will come after once all this is gone; once we here have all played our parts and are done.”

A brief silence stretched between them. In the distance, an owl screeched.

“Don’t envy me, Ragnar,” Molly quietly said at last. “You have the comfort of your time, even if you don’t appreciate it, while I often am adrift with only the cold comfort of memory to sooth me. My fate is not something to yearn for.”

Another, shorter, silence ensued, concluded this time by Ragnar.

“I will do my best to heed your warning Molly Hatch,” he said, a curious note to his voice. An unspoken sentiment hung in the air, trailing from Ragnar’s words, and without meaning to Molly waited for its release. It came as sigh of the wind, soft and coaxing. “But it would be easier if you were to stay with me,” he whispered.

Molly looked over her shoulder, seeking his gaze, but not even those pinpricks could be seen now in the gloom. Looking forward, Molly rubbed her arms.

“Sleep Ragnar, I will watch.”

[aswithasunbeam]

A long overdue new chapter!

July 1813

Hamilton exhaled slowly through his nose as he set aside the latest Federalist newspaper in the stack waiting for Madison’s perusal. “The little occupant in the White House with his crippled army,” proclaimed the most prominent headline. Though clearly aimed primarily at Madison, the slight against Hamilton stung. He braced his hand against the wheels of his chair, lost in thought.

“General Hamilton?”

Looking up, saw a gentleman approaching from the direction of the President’s office. His wild hair, bushy brows, and piercing eyes gave him an almost menacing quality. The man thrust out a hand and waited, expressionless. Hamilton met his gaze steadily as he gave the hand a quick shake.

“Daniel Webster, sir. A great honor to meet you.”

Considering the name, Hamilton recalled, “The representative from New Hampshire?” One of the few Federalist victories in the last election. Considering how disastrous their campaigns had gone thus far, he couldn’t believe they hadn’t made more gains.

“That’s right, sir.”

“I appreciated your level-headedness over all the nonsense regarding secession in the North.” Webster inclined his head. “Though I must say your position on wartime taxes leaves something to be desired.”

“I don’t see why the Northerners should be forced to pay for a war that’s already bankrupting them.”

“Bankrupting the country as a whole will surely do little to redress their suffering,” Hamilton said.  

“Respectfully, I disagree. I was sent to represent my constituents, and they expect me to stand up against this shameful excuse for a war. I won’t vote to force them to serve in the army; I won’t vote to raise their taxes; and I won’t vote to impose embargoes that will further injure their businesses. That’s the promise I made to them.” Webster glanced back over his shoulder towards the President’s office. “As I told the President, he’ll find no relief from my prescriptions.”1

Hamilton sighed even as he forced a smile to end the meeting. “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Webster.”

As Webster started down the hall, Hamilton pushed himself towards Madison’s now open office door. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, however, Mrs. Madison stepped in front of his path. She looked harried and exhausted, her hair lank and her fine gown a touch looser than usual.

“I’m sorry, General Hamilton, but he’s in no state to see anyone else,” she said.

“Let him in, Dolley,” Jemmy croaked from within the office.

Mrs. Madison turned her hard stare back to the interior of the office. Hamilton craned his neck slightly to see Jemmy lying listless on a settee, still dressed in his nightclothes, complete with his cap despite the blazing temperature outside. The raging bilious fever had taken a stark toll on Jemmy’s already feeble frame.

“It’s bad enough that awful man demanding to see you, James. I can’t—”

“Let him in.” Jemmy’s hand twitched in invitation.

Mrs. Madison reluctantly stepped aside and tapped the door closed when Hamilton had entered, though he noted that she’d remained in the office with them.

“You’re looking better, Jemmy,” Hamilton said as he stopped before the settee.

“Liar.” Jemmy smiled slightly. “What’s happened now? Not good news from Montreal, I suppose?”

“No. Last I heard, Hampton and Burr are both refusing to follow orders from Wilkinson. I can’t say that I blame them.”

“Wilkinson outranks them both.”

“Burr ought to be in charge. He turned a rout at Queenstown Heights into a near victory. He’s the best suited for command.”

“He’d barely made any progress after Queenstown,” Jemmy said dismissively.

“You know, Congress tried to remove Washington several times because he wasn’t making enough progress, in their view.”

“Are you trying to compare Burr with Washington?”

“I’m saying political timetables and effective military command don’t often mix well. And I don’t trust Wilkinson an inch.”

“He warned us about Burr’s treachery,” Jemmy argued, adjusting slightly to sit up more against the pillows piled behind him, his arm moving to guard his stomach.

“You don’t find that suspicious? That Wilkinson had so much information?”

“You’re the one who said Burr was innocent.”

“A court of law said that,” Hamilton corrected. Jemmy snorted derisively. “And Burr’s innocence doesn’t clear Wilkinson.”

Jemmy looked at him steadily, unmoved.

Shaking his head slightly, Hamilton said, “Wilkinson isn’t what I’m here to talk to you about, anyways. I’ve been getting more intelligence about Admiral Cockburn’s movements in the Chesapeake.”

“Is he still attempting to capture me and send me to London as a war prize?” Jemmy leaned his head back against his pillows as he clutched his belly through what appeared to be a cramp. “I’d make a sorry prize for them as I am now, I’m afraid.”

“You shouldn’t be so dismissive. Almost the entirety of our army is in Canada. If the British invade in the mid-Atlantic, they’d have their run of New York, Baltimore, even Washington.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Bring Burr or Hampton down with at least two battalions. Fortify the capital.”

“No.”

Hamilton sat back, stunned at the immediate and vehement refusal. “No?”

“We need to take Montreal. The Canadians will ally with us if we just make a strong enough showing against the British.”

“I very much doubt that, Mr. President.”

Jemmy’s eyes flashed. “We’re fighting for their freedom as much as ours. They’ll see that. They’ll join us.”

“I imagine it doesn’t feel much like fighting for their freedom when they’re being compelled to join us as gunpoint, Jemmy.”

“We’re not moving troops away from Montreal.”

Pausing a moment, Hamilton suggested, “I did have another idea.”

“What?”

“Cockburn is freeing enslaved men and women along the coast and arming them against us. If we were to remove the enticement by offering a similar arrangement with our army, we could build our numbers in the mid-Atlantic and the South without requiring any of our troops be moved from the Northern theater.”

Jemmy sat up fully, jaw gaping. “You can’t be serious.”

The astonishment was expected. Jack’s plan during the Revolution to give Black men the chance to fight for their freedom had been met with much the same reaction. The moment he’d heard about Cockburn’s strategy to free and arm enslaved men against the American army, Hamilton had known what the best solution to counter the British would be. He’d also known that the South would rather surrender to British rule than risk their despicable institution.

“I’m perfectly serious,” Hamilton said calmly.

“You want to arm slaves?”

“They’re going to fight either way. I’d rather they fight with us than against us.”

“The South would revolt! This is no time for your radical Northern…abolitionism.” The final word was uttered as if it were a curse, though Hamilton would consider his proposal neither radical, nor truly abolitionism.  

“So, you would let prejudice and private interest outweigh the common good? Outweigh the safety of our capital city, even?”

“It’s not an option, Hamilton.”

He felt his pulse speeding up, even having known Madison would never entertain the suggestion. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Avarice has fitted our Southern brethren for the chain, so long as that chain be a golden one.”2

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Hamilton huffed an unamused laugh. “It may not seem so dramatic when British troops are marching down Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Washington surely won’t be a target. There are far more attractive cities. And besides, we’re sending emissaries to initiate peace talks. We may see an end to the war before any such drastic measures would even need to be contemplated.”

“If you say so, Mr. President.”

“Was there anything else?” Jemmy’s voice had gone faint, and he was breathing hard as he sank back deep into his pillows.

Mrs. Madison stepped forward, placing herself between Hamilton and Jemmy. “I think that’s quite enough for today. General.”

Hamilton nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Madison.”

Before he left the office, Mrs. Madison called out after him, “Give my love to Mrs. Hamilton, General, if you will?”

“Of course,” he agreed.

As he made his way down the hall, he found himself wishing desperately for Jack in a way he hadn’t in years. Jack had been young and idealistic, a Southern gentleman capable of making his plan a reality despite all that stood against him. Even when Jack had been alive, Hamilton didn’t have the same stubborn belief in America’s better angels necessary to see such a plan to fruition.

As he was assisted into the coach to head home, he felt utterly defeated.

**

The report he needed had been pushed accidentally to the far end of the desk. A quick glance told him his chair couldn’t be maneuvered into the tight space at the edges to allow him to reach. He could call for an aid, of course, or Betsey, but the sting of Jemmy’s immediate rejections, of his inability to sway his own party, of the mocking headlines, were all far too fresh.

His arms trembled as he pushed himself up from his chair, all his weight on the table. Sweat beaded on his brow. His legs were limp beneath him. Transferring his weight onto one hand, he reached out towards the report, muscles shaking.

“Alexander!”

He nearly fell, only just catching himself, his hip banging into the side of the table as he re-adjusted his weight onto both hands.

Betsey was at his side in a moment, her hands sliding around his waist to brace him. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting a report,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’ll get it. Sit back down,” she urged.

“I’m not helpless!”

She didn’t recoil at his shouting. Her expression was soft as she soothed a hand down his spine. “I know that, sweetheart. I know.”

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his temper.

He felt her lean closer, her nose brushing his cheek tenderly.

“I’d nearly forgotten how tall you are,” she whispered. He opened his eyes and looked down at her face. His trembling arms gave way, and he fell back hard into his chair with a soft curse.

“Which report did you need?” Eliza asked. She looked away as he adjusted himself, allowing him to preserve at least some of his dignity.

“The Quartermaster’s report, please,” he asked, forcing his legs back into place. He rubbed a hand over his temple, a headache banging against his temples.

The sound of a chair dragging across the wooden floor drew his attention. Eliza settled in beside him, the report he’d requested now resting on the tabletop before him. Her hand rested on his forearm, her face open.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Hamilton admitted softly.

“Do you ever?”

He laughed. “Perhaps not.”

She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Madison won’t listen to me. Not about who to trust in command. Not about where to put our troops. And then, like a glutton for punishment, I raised the idea of offering freedom to the enslaved population to help defend the capitol and the Southern states.”

“Like Jack tried to do.”

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded. “Like Jack. Madison didn’t even consider it. He’s convinced the British won’t attack Washington.”

“It’s the capital,” she said, skepticism written in her expression. “Why wouldn’t it be a target?”

Hamilton shrugged. “He’s obsessed with the Northern theater. I just, I don’t know why I’m even here. What good am I doing? Giving endless advice that no one follows?”

“What do you want to be doing?”

“Something…meaningful.”

“You want to go north.” Again, she didn’t phrase it as a question.

“Not to the front. But…yes. I want to be on the field. I want to try to help in a way that will matter more than pushing paper around on my desk.” He waved to his overburdened table in disgust. “I need to feel like it matters that I’m here.”

She sighed. “Then we’ll go north.”

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 25/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774 

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

Maz and Rey stayed at the Motel-6 on Weat Drive in Helena, which provided twin rooms—with matching twin beds. It was a well-kept yet charmless establishment, built in the image of the city itself. Helena’s wide avenues and stocky skyline formed a neat grid around major routes running north-south and east-west.

The surrounding countryside was verdant, but Rey found the architecture quite different, typical of cities that experienced long winters: raised sidewalks, thick walls and closed windows. But the spirit of the Far West was palpable in Montana, from the wood-plank porches and cowboy hats to the cattle breeders and the constant presence of horses. But there was a certain culture clash as one moved north, to the heartland comprised of oil wells, massive trucks, leather and furs.

The atmosphere was gloomy; this morning’s enthusiasm that had accompanied their gargantuan brunch and a swim in the river, had diminished considerably. Running into Syed had cast a dark shadow over Rey’s mood, her feelings no less tumultuous than before. Was she mad at Ben Solo? Did she want keep flirting with him this morning? They did have an undeniable attraction. Truthfully, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him, not for a moment, since she their paths crossed on her first day in America. How annoying. She would gladly have spent an hour without thinking of him, honestly. She would have wanted to think of herself, or Finn or Poe, to blame Leia Skywalker for her troubles or to conquer the world with Maz. But alas, here she was, fretting over Ben Solo.

Wasn’t she furious at him? The indecision was killing her inside. She would go to the concert the next day, but it would require an explanation, a face to face. She would have to look him in the eyes and give him an ultimatum that would determine their relationship: to end it here and now, or to give him a chance to make amends.

Maz accompanied her to the Museum of the Rockies, where they admired dinosaur fossils and mannequins dressed in pilgrim garb. They passed a large fresco of fur trappers depicting the conquest of the New World. Maz tried to relax the atmosphere by explaining the history behind various exhibits, but Rey was miles away. Her mind was elsewhere.

The evening is unrolled without their joyful laughter, without luster. The weight of Maz’s upcoming departure and Rey’s relationship woes weighed heavily on their shoulders.

Maz had a certain rendezvous to attend in the Holliday Inn parking at 8 AM, off l-90 West. After a quick breakfast at Starbucks, Rey and Maz said farewell. Rey’s eyes shone a bit much at the thought that she was being abandoned yet again.

Or was it just her again, getting attached too quickly? It was obvious from the moment the strange little woman banged against her car window that their time together was limited. This separation was inevitable—Maz headed due north and Rey due west. And she had to go home eventually, on the other side of the Atlantic, in a week.

They exchanged numbers and emails, but Maz evaded social media, and Rey limited herself to Instagram and Facebook. Maz hugged Rey thoroughly, thanking her for everything.

“Have a good trip, my adventurous girl. Remember: listen to your heart, dare to say no, and take your time. You know what it is that you want and what you’re willing to accept—you know your limits. Now, go practice what you preach!”

Rey was hardly as calm as the older woman. Coming from Maz’s mouth, everything seemed so simple. In her head, it was all so complicated. But she promised to remember this, and to do her best.

When they parted, Maz boarded a large van with three other hitchhikers as she went on her merry way.

It was still morning and Rey and BB8 had an entire day to fill. In light of the shift in schedule, she had time to call England.

The conversation with Poe was calm, almost banal. Finn was still on life support, Poe himself visited the hospital daily. His swollen eye had deflated a little, his facial wounds had healed somewhat and would leave  almost no scars. Yes, he would call Rey if there was a development, any time of day or night, be the news good, bad, or ugly. She hung up and dialed Jessika afterwards.

“Where were you girl?” Jessika said by way of hello, and Rey smiled, touched by her friend’s playful jab.

“On the road. I drove a couple thousand kilometers. How’s the house?”

“Well, I finished putting together your flat. You promised to call me regularly, don’t you remember?”

“I was going to,” Rey tried to assure her.

She wasn’t sure how often she could handle calling Jessika. She had needed time for introspection, to think through her troubles alone. Talking to Jessica, even though it was fun, inevitably reminded her of her old self. The girl who was going to marry Finn and who let others live her life in her stead.

“Liar,” declared Jessica, and Rey laughed at the fact that her friend knew her well.

“No it's true. I'll call you when I get better, otherwise it's going to be quite a while,” she amended.

“What do you mean , "when I get better?" What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?”

Jess sounded sincerely worried. Rey took a deep breath...where did she leave off in her grand adventure?

“Do you remember Ben Solo?”

“The guy who did n't sleep with you ? OH. MY. GOD. Did you sleep with him ?!”

Rey’s lips split into a wicked grin. She was thoroughly enjoying her friend’s reaction. It was like an intravenous dose of endorphins. Why had she thought that that it would complicate her life?

“No,” she answered finally. “No we didn't sleep together. I mean we almost did. But not quite.”

“What do you mean? Was it just oral but no penetration?”

Straight to the point, Rey chuckled.

"Oh come on, we just kissed a little bit. Okay, kissed a lot. We did nothing, really. We stopped when...you know, they called about Finn...”

It was as though she had just thrown a bucket of cold water on the conversation. Jessika took a moment to answer.

“Yes, I know. It’s excruciating. I was furious! I was furious at him and now I’m furious at everyone except him. How are you holding up?”

“Same as you. My anger is gone. I reassure myself by thinking that Poe stays close to him these days.”

“He does a great job, you know. He comes by an hour a day to sit at his bedside, he talks to him, he reads to him and recounts the adventures you have on your trip, Rey...”

Rey was silent. She knew where Jess was going with this.

“Rey, they’re really in love. I’m sorry to have you say it so bluntly when I’d promised to kick them out of our lives and curse their names forever. You have to look at the bigger picture. Poe is now a shadow of his former self after what happened to Finn.”

“I know.”

“You know? Aren't you angry?”

Rey smiled mournfully. As incredible as it sounded, she was not angry. She was unhappy and worried, a little bit resentful—but in a normal way—very lonely, and a little lost, but she was no longer angry.

“No...I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there to support my best friend, this potato of a man that chose his best friend over me, but I don’t want him anymore. We wouldn't have been happy, as it was. He did what he had to do.”

Jessika was silent for a long time before she finally found her voice.

“Who are you madam, and what have you done with Rey?”

“No, I’m serious,” insisted Rey, amid a fit of giggles, “it's really me! I’ve been through all sorts of ridiculousness, I almost got eaten by a bear, and I have a spy from the KGB on my arse...I ended up cancelling my own wedding because my groom was gay from day one. It’s like my life can never be boring!”

"Sounds like you have much too many things to tell me,” Jessika retorted, “Start from the beginning.”

They stayed on the phone for almost an hour. Rey thought for a moment about  the price that such a lengthy call would cost, but hell, she wasn’t in the mood to care. She had needed to say it out loud, to put actual words to her thoughts and her feelings and to right the chaos in her brain.

When she hung up, she felt reinvigorated. Maz’s departure stung less, the loneliness appeared less unbearable. On the downside, she hadn’t yet faced her demons regarding her relationship with one Ben Solo...

Jessika said she had to bed him now (of course). But Rey was no longer taking orders. She had to listen to her heart.

The problem was that she didn't understand what her heart was telling her.

She chose to spend the morning at Arby’s (a stereotypical western fast food restaurant with a massive cowboy hat logo) which specialized in gigantic hamburgers topped with slices of...candied bacon? The local gastronomy never ceased to surprise her. In any case, it had free WiFi and a place to plug in her smartphone.

What was she going to do with her day?

She clicked on Kylo Ren's number.

Damn, she had thought "Kylo Ren", not "Ben Solo". Should she interpret this as some kind of sign?

* good morning Ren, I'm coming tonight. We need to talk. *

Of course, every man knew "we have to talk" was never a good omen. She wanted to hear about Syed (especially why it was necessary for her to follow Rey without consent) and about the nature of their relationship. To Rey’s knowledge, he was neither her father nor her husband. Then he had better have a good explanation. But this wouldn’t be a text message conversation. She wanted to look him in the eyes.

She waited in vain for a response that did had not arrive. Browsing Google Maps, she explored the area around Bozeman and compared the prices of hotels and the campsites. She barely managed not to spit out her coffee. Seven Hells! The proximity to Yellowstone, and thus the certainty of being full in July, had pushed the average rates around the park to a staggering 250 dollars per night for a single motel room. It was beyond  conceivable! She looked at the campsites, but like the hotels, they were fully booked.

Finally, by calling Canyon Campground, which was more than thirty kilometers from Bozeman, she managed to book a place for the night for just below fifty dollars. The price reflected the fact that they had no available power stations, but she didn’t mind—all she wanted was an area flat enough to pitch her tent without risking another round with the grizzlies.

Her smartphone vibrated.

* Good morning Rey. I wouldn’t come if I were you. This one is going to be mediocre. Maybe some other time? *

Rey felt herself fuming.

Was he trying to run away? Well, not if she had her way.

She typed a message, then erased it. And again, and yet again. Finally, she sent no response, put her phone away, finished her coffee and left the establishment.

She was going to play fetch with BB8, it would calm her down.

And this evening, she would see Kylo Ren, look him directly in the eyes. She would  wait for the end of the concert, and they were going to have a discussion. He wasn’t getting away with this!

Kylo had been in a bad mood all day, even as he helped with the installation process at the Bozeman concert venue.

Rey wanted to come this evening and he had to stop her. Syed was capable of everything under the sun, and the worst part was that he had no idea of what she was up to. She had returned his jacket and taken her orders from Hux and Snoke instead. But what orders? Something was brewing, he was sure. He was in absolutely no mood to give a damn concert, and had found himself strangely relieved when Snoke announced the cancellation of the tour. Fine. Off with the masks...he had to keep his head clear to be prepared for any scenario that high command had in mind. Snoke’s mind was twisted. It was wild, fatal, and unpredictable. He would do well to keep his weapon within reach...he had to make the first move, finding her, cornering her, and talking her out of getting involved. But where was she?

With the amount of tension and distrust in the air, it would have been better not to go through with the concert. And yet, it made for an easy cover. Naturally, Syed would not strike from the stage, it would be far too visible. That would leave her with the opening crowd and the stragglers.

Adding Rey to this equation was the worst part. She was going to find herself in the middle of a crossfire that wouldn’t leave anyone unscathed.

His heart beat faster at the mere idea of Rey taking such a risk. And what if Syed took advantage of Rey’s presence to reach him?

He would kill her for that if she tried, with his own two hands.

Around him, the Knights of Ren were quietly working on mounting the lights. He could hear their laughter in the distance in his mind, although they were only standing a few paces away. It would be a good idea to talk to them. But it would also be an admission of weakness; was a team of five people not enough to take on Syed Ren alone? No. He was going to face her fury himself.

The more the clock turned, the more the atmosphere seemed heavy. It was time to end this, once and for all.

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 131: Sea of Change (Transcript) - 9th December, 2019

tw: none

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

They call it the Wild Coast. It’s a stretch of land on the eastern side of Africa, starting around the coastal city of Durban and ending 900 miles later at Cape Town, and as for as long as ships have been sailing there, there has been tragedy. They call it the Wild Coast because of the frequency of shipwrecks that have taken place over the years – the Santo Alberto in 1593, the Good Hope in 1685, and the Bonaventura a year after that. Even today, ships occasionally fall victim to the rocky coast and stormy waves, like the Greek cruise liner, the Oceanos, which went down in August of 1991. Thankfully, there were no casualties, but one ship wasn’t so lucky. The S. S. Waratah was also a passenger liner, built and launched in 1908, and measured over 500ft long with a weight of 10,000 tonnes. It was a big ship, and as a passenger liner, it was designed to hold a lot of people in relative luxury. On its fateful journey, there were over 200 passengers on board, as well as dozens of crew members who served them and operated the ship. In July of 1909, the Waratah approached the southern tip of Africa after a long journey from Australia, and it came within sight of the Wild Coast. It made a routine stop at Durban and then continued south with the new destination of Cape Town, but a storm caused ocean swells as high as 60ft, and in conditions like that few ships stand a chance. Somewhere on the way to Cape Town, the Waratah disappeared. There were no survivors.

Ships vanish. It’s one of the risks that humans accepted when they began to venture out into the dark, mysterious waters that separated them from the undiscovered. Because, if we’re honest, there are simply too many opportunities for tragedy on the open water, and sadly some ships don’t make it home. But if you read enough of the stories about lost ocean liners and missing schooners, you’ll start to notice an exception to the rule. Yes, sometimes ships vanish from sight, but every now and then, the unthinkable happens – they return. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

[2:52]

 Our love affair with the sea is thousands of years old. All you have to do is read the histories and mythology of ancient cultures and you’ll notice right away just how central the open water was to their world view. Homer’s Odyssey, written around the 8th century B.C., tells the tale of Odysseus and his decade of travels around the ancient world, and he does much of that travel by sea. Countless other ancient stories are connected to the ocean as well. 400 years after Homer, the Greek historian Herodotus recorded the Egyptian tale of a pharaoh named Necho II, who had lived and ruled two centuries earlier. Necho was said to have assembled an expedition that left Egypt through the Red Sea on the north-eastern corner and then slowly circumnavigated Africa. They arrived at the mouth of the Nile three years later. But sailing wasn’t a new thing, even back then. Most historians think that humans first jumped into small sailing ships, similar to catamarans, all the way back in 3000BC. They began their migration from the island of Taiwan and slowly spread out south and east. 1000 years later, they were firmly established in what is now Indonesia, and soon after that they spread as far as Vanuatu and Fiji. By the 10th century, they had reached more remote places of the Pacific like Hawaii, New Zealand and Easter Island, and some even made it all the way to the west coast of South America, now settling in what is now Chile. 4000 years of expansion, giving birth to dozens of culture, and all of it thanks to sailing.

Of course, it wasn’t always about migration. For many cultures, the ocean represented the unknown, and each of them had a deep desire to go out, to explore and discover and learn – oh, and to get rich, of course, because nothing kickstarts a new industry like the promise of massive wealth, does it? But as more and more ships set sail for uncharted lands or even simply became part of growing naval fleets and merchant routes, the odds that tragedy could strike began to rise. Most of what we know today about ancient sea-faring cultures was born from that tragedy, too, in the form of shipwrecks, and every year, it seems, older and older wrecks are being discovered. Just last year, in October of 2018, researchers announced the oldest yet, a 2,400-year-old Greek merchant vessel that was discovered at the bottom of the Black Sea. It’s so well preserved that researchers were able to recognise its design from images painted on ancient wine jars, which is crazy to think about. But of course, the shipwreck is real, and that means we can learn so much more about it than a wine jar could ever have taught us.

Shipwrecks were a tragic necessity in an age when humanity was spreading out and taking risks, so much so that shipping companies just sort of assumed they would lose some of their ships in the course of doing business. And that, of course, helped give rise to commercial insurance, where companies could hedge their bets and avoid going bankrupt when random chance got in the way of the bottom line. In London, many local sailors and ship owners would gather in a coffee house owned by a man named Edward Lloyd. By the late 1680s, he had so many customers who were connected to the shipping industry that he posted daily shipping news to keep them informed. But his café also became the place to buy insurance for ships, and even when all those insurance underwriters left the café and set up shop on their own, they remembered his influence by naming their group after him. Today, it’s still around, and known as Lloyds of London.

So many ships have sunk to the bottom of the ocean over the past few thousand years that we’ve even created stories about them, stories that hint at our regret and longing, at the loss we’ve suffered through, and the deepest desire of our hearts – namely, that those long-lost vessels might one day return. They even have a name – ghost ships – and folklore is filled with them. One example is a schooner known as the Young Teazer. It was active during the war of 1812 and worked as a privateer, a government approved pirate ship, in an effort to torment and hamper the British ships off the coast of Nova Scotia, and things went according to plan for a while – until June of 1813, that is. After an encounter with a British naval vessel, the crew of the Young Teazer found themselves trapped in Mahone Bay on the eastern coast of Nova Scotia. Fearing that his capture might lead to execution, one of the crewmen was said to have ignited the powder magazine below deck. The resulting explosion left 30 men dead and the ship nearly destroyed, while the survivors were all captured and thrown in prison by the British, but it also began a new chapter in the ship’s story. Over the past two centuries, stories have been whispered about a flaming ship that has appeared in Mahone Bay. Locals refer to it as “Teazer Light”, and even though many sceptics have pointed out that the sightings could be nothing more than the reflection of the full moon on the water, it hasn’t stopped folks from hoping for the alternative.

Another ghost ship found in folklore is also the most famous: The Flying Dutchman. As far as early modern ghost ships go, the Dutchman is one of the oldest, most likely dating back to the late 1600s. All of the sightings seem to repeat the same, frightening details, too – a mysterious ship, spotted off in the distance, glowing with an eerie luminescence and devoid of all human life. But these stories are all just legends, yarn that’s been spun on the wheel of fantasy, sometimes stitching together real events and people, but never fully true, and folklore is full of stories about ghosts for a very good reason. We like to think that, however dangerous the seas might be, that against all odds those lost ships might somehow come back. Amazingly, though, life has managed to imitate art. Over the last few centuries, some lost ships have pulled off the impossible, and in doing so they’ve put themselves into a whole new category – real ships that were once thought to be lost, only to return to the land of the living.

 They’d been expecting its arrival in Newport, Rhode Island, but it never sailed into the harbour. The SV Seabird was a merchant ship that had departed weeks earlier from Honduras, where it made regular trips. The ship’s captain, John Huxham, knew the route well and shouldn’t have had any trouble. But it’s never safe to assume, is it? When the ship was later found on nearby Easton’s Beach, it was clear it had experienced trouble, and when those that discovered it stepped on board, they entered into a mysterious scene. Coffee was boiling on the stove in the galley, a pair of pets were walking on the deck, but other than that the ship was completely and utterly empty. No crew were onboard. Most people think that Captain Huxham and the others must have exited the vessel while it was still a way off from shore. The missing lifeboat seemed to confirm that idea, and with a bit more time to investigate, there’s a good chance the authorities might have solved the riddle, but a week later they travelled back to the beach, only to discover that the ship was gone, and it was never seen again.

A century later, in 1884, another merchant ship was found drifting through the Atlantic. The SV Resolven was sighted just outside of Catalina Harbour on the east coast of Newfoundland. Like the Seabird, the Resolven was also missing its lifeboat and had been completely abandoned. The only sign of damage was a broken yard, that horizontal beam at the top of the mast that the sails hang from. The ship that found the Resolven was the HMS Mallard, and they did their best to put the pieces together. They’d sighted a tall iceberg in the region and assumed the Resolven had come a bit too close to it, which would explain the damage, but it wasn’t enough to justify abandoning ship, which struck them as odd. Even more mysterious were the signs of normal life inside the ship. All of the lanterns were still lit and below deck, the stove in the galley was hot with a fire still burning inside it, and most mysterious of all was the ship’s log, which contained records of all the activities onboard. The most recent item on the page had been written down just six hours prior to the Mallard’s arrival.

But if we’re going to talk about actual ships that have turned up empty, we simply can’t ignore one particular story, because it’s quite possibly the one that introduced the idea of ghost ships to American culture, giving us our own version of those old-world legends. The Amazon was built in 1860, first sliding into the water at the shipyard owned and operated by Joshua Dewis up in Nova Scotia. It was a wooden brigantine, a two-masted sailing ship, and it was of average size, measuring just shy of 100ft long. But life didn’t start out smooth for the Amazon. On the ship’s maiden voyage, which began in June of 1861, the captain became ill. Before they could even begin to transport their cargo across the Atlantic, the Amazon was forced to return to its home port, where the captain died a few days later. The next captain didn’t fair any better. Under the supervision of John Parker, the Amazon had a number of accidents, including crashing into a brig in the English Channel. Somehow, though, the ship survived. When Captain William Thompson took over command in 1863, he ushered in a period of peace for the ship and it travelled all over, performing the duties it had been designed to do. But four years later, in October of 1867, an ill wind blew the Amazon off course, where it ran aground at Cape Breton Island at the northern tip of Nova Scotia. The extensive damage led the crew to abandon ship, and four days later the wreckage was hauled off by a salvager.

But the Amazon wasn’t finished just yet. After being sold to a local businessman and restored to sailing condition, it was moved to New York City, where it became part of a merchant fleet owned by a man named James Winchester. Oh, and they changed the ship’s name, too. No longer would it be called the Amazon. Instead, it would be the Mary Celeste. The first job for the newly-restored ship was to carry a cargo of over 17,000 barrels of denatured alcohol, a type of ethanol that’s been coloured and made toxic to discourage consumption. The ship’s owners brought on a man named Benjamin Briggs as captain and allowed him to hire a crew of seven experienced sailors, and then they began to plan the route to Genoa on the north-western coast of Italy. Captain Briggs was so confident in his ship and crew that he brought his wife, Sarah, along, as well as his son Arthur and daughter Sophia. Together with the crew, they all settled in to the Mary Celeste, and left port on November 7th of 1872. It was the last time any of them were seen alive.

A week later, on November 15th, another ship left the same harbour in New York. The Dei Gratia was captained by a man named David Morehouse, and depending on the sources you accept as reliable, he was a casual acquaintance of Benjamin Briggs. Their destination was Gibraltar, located at the southern tip of Spain, where the Mediterranean Sea meets the Atlantic, and it was route that placed them on roughly the same line as the Mary Celeste. A month later, on December 4th, the Dei Gratia was off the coast of Portugal, when someone spotted a ship about six miles away. As they drew closer to it, everyone could make out the name on its stern. It was the Mary Celeste. From a distance, they noticed a few key details – the sails were in poor condition, some of the deck hatches were wide open, and the lifeboat was missing. Morehouse ordered two of his crew to row over and investigate. They found the interior cabins to be wet and disorderly, as if a storm had blown through, and Captain Briggs’ sword was discovered beneath a bed. The ship’s compass was damaged, and the cargo hold was filled with about 3ft of water. It was chaos and disorder – but not entirely.

While the hold had taken on water, all of the valuable cargo was still onboard, ruling out pirates, and the ship’s kitchen was neat and orderly, too, with no signs that anyone rushed out unprepared. After searching the whole ship, nothing else alarming could be found. The crew and passengers had simply vanished. In the end, Morehouse decided to bring the ship with him to Gibraltar, where he might be able to earn a potion of its salvage price. It took another week, but eventually the Mary Celeste arrived in port, bringing its mysterious journey to an end. But at least one abandoned ship in the past managed to evade capture entirely. It slipped from their grasp and drifted away, leaving its owners wondering if they would ever see it again, and in doing so, they taught everyone involved a valuable lesson: the only thing more mysterious than a ghost ship is one that keeps coming back.

 When it comes to abandoned ships, few have drifted into the minds of sailors like the story of the SS Baychimo. It was a 1300-ton steamer built in 1914, and for many years it served in the merchant fleet of the Hudson Bay Company, but that’s not where it started out. It seems the Baychimo had actually been a German vessel for its first few months in the water, running the trade route between Germany and Sweden, where the company that operated it was located. But when World War I ended, part of Germany’s reparation agreement included making amends for the loss of ships suffered by other countries, and the Baychimo was given to the United Kingdom. It was there in western Scotland that the Hudson Bay Company took ownership, and because the Baychimo was equipped with a powerful steam engine and a thick, steel hull, it was assigned a route between Scotland and northern Canada, where it picked up animal pelts in exchange for goods that were unavailable to the Inuit communities who lived there.

It wasn’t always an easy trip, though. In 1928, the ship ran aground in Camden Bay in northern Alaska. Thankfully, it was undamaged and moved back into the water, keeping the Hudson Bay Company from losing the cargo. But when it comes to the constant barrage of dangers from the sea, it’s impossible to dodge all the bullets. Three years later, in October of 1931, the Baychimo got caught in heavy ice in the waters north of Alaska, bringing the massive steamer to a halt. The crew initially abandoned ship, but when the ice began to break up, they happily returned. A week later, though, it happened again, this time further out from land. To save the crew, the Hudson Bay Company sent an aeroplane out to rescue them. When the plane arrived, all 37 crew members exited the ship for the last time. Only 22 were able to fit on the aircraft, so the other 15 stayed between to wait for a second flight. A few days later, a powerful snow storm brought whiteout conditions, and when it was over, the ship was gone, sunk by the heavy ice, no doubt. But it hadn’t. A few days later, the ship was spotted in a new location, and the remaining crew were able to board it and remove the valuable cargo in case tragedy finally did catch up with it. And then they left, abandoning the Baychimo to the ice and harsh conditions and kicking off a string of sightings that earnt it a powerful reputation as an Alaskan ghost ship.

In March of 1932, a man named Leslie Melvin was guiding his dog sled team along the coast on his way back to the city of Nome in western Alaska. As he looked up from the sled at the scenery around him, his eye was drawn to the ocean, and he spotted something. It was the Baychimo, floating peacefully without power up the coast. Later that summer, a trading party spotted the ghost ship further north, off the coast of Wainwright, and they actually managed to board the vessel. When they discovered it was empty, though, they exited and went on their way. In March of 1933, a group of Athabaskans, part of the indigenous community in Alaska, also boarded the ghost ship, only to be trapped inside it for ten days while the winter storm cut them off from land. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to be inside in the dark with all the unidentifiable sounds that come with being aboard a ship trapped in the ice and wind. As the months went on, more and more rumours spread out, trickling through each of the nearby Hudson Bay Company outposts like water through a network of pipes.

There was a July, 1934 sighting by a team of scientific explorers, as well as multiple reports in September of 1935 from further up north. It was clear that the Baychimo had not gone away for good, and it was out there, haunting the shores and waiting for someone to capture it. The last time the ship was boarded was in November of 1939, eight years after it had first disappeared. A captain by the name of Hugh Polson brought his whole crew onboard, hoping to either be able to get the ship running again, or at least tow it to port, where it could be salvaged for its valuable materials. But the longer they stayed on the ship, the more ominous and oppressive it felt. When the ice began to build up around them, they panicked and headed back to their own vessel, leaving the ghost ship to fend for itself. No one boarded the Baychimo ever again.

 The idea of ghost ships is one that we’ve held onto for a very long time, whether it’s the ancient tales of ships like the Caleuche of Chiloé Island or the Flying Dutchman of Europe, or newer ones such as the Valencia of Vancouver Island and the Governor Parr, near Nova Scotia. It seems no matter what we do, we can’t escape the stories. Ghost ships, it seems, are here to stay, and they’ve become one of the most popular bits of folklore too, drifting their way into film, television and books over the past couple of centuries. We see glimpses of those legends in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, an epic poem from 1798 by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and The Pirates of the Caribbean films have their own interpretation. It’s impossible to say how long we’ve been telling their stories, but it’s clear that we’ll never really stop. The Mary Celeste has had quite an impact all on its own, too. Since the events surrounding its abandonment in 1872, whispered versions of the story have spread all throughout pop culture. It’s been subject of multiple films, novels and television episodes. It’s even appeared in the British sci-fi series Doctor Who.

Ghost ships have proven themselves to be a thing that simply won’t go away. They may drift off into the fog for a little while, but eventually, when we least expect it, they will make their return, appearing in some new context or location. And no legend backs up that dependability like the SS Baychimo. The ship was spotted off and on over the years that followed its abandonment, making the first eight years of its story something of a mystery, and that’s how it went, decade after decade, until one final sighting was reported in 1969, almost 40 years after the original crew had been rescued. After that, the authorities lost track of the ship once more, and to this day no one is quite sure where it might be. Perhaps the ice finally won, and its resting on the ocean floor, or maybe it’s just drifting a bit too far outside normal shipping routes to be spotted. In our modern world of satellite imagery and commercial air travel, one would think it would be easy to find, but so far, we’ve had no luck. Like many of the ghost ships found in folklore, the Baychimo had come to represent equal parts hope and despair. It shows us just how much is possible when it comes to abandoned ships and their longevity, making it clear that not all that is lost is gone forever. But it also reminds us that real life can sometimes be a bit more frustrating than we’d like. Just because we want the answers, doesn’t mean we’ll always get them.

Tales of ghostly ships that never seem to go away are one of the most attractive and popular stories for lovers of the strange and the unusual, and I hope you enjoyed your voyage onboard many of the better-known ones today. But there’s one more story that doesn’t get told enough, and it adds a new twist to a classic legend. I’ll tell you all about it right after this short sponsor break.

[Sponsor break from The Great Courses Plus, Audible and Squarespace]

The Ellen Austin was a three-mast schooner. It slid off the shipyard and into the cold Atlantic waters, way back in 1854 under the ownership of one Captain Tucker. Back then, Maine was the place to be if you wanted timber for building, and it had been for centuries. Prior to the Revolutionary War, there was a constant flow of resources headed back to England, but now, local ship builders up on the coast of Maine were getting rich making new vessels for wealthy owners, and the Tuckers were one such group. I could tell you about how large the ship was, how it was over 200ft long and weighed in at 1800 tons, and I could tell you how it was sold a few years later, in 1857, but the most important thing to know about the Ellen Austin is that it was very good at making the trip between London and America. Actually, 1857 really wasn’t a good year for the crew of that ship. In February of that year, a report was published in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle that claimed the current captain, William Garrick, had been using violence to abuse and control his men. It seemed he had a temper and tended to take his anger out on anyone near him.

A few months later, in July of 1857, the ship left Liverpool full of passengers and began headed towards New York City. But along the way, a wave of smallpox broke out on the ship, and it had to be quarantined so that the sick could be taken care of. Five months later, it happened again. The Ellen Austin didn’t just travel to New York City, though. In the late 1860s, it was making trips to San Francisco, although after a number of accidents that involved running into other ships, it was eventually repaired and brought back to the east coast. Through most of the 1870s, it was back to that standard London-New York route. And then something changed in December of 1880. The ship had been sold to new owners some time that year, and had been sent on a journey further south, toward Florida and the Caribbean, which is where something rather strange happened to them. Off in the distance, they spotted another ship, but it wasn’t moving. The captain at the time was a bright fellow who was very aware that pirates often used tactics like this to their advantage – pretend the ship was empty, wait for another ship to come closer, and then pounce. So, instead of approaching the mysterious vessel, they lowered their sails and set a watch on it.

After two days of vigilant observation, the captain of the Ellen Austin decided that it was safe to approach. Once on board, they discovered that the vessel had, in fact, been abandoned. The cargo was still intact and safe, and there seemed to be a full supply of food rations, but if the former crew had left because of some emergency, there didn’t seem to be any sign of it onboard. They were just… gone. So, the captain assigned a small party of his crew to get the ship ready to sail, and then the pair of vessels left the area together, headed for London to cash in on their newly salvaged prize. Only, the weather had other ideas. A storm blew in three days later and the two ships became separated. Looking back, we now know that it was a large hurricane that was headed towards the southern portion of the United States, but to the crew of the Ellen Austin, it was just frustration. They had lost sight of the other ship.

The captain ordered the ship to turn around and search the area. It took them days, but finally they spotted the missing ship off in the distance. Relieved that they would be reunited with their prize and the fellow crew members who were operating it, they sailed toward it. But even from a distance, things didn’t look right. The captain of the Ellen Austin hailed the other ship, hoping his men had safely weathered the storm, but surprisingly, no one replied. So, they approached the lifeless vessel and boarded it, guns drawn in case of pirates. What they found, though, defied explanation. Everything seemed just as they had found it days earlier. The valuable cargo was still in the hold, safe and sound, the store of food was still untouched, and the beds all seemed to have been unused. And yet nowhere on the ship could they find any sign of the small crew they had transferred over. The men were gone.

Over the years, new details have been added to this story. Some claim that the captain ordered a second team to pilot the ship home, only to have fog separate them again, resulting in yet another lost crew, but that story comes to use from a naval officer who wrote about it in the 1930s, and there doesn’t seem to be much proof of it outside of that. Still, it’s a fantastic tale that takes the notion of a ghost ship and turns it around in a way that defies explanation, and it also reminds us of just how unpredictable and mysterious life on the open sea really can be. We humans love the predictable, we love consistency and dependability and being able to count on life going a certain way. We build our sense of security and safety around the notion that everything will be okay. But once we set our oars in the ocean or raise our sails and travel to distant lands over treacherous waves, it becomes clear that we’ve stepped into a whole new world that is outside of our control. We might fight it or try and plan against it, but in the end, we are completely at its mercy, because we can never be fully prepared for a sea of change.

[Closing statements]

[kinfriday]

Wandering Hops: Disappointments

Growing up in the deserts of West Texas gave me a special appreciation for the ocean, and temperatures below 115 degrees.  Our summers got so hot, I became convinced that heat was one of our chief exports to hell. No matter where you are, it seemed like  it was always hotter somewhere in Texas. 

However, being on the beach does not make you immune from the sun. I learned that living in Southern California, but at least the breeze coming off the Pacific is cool, and makes the days bearable. 

Even down in Corpus Christi, Tx  near the Gulf of Mexico, eight hours from where I grew up, the air was so thick with humidity you could cut slices of it out of the air, and save it for later. Which made it a dubious respite at best and a “living in the worlds largest dryer vent simulator” at worst. 

Does it sound like I’m complaining? Maybe I’m just venting. I’ve apparently built up some steam about this topic. 

Ok, there’s our terrible pun allotment for this blog post… Moving on.

To summarize, the ocean has always held a type of special allure to me. 

For one, any large expanse of sparkling blue water was a rarity in my life, and for two, the sight of the Atlantic was associated in my mind with a one time summer trip to Disney World when I was six, and visiting my Mom’s side of the family in the North East. We’d go to the “Shore” (bonus points for you if that tells you the state) and spend a few days enjoying the colder waters, enjoying our respite from the desert sun. 

Yet my entire life, up until I was 26, I had never ventured further west than Albuquerque. The Pacific was a mystery to me. The first time I saw it, was from the dirty window of an eighteen wheeler, hauling freight while in driver training. Far off down the street was a horizon of shimmering blue, during a spring-like November day in Los Angeles. 

The traffic had been hell, the parking worse (my vehicle was 70ft long, tip to tip) but suddenly, all of my problems lifted. 

There it was, off in the horizon, the big blue water of the west. Fabled in song and story. 

The Pacific Ocean. 

It is a treasured memory, and has stuck with me, even though I ended up living in Southern California with my then fiance, and now husband. Ironically, in many ways, the Ocean is a desert in its own right. Nothing truly lives only on the surface amongst its waves.  In fact, most  life there is out of sight, far below the water line. Yet the climate, and it’s beauty is so radically different from anything I had ever really known, outside of a few moments from my youth. 

And, amidst the wonder, the grind of daily life, and all those memories, I somehow had yet to visit the Pacific Ocean here in my home state of Washington. 

In short, I decided it was high time to fix that. 

The North Head Discovery trail is a there-and-back hike rated as moderate difficulty. Its challenge arises mainly from its mileage, and the slight increase in elevation at its end. My hiking app gave me maps which combine it with the Cape Disappointment Lighthouse trail, giving it an elevation challenge. 

I set out from the parking lot of a resort that donates parking space for trail goers. The trail itself was wide and paved, nothing like what I was accustomed to. A discovery trail is different from your normal hiking trail, in that it focuses on historical and/or scientific curiosities in the area.  It’s not just an adventure, it’s a field trip, and for a history buff, this made it especially appealing. You see, Lewis and Clark were there, in 1805. Strewn along the straight, southern path are tiny diversions leading to monuments, and statues, detailing their journeys, and pages from their journals describing events they encountered on the very ground you are walking upon connecting you to their time. 

There are gateway arches over the entrance to each parking lot you cross that in proud, bold numbers, proclaiming 1805 showing the  pride the community takes in their current history. 

The focus is mainly upon the expedition itself, and the local flora and fauna, but there is one placard detailing a limited history of the Chinook, the indigenous people that called that area home before they were ultimately, and unfairly displaced off their land by America’s dream of manifest destiny. 

In this, I found the trail especially lacking. To know more of this people, and their history, while venturing on the shorelines where they once lived, thrived, and built their society would have served as a fitting counterpoint to the Lewis and Clark Expedition which ultimately functioned as a herald of the end to their way of life.  

Overall, this feeling of imbalance greatly stuck with me as I veered south after my first quarter mile. I was now easily able to hear the roar of the waves, smell the ocean, and feel the cool breeze but I still could not see it. An endless sea of dune grass instead, like the world’s largest shag carpet, stretched out before me as I moved along the easy, wide path, wondering when I would get my chance. 

At half a mile in, I couldn’t take it anymore, and diverted down a side trail, heading sharply west. Breaking over the sand dune, and there it was in all of its majesty

I stood there, and took it all in. Here I was, well over 1500 miles from where I had first seen it, and yet, this was the same patch of big blue water. The enormity of it boggled my mind, and caused me to take a deep breath, if only to recenter myself, as I pondered the vastness of the machinery of the Earth. 

Still, I was not there to stare, not there to have a day playing upon the beach. I was there to hike a trail, and make miles. Taking one last look, I turned back towards my task, and got to work, stopping at a convenient bench to knock the sand out of my shoes. 

Soon, the ocean disappeared behind the dunes, and I was back amongst the grassy expanse, cooled by the breeze and all the while being baked by the sun; heading south at a constant, rhythmic pace. 

It got meditative. There wasn’t much to do, and there wasn’t much to see besides occasional informational placards and monuments, which sometimes broke me out of my forward moving stupor, and other times, failed to arouse my interest. The first hour passed, and then, about half way through my second, I came to an inescapable realization. 

I was bored. 

In the hiking community, watching videos, I’ve heard the term “type two fun.” Type Two fun is something that is fun after the fact. You look back on the memory of its accomplishment fondly, even though at the time you were, uncomfortable, overworked, bored, or any number of mildly to severely unpleasant feelings. 

As I plodded along it seemed to me that, save for a few moments, this hike was going to be full of the type two fun, and I found myself disheartened. Stopping in my tracks just over four miles in I looked back the way I came as questions danced through my mind. 

Should I go home? Give up? Call it an early day? Did I really want to complete this trail, or was I content with saying I tried, and it wasn’t for me? 

The decision grew heavier, as I looked forward towards my goals. When I hike the PCT in 2020, I know there will be times when I’m bored, and when I just don’t want to hike. I might be sore, or just fed up, and as I pondered, it became apparent to me that giving up, was a habit, as was perseverance. If I quit today because I was bored, or uninterested, it was going to be that much easier to quit next time… when the workout got hard, or the trail challenging, or when the sentence wouldn’t come for my novel. 

That simply wouldn’t do, so, turning back towards the south, I dug in, kicked on my audio book, and enjoyed the scenery I did have, putting away my expectations. 

I’ll be honest, there were times when the trail seemed to drag by with all the rapidity of a snail on ketamine but I set a goal for myself to clear as quickly as I could to work on my pacing. 

With a goal in mind, and a good audiobook pouring from my headset, another hour passed, as a small mountain came into view, and suddenly, there was a full beach to my right with the ocean pounding against the waves. 

Here before me was a profound type of liminal space. Not just ocean and shore, but ocean, shore and forest all meeting in one collision of juxtaposed beauty. Breaking out of the dune grass, there was an entirely new vista before me now, as the trail tilted up, carrying me forward, and providing me with some elevation challenge, until I crossed one parking lot, then another, and came upon an old lighthouse perched at its top, with a sweeping view of the Pacific before me. 

It was an experience I would have never had, if I had turned back. Enjoying my reward, snapping a few pictures for posterity, I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and turned around for the  7.5 mile journey back to my truck, happy that I had stayed on the trail. 

[zrtranscripts]

Season 8, Mission 6: On The Hunt

Hidden depths

~

TOM DE LUCA: We've reached the red barn beside the old gun emplacement, Jane. Where do we go from here?

JANINE DE LUCA: Laird Reid informs me that the owner of a cottage north of you spotted zombies in its herb garden.

JODY MARSH: No sightings of Jones?

JANINE DE LUCA: None. But I gather news of his murderous intentions has spread. There's a great deal of unease.

JODY MARSH: At least you know his timetable now. Whatever he's planning will happen at the festival next month.

TOM DE LUCA: Although we still don't know why.

JANINE DE LUCA: Luckily, should he succeed, I will not be around to see Jones crowned king of the rocks. My expiration date is a week earlier.

JODY MARSH: Expiration date? Janine, don't talk like that.

JANINE DE LUCA: [coughs] Excuse me.

JODY MARSH: Janine's turned off her mic. How is she, Tom?

TOM DE LUCA: The nanites are doing something to her stomach. It's unpredictable. Yesterday, partial blindness. Today, nausea. Tomorrow? Who knows.

JODY MARSH: It's 20 days left today, isn't it? Jones can't keep hiding forever. After he killed the Macleans, there can't be anyone on the island who'd shelter him.

TOM DE LUCA: I hope he's been too clever for his own good. These zombie attraction devices could lead us to him.

JODY MARSH: How do you mean?

TOM DE LUCA: I don't want to jinx it. We need to get to that herb garden as quickly as we can. Let's run!

~

JANINE DE LUCA: Runners, I'm back. Please don't ask for details about my health! Just proceed with the mission. Cams indicate you're closing in on the objective. Sitrep, please.

TOM DE LUCA: Roger that. I have visual on the cliff path. No hostiles in sight.

JODY MARSH: [laughs] You guys! You're great, honestly. I'm just imagining you as kids. "Sitrep on the breakfast, Jane." "Roger that, Tom! The soldiers are advancing on the yolk. Expect contact at 0700!"

TOM DE LUCA: Actually, Janie never liked runny yolks. She said they looked like snot! Mum told her she couldn't get up from the table until she ate her breakfast. Five hours later, she was still there, her little arms crossed, pouting. Mum let her eat what she wanted after that.

JODY MARSH: Figures. Still stubborn as anything. Five, here's the zombie attractor in a rosemary bush.

TOM DE LUCA: Let me have a look. [foliage rustles] I was right! See here, about five yards away behind the mint?

JANINE DE LUCA: What is it?

JODY MARSH: A hole in the ground, really deep.

TOM DE LUCA: A blowhole from the cave systems below, I believe.

JODY MARSH: And there's something in it. Is that a spy camera?

JANINE DE LUCA: I see! Mr. Jones has been hiding in the caves. He's using blowholes and small cameras to ensure that no one is in sight when he plants his devices. Very clever.

TOM DE LUCA: Do you mean me or him?

JANINE DE LUCA: Both.

TOM DE LUCA: Most of the devices were planted in a three-click radius of the black barn, including this one. I'm sure Jones' base will be within that area. We've got him, Jane!

JANINE DE LUCA: Not quite yet!

JODY MARSH: Bother! That thing's drawn some zoms. They're coming up the cliff path. Stamp on the attractor, Five. [device shatters, JODY MARSH sighs] No use. They've got our scent.

TOM DE LUCA: That's good. There's a cave entrance on the beach. If the zoms follow us down there, they should cover the sound of our passage. With any luck, we'll be able to sneak up on Jones. Let's go!

~

JODY MARSH: We've reached the cave, Janine. It's on the damp side, and getting damper. The tide's coming in.

JANINE DE LUCA: I'm sorry, I just need to -

TOM DE LUCA: [sighs] She was up through the night vomiting. This could be all over today. If we find Jones, if we get the nanite controller from him.

JODY MARSH: There's no sign of Jones here, Tom. It's just a cave. Rocks, algae. It doesn't look man-made. I know you want to find him, but not all these caves are connected. If this one's a dead end, we'll be cornered by the zoms.

TOM DE LUCA: Janie would tell us to return to base so we can formulate a plan to take advantage of new intel.

JODY MARSH: So... back home?

TOM DE LUCA: Hmm. Jones has been one step ahead of us from the start. He managed to grab a walkie-talkie. He used zombie attractors to lure Five and Paula into danger. We have to accept someone on the island might be helping him, Jody. And this is the first time we could have the jump on him. We have to keep going!

JODY MARSH: Well, the zoms are right behind us, so if we're going, we go now. Run!

~

[water splashes]

JANINE DE LUCA: I've returned to my post. I'm adequate to perform my duties. Sitrep, please.

JODY MARSH: Do you want the good news or the bad news, Janine?

JANINE DE LUCA: I would prefer a detailed action report, Miss Marsh.

TOM DE LUCA: We've lost the zoms, but the water's a little deeper.

JODY MARSH: A little? It's almost up to my nostrils! And there's only about six inches between us and the cave roof.

TOM DE LUCA: Five's taking point to check that the floor doesn't fall away ahead.

JODY MARSH: And what are we supposed to do if it does? We can't turn back. There are zoms behind! This is horrible!

TOM DE LUCA: I'm sorry, love!

JODY MARSH: No, I'm sorry. I thought you'd be the one panicking in here.

TOM DE LUCA: Well, I can't say I'm enjoying it, but... we'll get through, I promise. I have a hunch we're on the right track.

JANINE DE LUCA: Military operations don't run on intuition, Tom. You should turn back and look for a side tunnel. If I'd been at my post, I would never have allowed you to pursue this hunch!

JODY MARSH: Wait, look! I can see Five's shoulders. It's getting shallower.

TOM DE LUCA: Yes, I can feel we're heading upwards quite steeply.

JODY MARSH: Give me a hand, Five. The floor's dead slippy.

TOM DE LUCA: We're out of the water, Janie.

JANINE DE LUCA: [whispers] Oh, thank God. [out loud] Report please, Miss Marsh! What do you see?

JODY MARSH: We're in a cavern. A big one with a really weird roof. It's hard to tell, but it looks like someone's painted it red, and it's all bobbly like a giant egg box.

JANINE DE LUCA: Neolithic carvings, perhaps. Miss Maxted would have been able to tell us more.

TOM DE LUCA: Look, over here. I was right. It's a campfire.

JANINE DE LUCA: How recent?

TOM DE LUCA: The ashes are cold and wet. Jones must have used water to quench them. But the wall beside it is still warm. Jones was here recently, and there's only one other exit. We've got him! Five, Jody, let's go!

~

JANINE DE LUCA: Report, please. Have you sighted Jones?

TOM DE LUCA: Not yet.

JODY MARSH: We've been lucky so far, though. No branches to the tunnel. There's nowhere else he could have gone.

TOM DE LUCA: We'll get him. We'll have the nanite controller for you today, Janie. This afternoon. Soon!

JANINE DE LUCA: Please, Tom. Don't...

TOM DE LUCA: I know you don't want us to go after him just for you. But we didn't. He's a danger to the islands. He has the missing piece of the Edda. Finding him is mission critical! Don't blame yourself.

JANINE DE LUCA: No, I just... I can't hope it's over until it is. I cannot allow myself that luxury.

JODY MARSH: Look! There he is! Jones. I saw him, just a glimpse disappearing behind the bend in the tunnel. If we speed up, we'll catch him. Come on!

~

[bullet ricochets]

JANINE DE LUCA: What was that?

JODY MARSH: Jones. He's firing at us, but he can't aim properly while he's running. We've nearly got him.

TOM DE LUCA: Up ahead, do you see, Five? The tunnel widens into a cave and I can see a crate and other equipment scattered around. He's leading us right back to his main camp.

JANINE DE LUCA: Be careful. An animal's most dangerous when it's cornered.

[bullet ricochets]

TOM DE LUCA: Five and I brought guns, Jane. I'd rather take him alive, but I'll shoot him if I have to.

JODY MARSH: To the left! There's another exit tunnel. Jones is heading for it.

TOM DE LUCA: But he's slowing down. We've tired him out. Quick, Five, one last push and we'll have him.

JODY MARSH: Watch out! He's got a grenade! Get down, both of you!

[explosion, Runner Five's ears ring, JODY MARSH and TOM DE LUCA shout]

JANINE DE LUCA: What happened? Tom, can you hear me?

TOM DE LUCA: We're all in one piece. Jones must have had a stock of munitions. He threw the grenade at it and it all went up.

JANINE DE LUCA: And Jones?

TOM DE LUCA: Must have taken off down that tunnel. We'll go after him.

[cave rumbles]

JODY MARSH: We won't. Look, the explosion cracked the roof of the tunnel open. It's about to fall.

JANINE DE LUCA: Take what you can and get out.

TOM DE LUCA: But - !

JANINE DE LUCA: That's an order, Tom. You have his equipment. The roof may cave in at any moment. Capturing the man today isn't worth your lives.

TOM DE LUCA: All right. Five, you grab those rucksacks and whatever those bottles are. Jody, can you manage that wheeled trolley?

JODY MARSH: No problem.

TOM DE LUCA: And I can take the rest.

JANINE DE LUCA: Get out of there! Go!

[cave roof collapses]

~

[tunnel collapses]

JODY MARSH: We made it, Janine! The tunnel sealed behind us, but we're clear.

JANINE DE LUCA: Good! I'm glad you're safe.

TOM DE LUCA: So close to catching him! If I'd thought to arrange a pincer movement, Five, we'd have had him.

JODY MARSH: Yeah, but look at this! We've got all his stuff. Vials of blood just like he used for the Exmoor massacre. And all that stuff on the trolley. It's the components for the zombie attraction devices. And he blew up his own weapons cache. This is good. This is really good.

JANINE DE LUCA: What about the Edda?

TOM DE LUCA: He knows its value. I imagine he keeps it on him at all times.

JANINE DE LUCA: And the... nanite control box? It's not there either, is it?

JODY MARSH: No. We haven't found it.

JANINE DE LUCA: I see. There is little reason for Mr. Jones to keep that with him at all times. I suspect he no longer has it. In all likelihood, it's at the bottom of the Atlantic. There'll be no cure for me.

TOM DE LUCA: There will be! The nanites came from the Hebrides. There must be a way to cure them here. I promise you, whatever it takes, we're going to find it for you!

~

[littleredroseonthevalley]

Dejame

Summary: Wildest Dreams sequel. In the wake of Nathan’s wedding, Emily decided to pick up and leave the city. So many miles away, at a bar on a border town, will she find someone new?

Rating: M -  Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Notes: Here we are. Two-hundred followers, which is 199 more than I originally expected. Thanks to all of you, and a special thanks to @wickedgypsymoon, who joined the rank as my two-hundredth. Thank you!

Let’s get to business, shall we?

The inspiration for this fanfic is Dejame, from the Argentinean pop band Miranda! Yes, they style themselves with the exclamation. As this is a Latin American song, I placed a few references to the continent, and Argentina in particular, throughout the story. So, yeah, that’s where those are from.

Without further ado, enjoy.

It was sometime around three in the morning, in some lonely highway, right on the state line between New Hampshire and Maine. From the side of the road, it was possible to see the summer moon reflected on the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Emily was deadbeat tired, driving non-stop ever since she crossed the Martha’s Vineyard ferry. Her initial intent was to return to her shitty apartment in Boston, but when she got to the injunction, she just drove past, kept going north.

Finally, she reached Portsmouth, NH and ran out of gasoline. As the nearest station she could find already closed for the night, she decided to go over to a small pub that seemed to be open and running, still.

As she crosses into the threshold, she notices why: there was an ocean of men in navy blue Air Force suits, merrily shouting and singing drunken songs with long neck bottles of beer.

The thought of it being a private event did cross the redhead’s mind, but she dismissed it. She was much too tired, and depressed, to leave without even trying to argue a case favourable for her getting something to drink.

So the still-finely-dressed woman slithered her way through the heavy mountains of muscles that passed as soldiers, mostly inconspicuously. Reaching the bar, she raises a finger and the barman slugs tiredly over to her.

“A Bud, if you still have one.” She asks.

The middle-aged man bends down, places a bottle in front of her, and says, rather snotty: “There you go.”

“Thanks.” The woman gives him a weak smile, out of sympathy. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s the air base in town.” He says, gruff. “They’re going out on summer leave and come here for a last hurrah before heading home. Last call’s been hours ago and there’s nothing that gets them outta here! Anyways, if you need anything else, just call.”

“Thanks.” She smiles once more. “I’m sorry for all the rowdiness.”

He gives her an acknowledging nod and walks over to yet another customer demanding booze.

The clock goes on, while she admires the little bubbles and the cold fog on the muddy-coloured glass of the bottle. She does not know how long it been, until such time a man slides on the stool next to her.

“Hello.” He greets, amicably. He was tall and blond, as muscular as any of the men in the perimeter are, but with a naiveté of sorts on his light blue eyes, something that screamed boy-next-door.

“Hey.” She greets back.

“You’re not from around here.” He stated, clearly not meaning it as a question.

She smirks slightly with the question, amused. “What gave it away? The accent? The dress? Those stupid clasps on my head?”

He shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Just that you’re kinda crashing our party, and the locals try to avoid the military people.”

The woman could not help but laugh softly. “Coulda fooled me. But, anyways, I’m from Michigan, originally, but I live in Boston these days.”

“The Great Mitten!” He exclaims, well humoured. “Detroit?”

“Grand Rapids.” She corrects, and then asks, “Yourself?”

“Not a local, either, but I’m closer to home than you.” His grin shines on the dim lighting of the bar. “I’m from Cherryfield, Maine. A stone throw from Canada.”

“Cool.” She responds, not really knowing what to say. “You got anyone waiting for you over there?”

“You mean, like a girlfriend or something?” The blond asks, capisciously. “No, I’m a single man. Though, my mom’s still up there. I’m going over there to see her in the morning.”

“And your dad? Out of the picture?” She asks, bluntly.

The man did not seem to mind. “Yeah. He walked on us when I was little. And how about you? What’s waiting for you in Michigan?”

“A mother, and a bunch of busybody aunts and their harlot daughters.” She responds with a grimace. “I also don’t have a dad, though mine died when I was little.”

“Only child?” He follows up.

She nods. “Yup. You?”

“Two siblings.” He responds, with some wear. “AJ’s at San Francisco. She’s a freelance visual novel artist. And there’s Kyle. He’s a surfer.”

“Aren’t you guys from Maine?” The redhead asks, legitimately confused how a surfer could rail from such a chilly place.

“He moved to Hawaii for college.” It was the simple answer. Trying, and failing, to disguise his discomfort, the man asks: “I’ve just realized we never introduced ourselves.”

“Then by all means.” She extended him her hand. “I’m Emily Harper.”

“I’m Christopher Powell, but you can call me Chris.” He took her hand in his much larger one. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.” She checked the sleeves of his shirt and salutes him slop and mockingly. “Captain Powell.”

“At ease, Cadet Harper.” He responds, in equal humour. “So, what brings you to New Hampshire?”

“Aw, man.” Emily says, self-depreciating. “How long do you have?”

The dirty-blond-haired man looked at his watch. “My bus leaves at five, so I’d say about one hour and a half.”

“Let’s hope it’s time enough, right?” She winked and threw him a smirk.

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.” The woman says, in all seriousness. “Well, it all began last New Year’s…”

And so, Emily told Chris everything that had happened between her fateful encounter with Nathan Sterling to her crashing his wedding earlier that night. The man listened patiently to her tale, making appropriate interruptions for comments and elucidations.

“Now I’m not sure what exactly I want to do with my life. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a job anymore. I don’t want to go back to Boston, never liked it, really, but I’m on the fence about Michigan, too. Perhaps I need somewhere new, to start fresh, you know?” She finishes the tale. Checking the clock, she cheerily says, “Looks like I wasted exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of your life.”

“I had fun.” He says, earnest. “Deployed life doesn’t allow for good conversation, and you’re a good storyteller. I’m hung up on every word.”

The redhead laughs, self-conscious. “Don’t flatter me.”

He raised his arms in rendition. “I’m telling the truth. In fact, I want to make you a deal.”

“Hm?” The woman nods for him to proceed.

“Cherryfield isn’t far. It’s a few hours on the U.S. 1. Why don’t you take me there on your car? I’ll pay for your gas, and you get to be somewhere you’ve never been before. If, by the time we arrive, you decide to go back to Boston or to Michigan, I’ll help you out, too.”

She let out a wide grin. “Let’s do it.”

It was a fair weather day in Maine. The sun shone, and people could walk the sinuous and forested streets of Cherryfield with sleeveless tops and open shoes, and most preferred such, so they would soak in the rare sunlight that shone on that part of the world.

Emily sat alone with a book on her lap on the lonely red brick house that served as that little New English town’s library.

Ever since the last librarian’s retirement, some six months earlier, the place had been closed. It was an understatement to say the town council had been only too glad to have a Northwestern English graduate like Emily to take the job.

The pay was not anything to be proud of, but it came with a small loft and utilities paid. As long as it paid for the food, clothing and a health insurance, it was more than good enough.

That afternoon had been quiet, as usual. The only visitors she had up so far was a couple of schoolchildren looking for help on their summer assignments and a lady after her book club’s weekly title.

It left her plenty of time for leisure reading, cleaning and organizing the dusty shelves of the library and, most importantly, for her poetry writing. It was the greatest progress she made ever since moving to Boston, and certainly her new material was of a higher quality than whatever she had written since college.

On that particular part of day, the redhead had put on some music on her phone while she cleaned and repaired a pair of shelves on the far back of the library, which held several volumes in Maine history, as much so as the books were mostly history themselves.

“Déjame que te comparta, todo que lo siento dentro de mi alma.” She sang along the lyrics when the front door’s bell rung, signalling the arrival of a patron.

It was Chris, and he held a salad bowl neatly wrapped. “Hey, Emily.” He greets with a wide smile. “Nice show you’re having there.”

She smirked. “Glad you like it.”

“What is it, though? Never heard it before.”

A sad smile ran through Emily’s features quickly, before she supresses it and responds: “It’s Argentinian pop music. I grew up on a minority neighbourhood in Grand Rapids.”

“Argentina, huh? That’s nice.” He attacks her from behind, placing his hands on her waist, turning her facing him dead in the eye and dipping her very low, on a quasi-90º angle. “Land of romance. And tango.”

She laughs and slaps his arm. “Let me go, Casanova! Sneakers and t-shirts are hardly tango-appropriate.”

The man lets his ‘dance partner’ stand up straight and, with a wicked turn of lips, says: “Well, I think the one thing we were short of was a rose.”

“Those are usually provided by the gentleman.” The girl makes a slight swirl with her hand on her red hair and then continues, “What brings Captain Powell to my humble establishment?”

He held up the bowl. “I come bearing gifts. I’m starting to think my mom likes you better than me.”

“You brought me into your home.” She shrugs. “You should’ve had thought it through beforehand. It was pretty clear I’d steal your family and murder you from day one.”

“Of course, a grave oversight on my part. Please be kind when chopping my body into pieces before dumping me into the river.”

“I’ll think about it.” She winks. “What’s on the menu?”

“It’s chicken alfredo. She’s been testing that cookbook you got her. I don’t know whether to thank you or damn you.” He taps his still-hard-rock stomach for emphasis.

The woman rolls her clear eyes. “If ya gaining weight, it’s you who is lazing around. Go for a run, for Christ’s sakes! The weather is mighty nice for it.”

“I would, but it’s oh, so boring on my own.” He complains. “Would you like to come with? You didn’t see anything on Maine yet except from the town hall, the library and my house.”

She fishes a piece of chicken and plops it into her mouth before responding: “I thought that was it.”

“Very funny, big city girl.” Chris teases. “Come on, tomorrow morning?”

“Fine, but if you rush ahead on your big, G.I. Joe calves, I am taking away your library card.” She points an accusing finger at him. “And I’ll have a mighty good time slashing it into pieces.”

Chris takes a deep breath, filling his expansive lungs with the clean air of the Northeast. Smiling with the placidity of the taiga forestry, he stops for a moment so he could enjoy the feeling of being home, a feeling yet not made redundant by the two weeks he already spent at Cherryfield.

He was thrown back into what he was presently doing when a strained, woman’s voice called from down the trail.

“Oh, God!” She complains. “How long did you say until we reach the top again?”

“We’re close. It’s just after those trees.” He points to a pair of pines a few steps in front of him. “C’mon, Emily, it’s just a teeny, tiny hill.”

“What does the military feed you?” The woman wonders, rather bitterly. “I can’t. I really can’t! If I take another step, my foot is going to fall off.”

“We’ve walked greater distances over the week.” The blond points out.

Emily huffs. “I remember I whined quite a lot in all of those occasions. Something on the lines of ‘how a man who spends most of his time piloting an aircraft isn’t a fat slob’, perhaps?”

The man chuckles. “Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Go, Chris, go on without me!” She dramatically plops on the overgrowth. “Finish your hike, walk away into the sunset! I’ll be fine here with my calluses for company.”

Chris rolled his eyes and walks over to the girl. He kneels down and says: “Hop on.”

“What?” She shot him a puzzled look.

“Hop on.” He repeats. “We’re so close, I’m not letting you give up now.”

“You can’t carry me!” Her pitch rises in disbelief.

“We’re going to have to see about that, ain’t we?” He grinned, cockily. “I’m not going to drop you. Scout’s honour.”

“Were you a scout?”

“Not really, but I’m on the Air Force. Big-ass jet planes should trump needlework and pinecone arts and crafts, right?”

She looked wearily at him once more, and finally complied wordlessly. Chris smirked and navigated through the last leg of the trail until the forest clears into a small cliff that overlooked Millbridge and Narraguagus Bay.

The late-morning sun shone on the ocean water, reflecting placidly on the dark azure wideness. The small town on the seaside was far from bustling, as it was Sunday, but the stillness made it seem like a model train station underneath a Christmas tree.

Chris places Emily down gently on a rock where she could sit up straight. The Midwestern woman, however, was marvelled with the scenery.

“Chris…” She breathes out. “This is so beautiful! How did you know it was here?”

He shrugs lightly. “This is a small town. When I was a teen, I didn’t have much to do on weekends besides hanging around the town square with the other kids, so I thought I ought to put the time into something productive, so I explored the trails on the woods around here.”

“And you never got lost?” The woman wonders.

“Nah, I had a map, and most trails are marked.” The blond man points to the path downhill. “It’s not much different from walking down a street.”

“What was like? To grow up here, I mean.”

He scoffs in good-nature. “What’s that about now?”

“I just noticed that I’ve told you all about my life back in the Midwest and all the Nathan crap but I don’t know much about your past.” She weighs. “Your mom wouldn’t show me a single embarrassing baby photo!”

“I don’t think she has any.” The man stated, a little unfazed by it all. “As for not telling you anything, I guess I don’t have many interesting stories. I never crashed a wedding, I haven’t dated a People magazine’s eligible bachelorette, nor have I moved across the country to pursue a writing career.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not interested on what you have to say.” The redhead counters.

Chris sighs. “Fair enough. What would you like to know?”

“Everything.” Emily says, rather excitably. “What was like when you were a child? What do you like to eat? Have you ever been in love? Why have you gone into the military? Have you ever robbed a bank?”

He shook his head. “Nope, never robbed a bank, sorry to disappoint.”

“How sad.” The girl laughs it off.

“As for my childhood, well, my dad was a truck driver. He worked for a shipping company here in Millbridge.” He pointed at the compound, on the other side of town. “He was on the road a lot, so it was mainly my mom and I.”

“What ‘bout your siblings?” She wonders.

“AJ and Kyle are close in age to each other, but I was eight when AJ was born. And, anyways, my dad bailed on us when Kyle was seven months old, so I guess it’s been mom and I for most of it.”

“How old were you when your dad left?” Emily asks, on a low, tactful voice.

“A little over ten.” He responds, grim.

“That’s rough.” She says with a sad smile on her face and a comforting hand on his arm. “My dad died while I was in college and it was hard enough. It must been terrible to lose yours so young.”

“Not really.” The blond says, chilly. “He was just this guy who would stop by once every two months. He was never there. I know this sounds rather terrible, but I didn’t miss him all that much when he was gone.”

The redhead woman smiles kindly at him. “You don’t have to feel sorry about that, you know? If your dad was lousy, then you’re not obliged to miss him. I wish your dad were a good man and that he stayed, but that’s because I wanted for you to have that experience, not that just because the man is your father, he’s any less of a dick.”

Chris gave her a thin, constrained smile in recognition. “Thanks, Emily. Anyways, where were we?”

“You were telling me about your rebellious years.” She shot him a lopsided smirk, full of mirth and wickedness.

The blond scoffed. “I had no such thing. High school and I was more of the dorky wallflower. The basement of the social totem, wallflower.”

“I have trouble believing that.” She states. “In fact, I see three pairs of muscle right about now further my point.”

He snorted. “That’s the work of the military. Well, that and a part-time I took junior year. Up until then, I was thin and scrawny.”

The redhead laughs and throws back her head. “Fine, whatever you say, Mr. Wet Dream.”

“I’m serious!” The Air Force official defended, his pitch a little high due to the stifling laughter that resonated through the otherwise silent forest.

“You also didn’t tell me anything juicy.” A thin, pale finger pokes him on the tip of the nose. “Tell me ‘bout your girlfriends, and make it saucy.”

“I only had one. Sorry to disappoint.” He responded.

“Tell me about her.” The librarian nudges.

He had a nostalgic smile on his face. “Her name was Nicole. She was the head cheerleader and my boss’ granddaughter.”

“The Geek and the Princess?” Emily scoffed. “How MTV-esque.”

“I have to admit it’s kind of a cliché, yeah.” He nods, slightly humoured. “We dated throughout our senior year. Come summer, though, she broke up with me. She was heading to Orono for college and I was to stay in Cherryfield, I was no football star or super genius to have a scholarship and I couldn’t afford tuition.

“She said college would be a new experience for her and she didn’t want to string me along.” He could not contain a pained grimace. “I know, though, that the truth is that she didn’t want to be with someone who was going nowhere in life. The following week, I enlisted on the Air Force, and that’s that.”

“What. A bitch.” Emily deadpanned. “Where’s her now? Please tell me she flunked out and has to flip burgers for a living.”

Chris shook his head. “Nothing like that. She met a guy from Presque Isle freshman year, really nice sort. Last I heard, they’re engaged to be married.”

“Twenty dollars say he’s gay.” Her eyes glinted on nastiness. “Nicole’s a beard, I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t even know the guy.” He points out.

She shrugs. “Don’t need to. If he’s willing to swear in front of the community, a minister and God to spend forever and then some with Nicole, either he’s retarded or gay.”

“Whatever you say.” He smirks at her. “Anyways, I’m starving. What you packed for lunch?”

“Oh, right! Pass me my backpack.” She said and the man complied. “Straight from Latin America, another devious concoction of mine to make you fat. Tres Leches cake!”

Emily stood in the middle of Augusta bus station with a tickle on the side of her clear right eye, the spot where a tear threatened to form and spill through her cheek.

The place was busy and loud, an expected scene on a summer Sunday, as people leave the vacationing bliss of Maine for their own grey, stressful lives in the south.

“Thanks again for driving me here, Emily.” Chris said, with the pitiful attempt of a cheerful smile. It ended up looking more like a grimace.

“No problem. I wanted to say goodbye here rather than back in Cherryfield.” She rubs her eye softly.

After a rather long leave, some twenty-something days, Chris was summoned again at the base in New Hampshire, and Emily drove him to Augusta, where the military had set up a bus, serving the enlisted from northern Maine. Having finished his pilot training the month before, he was to be sent into combat.

After a rather long moment of silence, Emily says: “God, I hate those things.”

“Goodbyes?” He asks, kindly.

She nods. “And geopolitics.”

“Geopolitics?” He asks, confused.

The young woman shrugs. “What I’m blaming over the fact you’re going to war.”

The blond chuckled softly. “I’m not going to war. I’m shuffling soldiers between Ramstein and Bagram. I won’t be seeing much action, it’s more like a very exclusive airline.”

The woman huffs. “Well, excuse me for worrying about you. I promise you it won’t happen again.”

Chris let out a vociferous laughter. “Don’t be offended. I’m even a little flattered with your concern, but don’t waste energy on it. I’m going to be fine.”

The young redhead cannot help herself but to let out a sigh. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He smiled confidently. “So much so, I’m willing to give you a keepsake, so that I’ll have to come back to get it.”

“Are we really going to do that? Because if you die anyway, I’m throwing whatever you give me in the river out of spite.” She nudges an accusing finger on his toned, stone-hard chest.

The blond smiles. “Yes, we are doing it, and please cooperate. You’re ruining the mood.”

He takes a step towards the young woman, places a calloused finger softly under her chin, and bobs her head upwards. With the shiny green on his eyes peering deep into hers, he closes the distance between their faces and gives her one of those toe-twirling kisses you see at the end of a romantic comedy movie.

However, it is fair to say, it was not the end of a movie. They usually end at a rekindling of a relationship, a meeting on a busy airport or at a ‘Happily Ever After’-kind of wedding.

This was nothing of that.

Much the opposite. This was a separation, and that tone peered from the edges of that kiss. Which, despite being very much pleasurable for both parties involved, lost a nickel of its glamour, its momentum.

Nevertheless, the two of them broke apart breathless. Chris seized the silent moment of his companion and says: “Emily, being with you this last month was one of the best times of my life. You make me feel like I could do anything, like I mattered more than anybody else in the world. I love that feeling, I love being with you, and I could very well see myself falling in love with you in the future.”

At a first moment, Emily’s lips were pressed together on a thin line of incredulity and appraisal. As he went on, it gradually dissolved into a smile, and finally, on a scandalous laughter.

It wasn’t the reaction Chris expected, and his face turned into a grimace. Then, the young woman pressed her hands on each side of his face and kissed him sloppily.

“Oh, God, that was so cheesy! I loved it!” She said and kissed him again. “I can see myself loving you in the future, too.”

He chuckled. “Good. But don’t laugh next time I tell you I like you. It’s not much of an ego boost.”

She smirked. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

Afterwards, the joyful mood dissolved back into melancholy when Emily hugged the man’s broad frame as tight her puny arms could hold him.

“I’m going to miss you.” She whispered against his chest.

“I’m going to miss you, too.” He whispered back.

With that, they break apart and Chris walks over to his bus. As he boarded, he takes a last look behind and there she was, red hair and short stature, looking teary-eyed at his retreating frame.

She waves at him, which he responded with a small, rather depressive show of hands.

He will come back, of that much he was certain. What was still left to be undecided was how much it would pain him until he does.

The snow fell softly yet constantly over the small town of Cherryfield, Maine, forming a thick white carpet over the land and the houses.

It was Christmas night. Late enough for most children to be asleep, dreaming about the visit of Santa Claus, while parents spread the gifts under the tree and gorged on cookies and milk.

On a red brick house, near the school and the town hall, Emily sat alone, nursing a cup of hot cocoa. She gazed through the window, admiring the falling of snow from the sky.

She peered at her open laptop on her bed. She wanted to check and see if Chris had sent her something that night.

The two of them had been communicating via e-mail, mainly, ever since he was deployed overseas. But as of late, their exchange was spotty at best. The last message she received was about a week ago and it concerned her. She knew internet connection in Afghanistan was hardly worth mentioning, but the man had said that he would send word whenever he was in Germany.

That must not have been happening often as of late, must it?

She sighed one last time and reached for the computer to turn it off. There was nothing new in there, and it was depressing enough to spend Christmas alone, on the internet was sticking a little too far.

Her puny salary, even lower than what she made at the shipping company, was not enough for a plane ticket to Michigan. Some families in town had invited her to spend the night with them, but she did not want to impose on family time. She could pick on the leftovers in the morning.

As for Barbara Powell, her none-the-wiser mother-in-law, she went on a cross-country trip to San Francisco to see AJ and Kyle, last Emily heard.

She did not talk often with the older woman, funny enough. Mrs. Powell hardly ever came by the library, and Emily never seemed to find the woman at home when she swung by.

The redhead finished her tea and was about to cover herself for the night when she hears a loud banging noise coming from downstairs.

Cherryfield was as tranquil as one can expect from such a town, but Emily was from a rather rough neighbourhood in Grand Rapids and was wary of urban violence. A stint in Roxbury did not help, either. Not to mention, for a girl alone at night, any loud noise was enough to throw reason out the window.

She picked up a curtain rod she swore she would be putting up for weeks now and starts making her way downstairs, careful not to make any sound. Skipping the creaking last step, she sees him.

A large, dark figure was by the wide-open backdoor. He had a considerable amount of melting snow pooled on the floor by his boots and was fumbling with the door, having his back against Emily.

Thinking it to be her chance, she runs forward to hit him with the rod, all in the while shouting, “GET OUT OF HERE, YOU PERVERT!”

“What the hell!” He winces in pain, trying to protect the injured ear with one hand while turning on the lights using the other.

Emily drops the rod. “Oh my God, Chris! What are you doing?!”

“Trying to make a romantic surprise, that’s what!” He complains, between groans of pain. “Why did you hit me with a stick?”

“I thought you were a burglar or something!” She shouts back, still high on the adrenaline.

“What kind of person tries to rob a library, Emily?!”

“I don’t know! I panicked, I’m sorry!” She walks over him and checks his wound by moving his hand away from his ear. “Does it hurt?”

“Not so much.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, I should have known better. Looking back, it does sound pretty stupid to break into a single girl’s apartment.”

She smiled, in spite of the situation. “But I’m not single.”

“You’re not?” The blond’s voice raises a pitch.

“Nope.” The girl shook her head emphatically. “I have a very handsome, very kind boyfriend who’s kinda slow sometimes, but I’m very glad to see him, nonetheless.”

Chris grinned, wide enough for one to wonder if his face was going to crack. “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s very happy to see you, too.”

“Good.” Emily kissed his cheek. “Now let’s get you to bed, you feel too cold.”

He swept her off her feet. “Lead the way.”

Taglist: @alicars; @boneandfur; @choicesfannatalie; @emerald-bijou; @kennaxval; @liam-rhys; @liamxs-world; @lizeboredom; @mfackenthal; @mrsdrakewalkerblog; @radiantrosemary; @topsyturvy-dream

[jumphq]

Post-Mortem, Sparrow Tour 2018

This was a month that felt like four months. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean that in the amazing way that doing all sorts of brand-new things and being very much in the moment seems to slow down time. There are articles written about this phenomena, actually: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-empowerment-diary/201705/how-slow-down-time. According to this article, the reason September went by so freaking meaningfully is that we were bombarding ourselves with Firsts. First big tour in support of Sparrow. First time in a long time heading back to the Northeast and Midwest. First time I had to add an actual keyboard to the list of instruments I bring on stage, and within that one instrument there were dozens of sounds I had to reproduce. Etcetera, etcetera.

We worked hard. I don’t know if it’s readily ascertainable that being in a rock and roll band is tons of work by looking at one. It’s fun work, usually, but has its moments of being very intense. Especially when a new album comes out. There is radio to do in the mornings, interviews scattered during the day, loading in and out of venues, and we added soundcheck meet & greets that meant that once we arrived in a city, we were going to be working from then until show, basically.

It’s so fulfilling, though. I am the kind of person that works hard, all the time. I push and push myself (sometimes for no seeming reason), and am frustrated and disappointed with myself when I don’t get enough done. I would be classified as a “type-A” person, and I don’t mind. But sometimes I’m just working on “things” that I’m not as passionate about. An eight hour day of working on something I’m not emotionally connected to is much more tiring than working sixteen hours a day on something I believe in and care about. Being in JLC is that kind of job.

We needed every second that we had to put this tour together. These new songs are hardto play. There is so much going on in each and every song on Sparrow. Not necessarily more than on earlier recordings, but keep in mind that we never had to re-learn songs after other albums; we had been playing them live forever before we got to the studio and didn’t change them much after. There has always been a “live version” and a “studio version” of early Jump songs.

Not this time. Jay spent a crazy amount of time accessing the original recording files and turning his voice and Ward’s cello parts into samples that I could play on the keytar. While Evan didn’t really want to play to tracks, he add some electronic drums to his repertoire to approximate some of the parts live. Ward brought two guitars on tour for the first time, and Johnny played not only electric bass but a beloved new Moog Phatty. It was complicated, felt a little bit fragile, at first, but once we got the hang of things it was fun.

Hurricane Florence, while not visiting Charleston, still brought chaos to the city. There was anxiety felt wondering whether we’d be hit and how that would affect our practice. Shops and roads started closing down and we made a move so the entire band could be close by in case of flooding. In the end we were very very lucky, but there were still repercussions for us. We were trying to fulfill our PledgeMusic items, to get them sent out before tour, but this didn’t happen because mail basically shut down in NC, SC, and GA. This put us a full week behind, and we spent the rest of the month trying to catch up on many things.

Even in the last few days of rehearsal we were all feeling a bit overwhelmed. We camped out at the Footlight Player’s Theatre and the goal was to have a “listening party”, a final rehearsal before we hit the road, and that night, to be honest, I was not ready. Lyrics weren’t memorized and I had to think way too much about parts and how to play them. We were being hard on ourselves, though, and the response was so encouraging afterwards I didn’t mind spending the rest of that week’s dinner breaks to get in some extra practice so that the songs could feel comfortable.

Once the shows began, a quick weekend to some of our favorites: Charlotte, Atlanta, Columbia, where we were starting to find our groove. Raleigh, though, and the Lincoln Theatre, was a special surprise. It was Sunday, we hadn’t had a day off in three weeks, we were exhausted. It wasn’t the largest crowd we’ve played to, but that show was so much fun. People there were there to have a good time, and it put us into overdrive. Thank you so much, Raleigh.

The next leg was in the Northeast (and DC, where I insulted many a mid-Atlantic inhabitant). We hadn’t been there in fifteen years, but every show was sold out or nearly so, and that made us feel so great. These shows were our first of the City Winery gigs, and they were good to us. Great sound, great food. There were many highlights, for me, up North. We had a duo of ASL interpreters in DC that had mad sign-singing skills, and were more fun to watch than we were. Our show at Le Poisson Rouge made us feel so sexy to sell out such a great place in the Big Apple. Performance-wise, the NYC show was my favorite performance-wise; I felt really “on” that night. The super-intimate punk-rock feel of Union Pool in Brooklyn was refreshing after the lovely but slightly clinical City Wineries. We had to put Wardie in a corner to fit on stage, and many Dirty Dancing jokes were necessary. Our old pal the Mommyheads came to play with us, and they were as good as they were 20 years ago. Lots of our fans came just to see them that night and I didn’t mind at all. We had a lovely evening off with three people that pledged for the album and got to go to a Dr. Who-themed bar with us. The trio couldn’t have been more interesting and fun to hang out with: the professional bassoonist, the research monitor, and the Facebook developer. Loved that evening, and Ward got to show off his hipster Brooklyn knowledge by taking us to great places for dinner and dessert.

And Chicago! My kind of town. Chicago was a big deal for me personally, because I knew that the audience was going to be made up of a lot of friends and family that had never seen the band before, never seen me in that light, literally. I was a little nervous about that show, and I rarely get nervous. I also wanted very much for Chicago to be the show that was 100% accessible to the d/Deaf and hard of hearing. City Winery worked so hard with me to provide CART real-time captioning for all the goofy stuff we said in-between songs. And the captioning of the lyrics was provided by my other passion job, CaptionPoint, built by my wife Lindsay and run by my dear friend Lora. It was even more successful than I had hoped, the captions looked great on both sides of the stage. It was the first time Lindsay had ever been able to fully experience a JLC show; I am sure that our stage patter was absolutely worth the wait.

Wow. As I’m writing this I realize again how relatively short the tour was: after Chicago there were only three more dates. But it felt like we did so much. We saw so many of you, talked to everyone as long as we could and took pictures. The “soundcheck parties” were so fun for us. Seeing everyone again was energizing, to me. I wished at times that I could have spent more time. You said such wonderful, heartfelt things, things that I heard very clearly and appreciated completely. I am honored that this band and music and community has meant so much to you over the years; you mean everything to us. When people told me that they liked Sparrow I knew they were telling the truth and not just making conversation. Nothing could have made us happier. Like I said: fulfilling.

Athens was a highlight: we hadn’t seen the GA Theatre since it burned in 2009. The renovation was beautiful. They managed to keep the vibe of the place while making it all so much…better. But the fans in Athens have always been a special breed and we could have played on the streets if that was the only way to get to them. In the new GA Theatre we didn’t have to.

And finally, the Charleston Music Hall. Our new home. Our new “Dock Street”, a place that just makes us feel like the chamber-pop stars we are. We will see you soon, CMH.

This post is a marathon. If you’ve gotten this far, you must be a fan of the band, so I appreciate it. I want to thank many people for making this tour and this year possible, because…contrary to pop belief, we are not a famous rock band with loads of cash and there were many many donated hours that made this tour work.

Our manager Vance’s sidekicks on the Crew were Nick Stewart, the Ultimate Intern, hazed by his boss into oblivion and seemed to love every minute. He sold you tee shirts this time, but he’s going to be running something big someday. Herbie Jeffcoat, monitors and front-of-house, the sweetest “country boy” (his words, but also true) you could want on your team. Especially funny this time was hearing Herbie converse in his potent Southern accent with the FOH in Boston with a potent accent of his own. Translators were required.

Mike Rogers: what a treat it is to have gotten to know you both as a professional sound engineer and family member. I think that if Dad and your Mom had a reason to work with each other growing up like Evan and I have with you, our families would be closer than they are. Let’s keep working at it.

Alison Kendrick! The person that would be sooo bad at being a ninja because she simply wouldn’t be able to be quiet because life is just SO MUCH FUN and worth every giggle: thank you. Teasing aside, Alison is a complete and utter professional, a doer but more importantly a Problem Solver, and I truly would not have been able to do all the things internet-related without you. Thank you for being a mentor and a real friend. If you’d like to work with Alison yourself, please go to akshouts.com

Our uncomfortably attractive lawyer Gabe Fleet is genuinely fun to hang out with, giving attorneys a good name. Old pal Josh Terry and his amazing team in Maddison and Jen at Workshop Management opened doors that are closed to most people so thank you for helping us walk through them. New friends Sue, Lindsay and Tyler at Stunt Company put us in front of the movers and shakers and some (NPR, Paste, American Songwriter) actually liked what they heard.

Chris Slack, you hold all the archival keys to our kingdom and are dear to us for much more than that. Nate Baerreis and Ed and Val Schooling Brantley made us look so cool, so often. How, we will never know. Thank you.

Thanks to our families who let us be gone as much as we have been, this year. Some of you haven’t experienced not having us around, and I know it was hard, but thank you for being so supportive. We love you.

And Chief “Not-Getting-Paid-What-He’s-Worth” is Vance McNabb, who is still working on this tour two weeks later and won’t be done for a while. There are no ways to thank you, V, except perhaps to find a way to make Sparrow huge so you can get a massive raise and hire tons of people to help you. So, we’ll work on that.

Actually…will y’all please help us work on that? If not for us, for Vance? Thank you. And thank you most of all, for letting us make this album. Sparrow is a beautiful thing to us and we’re so lucky that you wanted to hear it. We are lucky that we got to make it. But it isn’t over, is it? There are ways we can try to keep this machine going, if you are willing. More in another post.

[littlefarmjoe-blog]

Waves                             Copyright 2018, Joe Avery

                                                The author grants permission for this document to be shared only in it’s entirety.

                                                          The author does not consent to allowing any portion to be taken out of context of the whole document.                      

    Excuse me for being naive, I grew up thinking we had freedom of speech in this country. Then I learned that by speaking about certain things, I became a target. It took a long time to understand what was happening to me. For more than ten years I have been repeatedly attacked, forced to live like a fugitive on the run, though I have done nothing wrong. These events have been written in chronological order, in the way it all unfolded for me. As time went by, the amount of evidence grew. This is not a story I want to be telling. I know it is likely to stir much criticism, ridicule, and slander against me. None of that matters. Many other people are enduring a struggle that is similar to mine. This is a story that needs to be told.

    For the first twelve years of living on the Missouri farm, there was a calm stillness that I never really thought about until it was overtaken by a strange vibration. I had lived here since 1995, and one night in October of 2007, everything changed. I was immersed in sleep when suddenly I was jolted awake by a weird, vibrating energy. It hit me with intensity. Whatever it was made me sit up in bed, directly out of a deep sleep. It was a low, humming vibration, and I could feel it going through me. It seemed like it was going through everything.

  Instantly I sat up, saying, “What the fuck is that? With my mind racing for a logical explanation, the first thing I imagined was that some heavy machinery was rolling down the road. I thought maybe it was the road grader or a big bulldozer. I looked at the clock, and it showed about two-thirty in the morning. Pulling back the covers, I got out of bed and walked out into the hallway. Then I made my way through the bus. I noticed that the tone of the vibration was not changing in the way you would expect it to, if it was coming from something moving down the road. It stayed at the same tonal vibration as I walked toward the back door of the bus. When I stepped outside and onto the porch, I almost lost my perception of the vibration. The sounds of the wind in the trees, the crickets, and the frogs were making it difficult to “hear” the vibe. Yet as I stood there and focused my mind, I could feel it going through me.

  This weird vibration continued into the next day and for many days that followed. It was disturbing. At random times of the day, I paused and paid attention to decipher if it was still going. Most of the time, it was. There were moments when I didn't perceive it, but it kept coming back. I told other people about it, though no one seemed interested. One day when several people were sitting in the bus, I focused my mind to determine if the vibration was happening, and it was. I asked my visitors, “Do you guys hear that low, humming sort of sound?” They all paused and listened, then they said they didn't hear anything. I explained, “It's not really a sound, it's more of a vibration... a very low vibration.” Still, they didn't notice it. I was baffled and concerned about whatever this was, and it was beginning to really bother me as the days went by.

  Before all of this began, I had been planning to take a trip through Europe for several months. A roofing job in Wichita that summer had earned me enough money to make it happen. So I was at the farm, preparing for my trip when these weird vibrations started happening. As the days went by, I became more concerned about the bad vibes, and I grew more anxious to leave. When I finally left near the end of October, I felt relieved to be away from it all.

  After a few days of Halloween festivities in Lawrence, Kansas, I prepared for a trip eastward. I took a train from Lawrence to Chicago, and another train to Boston. Then I rode a bus to New York City. From there, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean. I spent five months traveling through Sweden, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. In April of 2008, I returned to North America, and after some time in New York City, I rode a train to Chicago and another train to Lawrence.

  When I returned to the farm, I did not notice the weird vibration for a while. Eventually though, it became apparent again. Sometimes it would abruptly appear and continue for many hours. Other times, it seemed to be coming in waves, fluctuating between strong and mild vibrations. When people came to the farm, I would ask if they felt the vibes, though they always said they didn't notice anything.

  Then one day I called Frank on the phone. When I told him about the weird vibrations, he asked, “Is it like a low-frequency kind of thing?”

  “Yes! A really low, humming sort of vibration.”

  “I've been getting it for a couple of years.”

  “Really? What is it? What do you think it is?”

  “They're fuckin' with us, Joe.”

  I knew that Frank was speaking of the government, or at least some rogue elements within the government. In my mind, I had already considered that possibility, though I did not want to believe I was dealing with such a thing. I didn't know what it was. I only knew that I definitely felt it. It was really strong at times, vibrating through all of my body, through my skull, my eyeballs, and my organs. It seemed to be going through through all of my cells. Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

  For years I endured this weird vibration, and it always bothered me. Sometimes it was extremely “loud,” feeling like it was penetrating through every fiber in my body. Other times it was more subtle, yet it was almost always happening. Pictures entered my mind: images of government creeps somewhere with their hands on a dial, turning the intensity up and down while pointing electronic weapons at different targets around the world.

  Was I a target? Had I become a target? I began to speculate.

  Early in 2006, I rode with a group of about twenty people as we traveled to the city of Washington, to protest against the war in Iraq. It was cold, winter time. We held our signs outside of the Pentagon as hundreds of civilian and military personnel went into and out of the building. The cops pushed us around, yelling at us to get back off of the sidewalk. They took pictures of us. We also marched around outside of the capitol building with our signs. Some people in our group were arrested.

  Many times during the years of 2006 and 2007, I walked around with a big sign in my hands, which read: “9-11, The government did it.” I carried a sign like that during the Rainbow Gathering in Colorado, in July of 2006. I was handing out websites and information to people. Some law enforcement officers took pictures of me holding my sign. Two months later when September eleventh came around, I paraded with my sign through downtown Lawrence. Irritated that so many people still believed in the “official” version of “Nine-Eleven,” I felt it was my duty to tell the truth. I ended up on sixth street near the river. It was rush-hour traffic with many cars going by. Some people gave me thumbs up, other people cussed at me. One woman drove by, yelling, “You should be arrested for treason!” I laughed and waved as I said, “For exercising my freedom of speech.” A year later, on the eleventh of September, I walked through downtown Wichita with my sign. A strange woman stepped around the corner of a building, lifted a camera and took a picture of me. Then she quickly disappeared.        

In addition to carrying my sign, I was also passing around DVDs containing documentary films about the attacks of Nine-Eleven.

  So I had put myself out there in the streets and on the trails while people had taken pictures of me. And there was Myspace. A friend showed me this website where I could upload my own music, putting it out there for the general public to hear. I thought that was great. Over time, however, I went far beyond sharing my songs. I connected with “9/11 truth” groups through Myspace, posting many articles and documentary films about the false-flag attacks of September Eleventh, 2001. I began to see the internet as a valuable means of sharing information and getting the truth out to people. These things were all happening in 2006 and 2007, in the year or so that led up to my first experiences with the bad vibrations at the farm.

  After one of my trips to the East Coast, I rode a Greyhound bus from New York City to Wichita. We made several stops in New Jersey, and at one of those stops, a peculiar woman boarded the bus. She sat in a seat across the aisle from me, on the right-hand side of the bus, and about four or five seats forward. She turned to look at me for a few seconds, then she turned back toward the front. It seemed weird and out of place. The bus driver announced that there would be a fifteen-minute smoke break at the next stop. When the bus stopped, most of the passengers unloaded themselves out onto the sidewalk, some smoking cigarettes and some going inside the convenience store. I stepped out of the bus, walked past the bench and the smokers, and I went into the store. Wandering down a few aisles, I saw nothing I wanted. So I went out the door, turned right on the sidewalk, and walked past the bench. The woman who had looked at me so intently in the bus, she was now sitting on the bench. The moment I walked by, she held up a camera and took a picture of me. I was fully aware of that as I was stepping up into the bus. It appeared to be a regular digital camera, not a cell phone. Cell phone cameras were not as prevalent back then. Returning to my seat, I felt annoyed that another stranger had just taken my picture. I decided I was going to say something to her when she got back in the bus. But she never did. While all the other passengers had returned to their seats, that strange woman did not.

  Other incidents like this have occurred, though I don't recall some of the details. I do remember a moment when I was in a crowded bus station somewhere out west, high on cannabis, on a layover between bus trips. Suddenly a man walked over to me, held a camera directly in front of my face, took a picture of me, then he quickly turned around and vanished into the crowd. Again, it was a traditional camera, not a cell phone. I remember saying, “What the hell was that all about?” After many encounters like this, it seemed apparent that there was a network of government creeps keeping a watchful eye on outspoken citizens.  

  So, am I a target? Is there some kind of electrical device, a secret weapon that has been getting pointed at me? That's what it has felt like, though I considered other possibilities. Did these weird vibrations have anything to do with the wind farms that are south of the Farm? All of those giant wind generators, anchored deep into the ground, could they be the cause of all the disturbance I was feeling? Were these vibrations coming from those microwave cell phone towers that are east of here? I did not know.

  Many times when the vibes were extremely intense, I felt like I was definitely getting zapped by something. It was difficult to concentrate on working when everything was vibrating. My head and chest, especially, were just humming with these vibrations. Walking around on the farm, I asked, “How can other people not feel this?”

  I felt helpless to do anything about it. Where does a person go with such a complaint? There is no number to call, no complaint form to fill out, and no legal course of action to deal with a disturbing mystery such as this. Most people would never believe or understand any of it. So I lived with it for many years. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of nights, I slept through the constant droning, feeling like there was nothing I could do, and that it was beyond my control.

  In 2011, Jen was coming to visit me on the farm. I had told her about the weird vibrations. Then one night as we lay in bed, she suddenly said, “Hey… I think I feel that vibration you were talking about.” I asked, “Really? You feel that?” She answered, “Yeah... that's weird.” As we talked about it, I felt glad that she noticed it. Finally, someone else had acknowledged this strange vibration in my living space.

  It was depressing, having to endure whatever this was, especially after investing twenty years of my life into this homestead. I had grown fruit trees, blueberry bushes, and grapevines. I built elaborate structures to make everything around here run smoothly, yet many times I felt that I might have to abandon all of it, just to get away from the bad vibes.

  One of the wind farms is about sixteen miles south, sprawling around the town of King City and extending for miles in different directions. Some wind generators are close enough to see through my binoculars. Another wind farm is approximately ten miles to the southwest. Many of those enormous wind generators are out there turning their huge blades, surely causing vibrations in the ground. They are so tall that they must be anchored very deep under the surface. All of them have three spinning blades, and each blade was an entire load on a semi-trailer truck. They are massive. Many times I considered the possibility that they might be the source of the vibrations I had been feeling. I researched information about the wind farm around King City, learning that it first began its operations in the autumn of 2007. Interesting, I thought, because that was when I first started feeling the vibrations. I hoped that was the cause. It was less disturbing than the idea of getting zapped by an electronic weapon. For the next couple of years, I wanted to believe that the weird vibrations were a result of the local wind farms.

  But the theory of the wind farms being the cause was not making any sense. There were days when no wind was blowing, and I could look through my binoculars to see that the wind generator blades were not turning, yet the vibrations would be going strong. Other times, it was windy with the generator blades turning, though the vibrations were not occurring.

  On every occasion when I returned to the farm after being gone for weeks at a time, the vibrations were not happening. For several days after my return, I'd notice that calm stillness that was the norm during my first twelve years of living on the farm. I missed that calm, and I hoped it would stay. After a few days of being home, however, the vibrations would return. This has happened over and over again. I began to notice that the vibrations always seemed to appear within a day after I logged in to my email account or Facebook. Was this just a coincidence? Or was I alerting someone that I was home again, by logging in on a computer? I paid more attention to this, and I began to restrain myself from logging in too soon after returning home. Yet I'd still get on Herb's computer and look at some of the websites I usually visit. Then the vibes would start up again.

  I often talked to Herb about it, and he would suggest that maybe I was hearing the “humming” of the power lines that run along the road where I live. I told him, “I have heard the electrical humming sound you're talking about, and that is not the source of the vibrations. Those power lines were already there during the first twelve years that I lived here, and I never felt the weird vibrations until October of 2007.” As the years kept rolling by, I continued to have bad experiences with all of this, and I occasionally mentioned it to Herb. Over and over again, he would talk about the power lines, and I became more frustrated and annoyed by his continuing response:

  “Those power lines make a humming sound, sometimes.”

  “What I've been experiencing is a vibration, not a sound.”

  “Sound is vibration.”

  “I understand that, Herb. But not all vibration is sound, and these vibrations I'm talking about, I don't hear them with my ears, I feel them in my body.”

  Although I had explained to him on many occasions that what I am feeling is like a beam of energy going through me, vibrating every cell in my body, Herb never seemed to listen.

  There were few people that I ever mentioned it to because most people would not understand what I was talking about. Occasionally someone in Lawrence or Wichita would ask, “How are things at the farm?” Sometimes I mentioned the bad vibes, then I'd find myself going into a long explanation, detailing my experiences with it. Most people have no frame of reference to understand what I was describing to them, and most people appeared to be uninterested. So mostly, I kept it to myself.

  Many nights I could not sleep because the vibrations were too intense. I would drive down the gravel road to Herb's house, attempting to sleep on the extra bed. “Sorry to wake you, Herb. I'm getting zapped way too hard over there.” Yet even as I lay on the guest bed at Herb's house, I could feel the vibrations going through me, almost as strong as they were on the farm. At the farm, the disturbance seemed to be coming from the southeast. Whatever was going through me, it continuously felt like it was coming from the same direction. When I was at Herb's house, it still seemed to be coming from the southeast, although slightly more from the east. Herb lives about a mile and a half to the west of the farm. I began to wonder if the vibrations were coming from the town of Albany.

  Increasingly I became annoyed and enraged about the ongoing disturbance. Trying to work, clean, cook, or do anything was a struggle with the constant humming going through me. I was becoming more angry and irritable, saying, “God damn these fuckin' vibes! What the fuck? How can other people not feel this? This is fuckin' ridiculous! I can't stand this shit!”

  The only time I got some peace was when I left the farm and drove far away from it all. So I left many times, making my escape to Lawrence or Wichita. Sometimes I went to visit Melissa, up near Des Moines. I often told her about my struggles with the bad vibes. She was one of the few people who actually listened and really talked with me about it.

  In April of 2015 I was visiting Luke, down in Lawrence. He had a computer on in the kitchen as he was watching and listening to a broadcast of Democracy Now. It was Tuesday, the 21st of April. They reported on a story about a man named Pedro Albizu Campos, in Puerto Rico. During the 1950's, he was organizing protests against American sugar companies that were exploiting Puerto Rico's sugar cane fields and the people who worked in them. Campos was arrested and spent twenty-six years in prison. He wore wet towels around himself, claiming that he was trying to protect himself from radiation, because the United States Government was pointing an “atomic” weapon at him. He complained of severe headaches and burns all over his skin. Photographs revealed his wounds. Journalists who reported on this case appeared to be laughing at his claims about the U.S. Government. He was being presented as a crazy person who was merely delusional. After his release from prison, other inmates who occupied the same prison cell complained of severe headaches and of feeling like their skin was being burned. Campos continued to wear wet towels after his release from prison, claiming he was still being targeted at his home. After many decades passed, research into declassified documents revealed that the United States Government did, indeed, have a secret weapon that was being aimed at this man. They intended to discredit him by making him appear to be delusional and insane. This was in the 1950s. It is now admitted by the FBI that these things occurred. This was happening more than sixty years ago! It is no far stretch of the imagination to consider the possibility that some kinds of secret electronic weapons are still in use, and with a far greater degree of technology involved.

  As I mentioned earlier, I had spent many years on social media, posting documentary films and articles that expose corruption in the government. First, it was on Myspace, and eventually I was posting things on Facebook. I began to receive the occasional “Log-in alert,” informing me that someone near Richardson, Texas had logged into my Facebook account. So I changed my password. But after a while, I'd receive another alert that someone had logged into my account, again from Richardson, Texas. It happened nearly a dozen times. I also received alerts that my account was logged into from Jefferson City, Missouri, on two occasions. I became annoyed by this, and I began to deactivate my account for weeks or months at a time. Many times I returned to the farm after being gone for a week or more, and I always noticed that the vibrations were not happening. For several days I'd be grateful for the calm serenity. Yet again, when I logged into my email or Facebook account on a computer at Herb's house, the vibrations would start up again. It always happened within a day of logging onto a computer. This fueled my suspicion that I was being targeted and assaulted.

  Frequent headaches tormented me, and I felt that the vibrations were the cause. Also, my guts were churning all the time. Getting the runny shits, I was having to go to the outhouse several times a day. I often said to myself, “They are zapping the shit out of me.” Continuing to work on the farm, I tried to ignore the vibrations. What else could I do? I could leave the farm, as I had done many times before, running and hiding from whatever the disturbance was.    

  Occasionally I would talk about my ongoing problem at the farm, though I only talked about it with people I trusted. Melissa had emailed me some information about wind-farm vibrations. I read of people's complaints, and some of their descriptions of the vibrations were similar to what I had been experiencing. One person described it as “a loud noise that you feel inside your body.” Others complained of headaches and of having trouble sleeping at night. But all the people I read about were those who lived within a mile of wind generators. I was at least ten miles away from the nearest wind farm, though some of the wind towers seem to be closer than that. Could I really be feeling wind generator vibrations from several miles away? Melissa told me that only a small percentage of the population can feel low-frequency vibrations. Again, I tried to believe that the wind farms were the cause of my misery.  

  However, there were many times when I conducted a little experiment while I was getting zapped. I would be standing in any random location on the farm, feeling the vibration going through me. Then I'd quickly run to another random spot, twenty or thirty yards away, and stop. For about two seconds I felt the calm, then the vibes would be going through me again. It was like something was following me, and it took a couple of seconds for it to catch up with me. I did this experiment many times, and I always got the same results.

  In late August of 2015, I escaped to Lawrence to spend my birthday with some friends, and to get away from the bad vibes. One afternoon I went to the library and logged onto my email account. In an email to a friend, I wrote that I would be at the Replay Lounge on Sunday evening, to hear Truckstop Honeymoon play their music on the patio. It would be on the 30th of August. I also re-activated my Facebook account so I could get in touch with a few people. I wrote in a “private” message to someone on Facebook, that I would be at the Replay on Sunday evening. When Sunday arrived, I made my way to the Replay and went in. It was still early, so I decided to go visit Luke, then come back. When I returned, a bigger crowd had gathered as the band was getting ready to play. I went to the front of the crowd. Then I noticed a woman holding a camera with a huge lens attached to it. She was standing near the south side of the stage. Every time she held up the camera, she pointed it directly at my face. I thought that was strange. She was only about ten or fifteen feet away from me, with this gigantic lens. Continuously I watched her, and she never aimed that camera at anyone in the band, nor anyone else in the crowd. Not even once. Every time she held up the camera, she was pointing it directly at my face. I pondered over the many times I had been followed and photographed by creepy people. I also thought about the fact that I had told people, through email and Facebook, that I would be at the Replay Lounge that evening. Then there was this strange woman with the gigantic lens. She gave me the same weird feeling I have always felt whenever I noticed some creeps following or photographing me. She wore a T-shirt which said, “REBEL” in big letters across the front. It looked to me like it was meant to be a part of her fake outfit, in her fed-like attempt to fit in with the Replay crowd. She took multiple pictures of my face, then she left. I wanted to confront her but then I decided to just let it go.

  I returned to the farm. For several weeks I wondered why on earth anyone would need a telephoto lens to take pictures of me from a mere twelve-to-fifteen feet away. Then one day, it all became clear to me. Someone mentioned retina scans and the idea of the government collecting peoples' retina images. Retina patterns are like fingerprints, unique to each individual. I said, “Fuck! That makes a lot of sense. Now they probably have my retina images in some kind of weird data base.”

  It angers me when I think of all of the evil things our government is doing. Yet I often find a certain comfort in knowing that someday we will all be gone. Everyone must die, including all of those government pawns who are doing evil deeds. I wonder how they live with themselves. I wonder how they sleep at night. They seem to have no conscience.

  One evening the vibes were too intense and I had to get away. It was Saturday night, the 26th of September, in 2015. I began to load some things into the van, like my sleeping bag, pillow, drinking water, some bread, and a toothbrush. I drove west and then turned north on another gravel road. I stopped several times along the way, shutting off the engine to decipher whether I was still feeling the vibes. Every time I stopped, the vibes were clearly apparent. When I got to the blacktop road, I turned left and drove west, then I turned right onto another gravel road. I drove up to Poff's pond, several miles from where I live. After parking the van, I was still feeling the vibration. Again, it felt like it was coming from the southeast. Exhausted, I laid down in my sleeping bag and slept through the bad vibrations.

  When daylight arrived, the vibration was still going through me as I went outside to pee in the grass. It was Sunday morning. I got back in the van and drove north on the gravel road to Alan's house, and I parked in his driveway. When I turned off the engine, the vibes were still obvious. I wanted to ask Alan or Trish if they could feel the vibrations that were so apparent to me. As I walked around in the front yard, no one in the house appeared to be awake yet, and I didn't want to bother them. So I got in the van and drove back down the gravel road toward the highway. A car showed up behind me, and the driver seemed to be in a hurry to get around me. As we approached the highway, I pulled over to let that car pass me. Then I shut off the van to determine if the vibes were still happening. They were not. It was the first time in a while that I felt the calm stillness. Half-joking, I said, “Maybe the vibes followed that other car.” I felt relieved to have a few hours of peace before the bad vibes returned in the evening.

  The next day was Monday, the 28th of September. I was working on the second floor of the water-house structure, and the vibes were going strong. Suddenly, the vibrations abruptly stopped. It went from very strong vibrations to completely calm. In that precise moment, hundreds of birds launched themselves up from the nearby trees, just to the east. It was as though they were reacting to the sudden change. The timing was exact, as the vibrations quit and the hundreds of birds went up and out, over the Little Farm pond. They circled around, then settled back into the same trees they had been perched in. I climbed down the ladder and went inside the bus to write about the occurrence in a notebook. This was the first of many entries I began to make as I started keeping a journal of my experiences with the vibrations. While I was writing in my notebook, Herb and Frank rolled up in the north driveway. (I had been using Frank's generator to run some power tools, but it had stopped working, so Frank came over to help me get it running again.) I stepped out onto the porch and started telling Frank what had happened with the birds.

  As we worked on the generator, Frank and I talked about the vibrations. Frank was the only person who had any idea of what I was dealing with, as he claimed to have had a similar experience for about two years. He said, “It felt like I was getting hit with a microwave beam or something.” I replied, “That's what it feels like to me, too.”

  Herb stayed out of the conversation, though he attempted to change the subject a few times. Frank and I continued to talk about the vibrations. Then Herb mentioned the sand plant, four miles to the south, as a possible cause of the vibrations. I reminded him that the sand plant was already in operation for the first twelve years that I lived on the farm, and that the vibrations were not happening during those years. Then he said, “Maybe they got some new equipment.”

  I was growing irritated with Herb's continuing denial of what I was experiencing. He frequently mentioned the power lines, and now it was the sand plant. On many occasions I had described to him, in great detail, all of the things I had been experiencing with the bad vibes. He apparently never listened. If he had been listening and really trying to understand, then he would not keep suggesting ridiculous theories about the probable cause. It became apparent that the thought of anything intentional or sinister was too much for his rational mind to handle, so he would mention the power lines, again and again. It was like he thought my experiences were merely my imagination, and that was beginning to annoy me. It is not, nor was it ever my imagination. I am a rational person who had been trying to understand what these vibrations were, and where they were coming from. I did not want to believe that I was being targeted, yet the notion of electronic weapons became a more rational explanation than any other theories put forth by anyone.

  That same night of September 28th, the vibes came on very strong. I was trying to sleep but I couldn't stand the way I was getting zapped. I wrote in my Journal: Vibe came back strong after 10pm. I am leaving to sleep somewhere else. Maybe in van at Poff's pond.

  Into the van, I loaded my sleeping bag, five gallon water jug, guitar, notebook, toothbrush and toothpaste. I drove down to the Grove and parked in front of Herb's house. The vibes were still going strong. I got back in the van and drove a few miles up to Poff's Pond. When I shut off the van, I could feel the vibes just as much. So I drove back to Herb's house, then back to the farm. More bad vibrations. I was getting extremely irritated with all of this, feeling more and more like I was being assaulted by something, but not knowing what to do.

  Loading a few more things into the van, I decided that I would go all the way up to Frank's house. He was up near Denver, Missouri, more than twenty miles away from the farm. I thought that surely I could find some peace if I drove that far away. Stopping in the town of Gentry, I turned off the van. The vibes were still zapping me. So I drove north on 169, then a gravel road to the east. When I was nearing the corporate hog farm on highway M, I stopped again, shutting off the van to see if the vibes were still happening. They were. Then I drove the rest of the way to Denver, pulled up in Frank's driveway, and parked. When I turned off the engine, I felt the vibes. I was still getting zapped. Laying my forehead on the steering wheel, I felt like crying.

  Frank came outside, saying, “Hey Joe, I was just thinking about you. They're talking about microwave weapons on the radio.” It was about one-thirty in the morning, and Frank had been listening to Coast to Coast, a.m. I got out of the van and told Frank that I was getting zapped hard, and that the vibes were following me.   “I stopped in Gentry, and the vibes were still happening. Then I stopped near the hog farm. The vibes were still going.”

  “Are you feeling it here?”

  “Yes. I could feel it in your driveway as soon as I shut off the van.”

  We went into the house. A woman's voice came through the radio, talking about secret weapons in use by the military. Her name is Annie Jacobsen, and she is the author of such books as The Pentagon's Brain and Operation Paperclip. As Frank and I listened, several people called in to the program, asking about the microwave weapons, so she would then return to that subject.

  When the commercials came on the radio, Frank turned it down and we talked. I told him, “These vibes are weighing heavy on me. I don't know what to do.” Frank said that the woman on the radio had been describing these microwave weapons as the most accurate weapons in use by the Pentagon, and that they can target and track individual people. He told me how they can look through walls with their infra-red technology, and read people's “heat signature.” I asked, “Heat signature?” Frank said, “Everyone emits a unique pattern of body heat, and certain people can be identified by these patterns.”

  Suddenly a few pieces of the puzzle were connecting together in my mind. If I was being targeted, tracked, and followed, then it would make sense that the vibe was still with me as I drove around to all of those different places. If there was some kind of an energy beam or microwave beam being directed specifically at me, then maybe that's why I was feeling it when no one else around me could feel it. And I thought about Jen visiting me, back in 2011. The night she said she felt the vibration, we were lying in bed with our arms and legs wrapped around each other. We were physically as close as two people can possibly be. Perhaps she was feeling some of the vibe that I was getting zapped with.

  As I contemplated these realizations, Frank wondered if he could feel the vibes while standing near me. But he kept saying, “I'm not getting anything.” He spoke of the two years when he felt like he was getting assaulted by something. “I thought it was my neighbor for a while,” Frank said. “I thought he had a microwave dish pointed at me or something.” Frank mentioned that when he was in the navy, he knew of some guys on the ship who would point a microwave communications dish at an unsuspecting sailor and start zapping him. Frank said they did this for fun, pointing the dish at someone they didn't like, then they'd laugh as they watched the guy's reaction. So Frank thought his neighbor had been doing something similar to him. He said that over time, however, he began to suspect that this was some kind of secret weapon being used by the government.

  I told Frank that everything in my life was in question.

  “All these years I have invested my time, energy, and money into my homestead at the Little Farm. I've planted fruit trees and built so many things, and I keep feeling like I'm going to have to abandon it all. Every day I am toiling away, trying to get a roof over the big structure I'm building. But lately I've been wondering, What's the point? What is the point in continuing with any of that stuff if I'm going to keep getting zapped all the time? I can't take this shit anymore.” Breaking down with tears in my eyes, I started crying. I continued talking through my tears, about what I would do. “Maybe I need to disappear from the farm and just roam around the country with a backpack. Maybe I'll go south every winter. I don't know what else to do. I'm not gonna stay at the farm and just keep getting zapped.”

  Frank was trying to figure out a way to ease my sorrow.

  “Joe, do you want me to make you a foil hat?”

  “A what?”

  “Aluminum deflects microwaves. That's why some people wear hats made of aluminum foil.”    I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “Sure,” I said, “Why not? I'll try anything.”

  So Frank went into the kitchen and promptly fashioned a foil hat for me. He put it on my head, then I pulled it on for a tighter fit. Frank asked, “Is it working? Do you feel any difference?”

  “I don't know. I'm tired, I wanna crash.”

  “You can sleep in the bedroom. I'm gonna lay on the couch.”

  As I went to lie on the bed, with the vibrations still going through me, I muttered to myself, “There is no way in the world that these weird vibes have anything to do with those wind farms. Fuckin' wind farms couldn't follow me another twenty miles away.”

  When I woke up, it was daylight. I was still feeling the vibes. After I went to pee, I picked up Frank's phone to call Herb. He answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Herb, it's Joe.”

  “Hey, where you at?”

  “I'm up at Frank's. The vibes were following me around last night. I was still getting it in Gentry. Also near the hog farms, and all the way up here in Denver. Those wind farms couldn't possibly have anything to do with this. Wind farms couldn't follow me to Denver. And there was a lady on the radio last night, talking about microwave weapons and other energy weapons that are used by the Pentagon. I am now convinced that I've been getting zapped by some kind of electronic weapon.” Herb was saying, “Uh huh, Uh huh...” I could hear the doubt in his voice.

  I drove back to Herb's house, and immediately I felt the vibes. When I got back over to the farm, the vibes were still going. I thought of what Frank had said about aluminum deflecting microwaves, so I went into the aluminum Airstream Trailer to see if I could feel a difference. There were several windows, and I could still feel the vibes near them. Then I found a spot toward the back end of the trailer and I squatted down to the floor. The vibes appeared to diminish. I went back into the bus and wrote my findings in the journal.

  The next day was Wednesday, the 30th of September. I continued writing in my journal: Surprisingly calm today. Have not noticed vibe so far. 2 pm. Wind is from the north and cool today. Highs in the 60's. 4:42pm – Started feeling subtle waves over the past hour. Almost imperceptible.

  1:23 am, October 1st – Feeling vibes in waves. Mild, so far...

  7:56 am – Woke up to the vibes a while ago. Got the wood stove going and went to the shitter. Not noticing the vibe now, because of the sound of the wood stove burning. 10:15 am – Vibes became apparent again, and I went to see if Airstream aluminum made any difference. It most certainly seemed to diminish the vibe. When I was close to the windows, I could feel it more, but when I hid behind the walls blocking the vibes, as I perceive them to be coming from the southeast, it seemed that the aluminum wall diminished the vibe. Feeling the vibe now in the bus. Going to check Airstream again.

  When I returned, I wrote: I'm almost convinced that there is some kind of microwave beam being directed at me from the southeast. Today is my 20th anniversary of moving to the Little Farm. 12:37 pm – Barely feeling vibes now. Almost not there. 12:40 pm WTF! Just felt vibes way stronger. 12:44pm – full on, right near the wood stove. 1:05 pm – Vibes still on.

  Then I wrote: 4:25 pm – About a minute or two ago, a big military-looking aircraft flew over the farm, coming from the east and then turning toward the southwest, just as they were directly over the farm. It was a big, gray aircraft. No markings. The center portion was fat, like a cargo plane, but different. I waved at them as they flew over.

  Every day, I continued to make these kinds of journal entries. October 4th, 7:17 am – Vibe was going strong all night and continues right now. Feels like I am getting zapped, big time. I tried to go to bed last night and vibes were going and I got up and started putting aluminum foil on the walls. Vibes only seemed to increase, like someone was turning up the dial. 8:55 am – Vibe steady and strong and completely obvious. I am taking down the vertical strips I put up last night and putting them horizontally across front wall. Not sure if I will cover front windshield. Could be dark, but better than getting zapped. 12:28 pm – Constant vibration, buzzing in my skull and driving me crazy. Been putting up foil all morning. Just went out to the firewood area and can feel the vibe buzzing my head so much.

  I went over to the Grove and called Melissa on the phone. I told her that the vibes were severely stressing me out. She suggested that we both go somewhere to get away from it. I agreed. I was anxious to get away. Melissa drove down from Iowa and we slept in the bus.

  The next morning I wrote: October 5th, Monday. I wasn't feeling the vibe last night, but upon waking, I did. It has been going all morning. I asked Melissa several times if she feels it, and she says no.

  I started packing Melissa's car for our trip and was feeling frantic about wanting to get away. We had decided to go camping in the Ozark Mountains of Northern Arkansas. When we finally left, I felt a bit of relief with the vibes gradually fading away. As we drove south, I watched the odometer to see how far it was to the wind farm – about sixteen miles. Although we were passing through the middle of the wind farm, the bad vibrations were gone.

  Melissa did most of the driving, and when we got to Fayetteville, we contacted Anna and Joel. They had been staying in a house with their friends, on a beautiful piece of land that was south of town. They fed us some delicious food, and after eating, we all sat on the grass and we talked.

  I told them of my ongoing disturbances with the bad vibrations at the farm, and how I felt like I was being targeted and assaulted by some kind of electronic weapon. I gave them many of the details I have written in this chapter. Joel was sitting to my right, and after some thought, he turned to me and said, “Yeah… I think it's possible they might be fucking with you.” I appreciated Joel's response. Most people wouldn't believe any of it. Anna gave Melissa a few recommendations for places to go camping, then we all said goodbye.

  Melissa drove east as we went to camp in the Steele Creek area. After two nights, Melissa and I returned to that same house, south of Fayetteville. Though all of the residents were gone for the night, Anna had told Melissa that we were welcome to stay there. We slept on the porch, and in the morning we drove to Eureka Springs.

   Anna and Joel were playing music at the Stone House Winery. I sat on the patio with Melissa, drinking beer and laughing at all of the funny things Joel and Anna were saying between songs. They were hilarious, and the music was great. We slept at the home of Anna's god parents, and in the morning we began the long drive back to Northern Missouri. I was feeling much better. We returned to the farm on the evening of Sunday, October 11th. Everything felt calm. No vibrations were apparent, and I didn't want to think about it. We drank a few beers and we smoked some ganja. We talked and laughed while I cooked up some good food. I slept well and felt content.

  The next morning, Melissa and I had a stupid argument over nothing. Feeling angry and annoyed, I wanted her to leave, so she did. As I was shaking off my anger about Melissa, I wondered if the bad vibes would return. Just as they had for the past eight years, the bad vibes returned within a few days after I came home to the farm.

  On Sunday, October 18th, I was working on the water house. The vibe had been going all morning, and it was feeling more intense than usual. I tried to ignore it but it was just too much. As I held a long two-by-four, preparing to carry it up the ladder, I was feeling way too much of the weird energy beam going through me. Stopping in my tracks, I threw the board to the ground and said, “I can't do this anymore.” In that moment, there was a realization that I could no longer live on the farm. I had to get away from the vibe, and I began to think of the steps I would have to take before I could leave. I was about to start packing things into the van, then I remembered all of the aloe vera plants that needed to be brought over to Herb's house for the winter. While loading aloe plants into the van, I was coming to grips with the realization that my time at the farm could be at an end. I thought of all the years I had toiled and struggled to make this homestead happen, and now I might have to abandon it all. Suddenly I was crying. A deep sorrow washed over me as I gathered all of the potted aloe plants.

  With tears running down my face, I drove to the Grove. As I rolled up near Herb's house, I saw that Chaz and Al were there. Chaz was helping Herb work on one of his tractors. I pulled over on the left side of the road and got out of the van. Opening the back hatch, I asked, “Who wants an aloe vera plant?” Al walked over and said, “I'd be interested.”

  “Go ahead and pick one or a few of them.”

  “How about the two big ones?”

  “Well...  How about one of the big ones, and one or two of the smaller ones?”

  He took two plants and I closed the hatch.

  When Herb walked over to me, I began telling him that I had to get away from the farm. I was crying again as I tried to speak:

  “I've been getting zapped over there for way too many years, and I can't take it anymore. I have to leave. I can't live around here anymore. All these years, I've been working so hard to make things happen, and I just feel like I have to walk away from it all. I mean… What's the point? What is the point of trying to continue with anything over there if I'm just gonna keep getting zapped all the time?”

  Chaz and Al were only a few yards away, and I'm sure they were hearing everything I was saying. I didn't care what they heard or what they thought. I was telling Herb that I had to leave.

  Herb said, “Come here and listen to this over here,” as he coaxed me over to one of the power line poles across the road. Herb started telling me how it was making so much noise in the morning. But as we stood there, it was totally silent. Herb continued, “Boy, it was sure making a loud hum this morning.” Tears were still dripping down my face as Herb again tried to convince me that the power lines had something to do with my misery. Standing underneath the silent power line, I was still feeling the bad vibrations going through me. I didn't mention that to Herb. It was pointless. I walked back across the road, up the porch steps and into the house.

   I picked up the phone to call my sister. After dialing Anne's number, I got her answering machine, so I left a message. Then I called my other sister. Liz answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Liz.”

  “Joe, what's wrong?”

  “Well, my goodness. How did you know?”

  “You sound really sad, I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I am really sad. I'm sad that I can't live at the Little Farm anymore.”

  I broke down into tears again.

  Liz asked, “Why? Did someone tell you that you couldn't live there anymore?”

  “No, it's nothing like that. Herb likes me, and I am totally welcome to stay on the farm. It's just that…” I tried to formulate my words before I unloaded the entire story onto Liz.

  “For the first twelve years that I lived on the farm, there was a calm and a stillness that disappeared in 2007. It all started one night in October of 2007. This weird vibration came along and woke me up in the middle of the night. I could feel it going all through my body. It's like a really low, humming sort of vibration, and it just goes through the walls, and it goes through everything. It has stayed around for all of these years and it's been irritating me ever since.”

  “Did you ever find out what it was… or what it is?”

  “For a lot of years I wondered if it was related to the wind farms, but I eventually concluded that it wasn't. I also thought it might have something to do with the microwave cell phone towers to the east. I've often thought that it was some kind of electronic weapon that was being pointed at me. That's what it has always felt like. It's like a beam of weird energy being directed at me. It's almost like a mild, electric shock, but different... like there are billions of electrons vibrating through me.”

  I told her of the years I had been trying to raise awareness about corruption in the government.

  “I used to walk around with a big sign that said, 'The government did nine-eleven.' I spent years posting about it on Myspace and on Facebook. I protested at the Pentagon. There were often strange people who took pictures of me. Basically, I made myself into a target. Most of those things were happening in 2006 and 2007, in the years leading up to my first encounters with the bad vibrations. The government is messing with me. They have been messing with me for a long time. Whatever has been happening, it causes me frequent headaches. I can feel it messing with my intestines and giving me the runny shits.”

  I continued to cry and talk as Liz patiently listened.

  “All those years I was posting controversial information on social media and carrying signs... I don't know if I made any difference, as far as raising awareness. I don't know if I made any positive changes in the world, but I do know that I drew attention to myself, and I became a target. But there are a lot of people out there who are raising awareness and exposing government corruption. Are they all being targeted? Are they all getting zapped by some kind of electronic weapon? I wonder about the Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth, and people like Richard Gage or David Ray Griffin. Are they getting zapped?”

  I went on about the evils of government, of continuous war for profit and control. I spoke of all of the false flag events that continue to happen around the world, and how it is our tax dollars paying for it all. “These people in shady positions in government, doing all of these horrible things – they're evil!” Liz agreed with me, that there is much evil hiding behind the walls of government. A loud “click” sound came over the phone. I asked, “Did you hear that? That click sound?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I always assumed that they read our emails and listened to phone conversations, long before Edward Snowden told us that they do those things. But with today's technology, I don't know why we would even hear any 'click' sound for someone to be listening to, or recording our conversation. And if they are reading my emails, then they should know that I'm not doing anything! I'm not breaking any laws or hurting anyone. I'm just trying to grow some fruit trees and build a homestead. I wish they would leave me alone!”

  As I finished saying that, I was crying again. Liz offered me her sympathy.

  “It sounds horrible, Joe, what you are going through. I'm going to pray for you, and I'll have all of my kids pray for you, too.”

  “Thanks, Liz. You know I'm not religious, but I do believe in the power of prayer. And you have so many kids, too. So that's some powerful energy.”

  I felt much better after talking with Liz. It was good to tell someone my story, and to not feel like I was being judged or ridiculed. Liz listened and she gave me some feedback without doubting my story or my experience of it all.

  When I returned to the farm, everything felt calm as I slept through the night. When I woke up, it was still calm. Several days passed with no bad vibrations happening. I continued to make an occasional journal entry, though there was nothing to report. Everything stayed calm. I was relieved. I felt that my conversation with Liz had an impact. Perhaps the prayers of Liz and her children had something to do with the relief I was feeling. Beyond that, I felt that who ever was listening to our phone conversation, they must have really heard me, especially the part when I said, “If they are reading my emails, then they should know that I'm not doing anything!” I thought that perhaps someone who had the authority to make a certain decision may have given an order to stop attacking me with whatever kind of electronic weapon I was being assaulted with.

  The days of calm turned into weeks of calm, and I was beginning to feel that my troubles with the bad vibrations were over. Every once in a while, I felt a slight vibration of something, though it was nothing like the ongoing assault I had become so familiar with. After the many years of paying close attention, “listening” for the vibrations, I had become much more aware of my own inner vibrations. I could feel my heartbeat and my pulse with much more clarity than I ever had in the past. There were times when I thought I was feeling a bit of the vibe, but upon further “listening,” I'd realize that I was actually feeling my own pulse and the gush of blood that flows with every beat of my heart. I quickly deciphered the difference, as there was really no comparison. The vibe that had been tormenting me for all of those years was much more pronounced, very strong, and extremely disturbing. There was no denying the existence of the vibe when it was full-on.

  Whatever vibrations I encountered during this time of calm, they were minuscule in comparison to the previous conditions. Sometimes it was merely the vibration of a truck driving by, half a mile away. If you pay attention to these things, you will notice the subtle vibrations that often occur all around you.

  Things continued to remain mostly calm around my place, but then one morning, I woke up to the vibes again. I began to feel a sense of panic, feeling that this was going to continue ruining my life. I wrote in my journal: Sunday, November 15th – THE VIBE IS BACK. I felt it hours ago while sleeping. Woke up to it. Very subtle, mild. But most definitely going.

  Down in the Grove, I phoned Liz, telling her, “For about four weeks, I didn't feel much of anything until today. When I woke up this morning, the vibe was happening again.”

  Liz told me that she had forgotten to keep praying for me. Again, she said that she and her kids would pray for me. I hung up the phone and wondered if I could feel the vibe. I wasn't feeling it in Herb's house. When I went back over to the farm, it was calm again. No vibrations. I breathed a sigh of relief, telling myself to focus on the calm and serenity. I didn't want to give any thought to the bad vibes. Over the next several days, I enjoyed the relaxing feeling of the calm stillness.

  I thought about the creepy government people who read our emails, and I decided to send them a message, so I sent an email to myself:

 To whom it may concern:

 Dear Feds, please stop zapping me with whatever you have been zapping me with. I am not doing anything wrong, I am not breaking any laws,* and I am no longer trying to inform people about government corruption. All I want to do is grow my fruit trees and build my farm structures. Please stop with the electronic harassment and assault. It has been eight long years that I have endured the wrath of your secret electronic weapons, and I am wishing, hoping, and praying that you will end all of that and leave me alone. Don't you have bigger fish to fry? I am just a simple farmer and occasional musician. Please let me be.

Thank you for reading my emails.

    (*Actually though, I do break some laws. I smoke cannabis and occasionally ingest hallucinogenic mushrooms. I have also experimented with other controlled substances. At times I have been guilty of jaywalking or running past stop signs on my bicycle. That's it. That is the full extent of my illegal activity.)

  For the past few years, I had been losing vision in my right eye. In January of 2015, I looked closely in the mirror, with a flashlight shining into my eye. What I saw frightened me. It was cloudy and milky-looking in my pupil. I looked at pictures of cataracts on the internet, and they looked like what I had seen in my eye. At Stan and Cathy's house, I mentioned that I might have cataracts. Cathy asked, “Aren't you too young to be getting cataracts?” I replied, “I'm too young for a lot of things.”

  Soon after that, I scheduled an appointment with an eye doctor in Lawrence. After running some tests and looking into my eyes, the doctor told me what I had already suspected; I had cataracts. He told me that cataract surgery was the only solution, and he referred me to a group of eye surgeons. I asked him about the procedure. He explained that they remove the natural lens and replace it with an artificial lens. I did not like the sound of that. Not wanting to remove my natural lens, I looked for alternatives on the internet.

  During Thanksgiving, I visited with Melissa's family up near Des Moines. I told Melissa about the cataracts, saying, “I don't want to do the surgery, but eventually I won't be able to read or write. It compels me to get more serious about finishing my book.”

  Melissa was sympathetic about my cataracts. After returning home, I received an email from her, saying, “I've read that a leaking microwave oven can cause cataracts. There are detectors you can get to check for microwaves, but I would check into their sensitivity levels before buying one.” I pondered over those words. I never go anywhere near microwave ovens. I don't like them. I avoid cell phones because of the microwaves. Melissa knew about my problems with the bad vibrations, and I had mentioned the idea of microwave weapons to her. Now she was sharing this information about microwave radiation causing cataracts. As I read her email, I said, “Well, great. If it was a microwave weapon being directed at me, it may have caused me to develop cataracts at an early age. Just wonderful.”   And I had thought of getting one of those detectors. It would certainly add a bit more credibility to my story if I could have given actual numeric readings from such a device. By this time, however, the bad vibrations had mostly ended, and I felt that buying one of those detectors would almost be like inviting the bad vibes to come back.   The farm had returned to the calm and serenity that I missed. I was feeling better again. I rolled in the grass, breathing deep and feeling thankful that everything had been calm for this much time, which was only a couple of weeks at that point. And yet I could still feel the aftermath of all the weird vibrations that had been imposed upon me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I felt much different than I had before. Thinking out loud, I said, “Who knows what they've done to me?” I steered my mind away from bad thoughts like cancer and all the other horrible things that could go wrong. I understand how powerful thoughts can be, especially when it comes to good or bad health.

  Over the years, increasingly I noticed that I was often feeling irritable. The slightest little annoyances could set me off into an angry rage. I was already a bit of a moody person at times, though I felt that all those years of getting zapped had changed me. I had less patience with people, and I knew that I couldn't really talk about my dilemma with others. They would laugh and ridicule me. They would call me crazy, delusional, and paranoid. That is what most people will do. They will judge you as being crazy or delusional, without considering the possibility that what you are telling them is the truth.

  For many months I had stayed away from Facebook, and I rarely logged into my email account. When the bad vibes had mostly stopped after October the 18th, I was still reluctant to log into those accounts, concerned that the bad vibes would return. As the weeks passed, though, I began to log in again. I felt like a frightened little animal, crawling out of a hole, wondering if it was safe to go out into the light. With the exception of November 15th, everything had remained relatively calm. I was looking at my news feed on Facebook, though I refused to post anything or participate in any online discussions. Then on the evening of Thursday, December third, I shared a video about Donald Trump. It was the first time I had posted anything in months. It wasn't even controversial, it was just funny. I wondered if posting something might cause “them” to start zapping me again. The next morning, I woke up to the vibe. It was going steady and strong. I decided to leave the farm, so I packed the van for a long drive to Arkansas.

  Joel and Anna were playing music in Eureka Springs, and I drove all the way down there to see them. I helped them load their equipment into and out of the Stone House Winery, and at the end of the evening, they offered me a place to sleep. On Saturday night they were playing music in Fayetteville. Again I helped them move their equipment, before and after the show. I slept in my van that night, and on Sunday morning I drove toward Lawrence.

  By Tuesday I was back on the Farm. Everything felt calm. I avoided logging onto a computer until Thursday evening. I was planning to leave again on Friday, December 11th. The farm remained calm through the night and into the morning. When daylight arrived, I packed my things into the van and drove to Lawrence. Then I made my way through Wichita and to Hutchinson, where I continued to write about all of this.

  It is bad enough having endured the torment of getting zapped for all of those years. Adding sorrow to all of this is the awareness that my closest friends don't believe me. I have told my story to people like Luke, Ian, and Anastasia. They all get a blank look on their faces, like they are having some cognitive dissonance, wondering if I am crazy. It is sad and annoying. Melissa is one of the few people who hasn't doubted my story – Melissa, Frank, and perhaps Joel and Jen. As I have persisted with my story though, it seems that a few people are beginning to believe me.

  After all the years I endured the bad vibrations at the farm, I had examined many different thoughts and ideas about what the disturbance might be. I was looking for the most logical answer to the question: What is the cause of the bad vibrations? The notion of electronic weapons being the cause makes more sense to me than anything else which has been suggested by anyone. It makes more sense than wind farms being the cause, or the power lines, or the sand plant. None of those things could track me around and keep zapping me all the way to Denver, Missouri. But modern electronic weapons certainly could. This is logic, plain and simple. From everything I have experienced, it is my absolute belief that some kind of electronic weapon was being aimed at me for all of those years. It had the ability to track and follow me around in Northwest Missouri. On the radio, Annie Jacobsen had spoken of these weapons. When reading her book, “Phenomena,” I found very little information on the subject. She only briefly mentioned electronic weapons. Perhaps I simply haven't found the right book. Regardless, it has been admitted by the FBI that they were using similar kinds of weapons against someone, as far back as the 1950's.   So why do people have that knee-jerk reaction of ridicule and doubt when I mention any of this to them? I suppose it is because they were conditioned to think that way. Some folks have proposed the idea that perhaps I was experiencing the effects of tinnitus, a condition in which a person hears a ringing sound when no external sound is present. For each person who has suggested this to me, my response has been the same: “It's interesting how that tinnitus disappears every time I drive far enough away from the farm.” Sometimes I wish that those people could get zapped for just ten or twenty minutes. Ordinarily I wouldn't wish that upon anyone, yet if people could experience just a few moments of what I had to endure for eight long years, then maybe they would understand.

  As these weeks roll past, I am grateful for the relative calm I have been feeling. Ever since that day when I cried while talking to my sister on the phone, the bad vibrations have almost completely disappeared. I went back to working on some of my projects, thinking that maybe I can continue living on the farm. An enormous sense of relief has been happening for me. At the same time, there is an ongoing feeling of apprehension that it could all happen again.

  Is it over?

  Will the bad vibrations stay away and let me live in peace?

  Will the calm and serenity remain?

  I hope so.

  That would have been a fine way to end this chapter. I wish it was the end. Eighteen months went by without any notice of the weird vibrations. I thought it was over. But in late May of 2017, the bad vibes returned. It was mild at first, almost imperceptible, then it became stronger. After more than a year of calm, I had begun to think it would be okay to go ahead and speak my mind by posting certain things on Facebook. There were some postings about government corruption and war crimes. Not long after sharing those posts, I started feeling the bad vibes again.

  On the night of May 30th, I was lying in bed when the vibrations became more intense. I got up and began to gather my things, unsure of where to go, only knowing that I had to leave. After driving over to Herb's house, I sat in the car and opened up my computer. I was thinking of driving all the way up to Frank's place, then I thought of the upstairs room above Herb and Larry. The stairs are on the outside, so I was able to go up there without bothering anyone. As I settled in the bed to sleep, I was not feeling the vibes. So I slept.

  In the morning I went downstairs to chat with Larry and Herb. I made no mention of the recent vibrations on the farm. Then Frank showed up at the door. As he stepped inside, he said, “Hi Joe. How's it been going?”

  “Not so great. I'll tell you later.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  “They're zapping me again.”

  “Oh, no. That sucks.”

  “Frank, you're the only person who understands what I'm talking about.”

  Herb went outside as Frank and I discussed the bad vibrations. Larry sat up on the bed, listening to us. Frank recalled his experience of getting zapped for two years. The vibrations stopped harassing him around the same time when they first started bothering me. Frank and I had come up with a theory that initially, the perpetrators thought Frank was me. We both have dark brown eyes, brown hair and a brown beard. We have a similar shape to our eyebrows. People often asked if we were brothers. So it seemed plausible that our identity had gotten mixed up by those who were assaulting us. I told Frank that I had no choice but to leave the farm and go somewhere.

  “First, I need to get that gutter put on the water house, to channel the rain away from the building. Then I have to get out of here. My sister has been inviting me to visit, so maybe I'll go there.” Holding up my laptop computer, I said, “I can keep working on the book, just about anywhere.”

  Back on the farm, I spent most of the day figuring out how I would put up the gutter. The bad vibrations bothered me for a while. By late afternoon, though, they had stopped. After many hours of calm, I thought I would be able to sleep in my own bed again. But as I laid down to sleep that night, the vibes came back, steady and strong. So I gathered a few things and went over to Herb's. In the upstairs, I still felt a vibration, though not as pronounced as it was at the farm. Sleeping through the vibrations, I woke up at sunrise.

  Downstairs, I drank coffee with Herb while I read my emails. Then I drove the dusty road back to the farm. As I started gathering some tools and gutter pieces, no vibrations were apparent. Again, I felt relieved to be working in the calm surroundings. It was Thursday, the first of June. Standing on the porch with the cat, I watched two hummingbirds hovering around their nectar feeder. Suddenly they both flew toward me, one of them flying just a couple of inches past the right side of my face as the other one flew by me at waist level. Laughing with amusement, I said, “That was cool! I love living here when I'm not getting zapped.”

  The disturbing vibrations returned in the afternoon. I did my best to ignore them and to focus on getting the gutter installed. By evening, the vibes had diminished. Several hours later, though, just as I was lying down to sleep, the vibes returned. It seemed like the culprits were intentionally waiting until I went to bed, then as soon as I laid down, they started zapping me. It was like they were experimenting with their sadistic torture device while observing my reactions. For the third night in a row, I got dressed and drove along the gravel road to sleep in the upstairs room of Herb's house. In the morning, I woke up and drove back to the farm.

  After the gutter was attached, I felt better about walking away from the water-house project and going somewhere to get away from the bad vibrations. A few trips away from the farm gave me some peace for a while. I visited my sister's home near Lincoln, then drove to Lawrence. At the end of June, I was swept away in a flood. Interesting as that was, it does not relate to this story.

  When the vibrations returned and increased with intensity, I found myself making journal entries again: July 8th, 2017. The vibe is becoming more pronounced today. For the last month, I haven't felt it much, and most times it is barely noticeable. But today I am feeling a humming in my head that is some of the strongest vibration I've felt since November of 2015.

Sunday, 9th of July – I woke up to the vibe this morning, and it feels more steady and strong than it did yesterday. The realization is upon me again, that I cannot stay here, and I have to begin packing my car for a trip to somewhere.

  Things were much easier when I still had the minivan. There was room to move around and space to sleep. Then the transmission was destroyed. With the little Honda I am now driving, there is no room for anything. I do not know where I will sleep.

  As I write these words, the vibrations are humming in my head and chest. I wonder what may have caused the return of this miserable condition, and the only thing that comes to mind is a recent phone conversation I had with Sherri. It was last Tuesday evening, on the Fourth of July. I had mentioned to her that I thought NPR was just as full of lies as the other mainstream media networks:

  “They've all been lying about nine-eleven for all these years, and that's the biggest lie I have heard being perpetuated in my entire life. If they're going to continue with a lie as huge as nine-eleven, what else are they lying about?”

  So again, I was running my mouth about the government's involvement in a false flag operation, and again, the bad vibes returned.

  With a few things packed into the Honda, I drove all the way up to Frank's house. When Frank came out to meet me in the yard, I said, “They're zapping me again. I can't stand to stay on the farm, so I need to crash here tonight.” We went inside and talked of the experiences we've both had with the vibrations. Everything felt calm at Frank's. There was no feeling of any weird vibes at all. I thought back to what I had been feeling just a few hours earlier at the farm, and it seemed surreal. The calm feeling remained at Frank's house as I fell asleep on the futon.

  In the morning I wanted to get back to the farm and prepare for a more extended trip. By afternoon I was rolling toward the homestead. As soon as I rolled into the north driveway of the Little Farm, the vibration was completely obvious. I made a list of things I would need and began to gather them. Then I drove down to the Grove to visit with Herb and Larry for a couple of hours. Returning to the farm, I was hoping the vibration might have diminished, and that maybe I could sleep in my own bed again. Yet when I returned, the vibration seemed to be coming on stronger, and I knew I couldn't stay there. So I gathered my things for another drive up to Frank's house, feeling frantic about trying to get away, with my head and chest vibrating the entire time. After a second night at Frank's house, I drove back to the farm, preparing for another trip southward.

  Although I've grown tired of writing this chapter, it is difficult to find a stopping point, as I am dealing with an ongoing chronicle of these disturbances. I got away to Lawrence. From there, I drove to the southwest corner of Missouri, then north and west to Wichita for two nights, then to Hutchinson. For three nights, I stayed at Ian and Anastasia's house, then drove back up to Lawrence. By Monday, July 24th, I had returned to Northwest Missouri.

  Everything was calm as I refrained from logging in on a computer. The next day, I logged into email and Facebook while I was at the Library in town. Also, I requested two books by Annie Jacobsen, through the inter-library loan. At the farm I had mild perceptions of some vibrations, but wasn't sure. It was vague. On Thursday, I logged in from Herb's house on an older computer. That night, the vibes came on strong, just as I was settling into bed. I got up, grabbed a few things and drove to Herb's. Stepping up the outside stairs, I went into the room. The vibes were still apparent up there and I couldn't sleep, so I went down to go into the downstairs part, but it was locked. Not wanting to wake Herb, I drove back to the farm. When I got back inside the bus, the vibes were still going steady. I wanted to leave but I was exhausted. It was around two o'clock in the morning when I succumbed, falling asleep with the vibes humming through my body. At daybreak I woke up to the vibes going through me like they hadn't stopped all night.

  Later that day, I drove back up to Frank's. We talked for a while, then I called Herb's house and left him a message. When Herb called back, he told me that he had experienced some strange vibrations during the previous night. That would have been Thursday night and Friday morning, the 27th and 28th of July. Herb said he woke up to a vibration and wondered why he was “hearing” something when he knew that the refrigerator wasn't running at the time, the air conditioner was not on, and the ceiling fan was off. In a way, I was glad that Herb was recognizing a vibration. I certainly don't want him getting zapped, but I've wanted him to understand that what I have been experiencing is real. I want everyone to understand that.

  Again I escaped from the farm, driving to Lawrence and visiting with friends.

  August 14th, 2017 – When I got back to the farm last night, everything felt much different than it ever has in the last twenty-one years. I did not feel good about being home. After all the years of being out here alone, the years of getting zapped, the ongoing apprehension about possibly getting zapped again, and events of the last eleven months which have left me severely angry at certain people, it is feeling more to me like this is no longer my home. It does not feel like my home anymore. The water house stands there, looking at me as if it is wondering when I will break out the tools and continue building on it. I look back to the water house and say, “My heart is not in it. I just don't care anymore.” All of that time and energy, the endless days of toiling away, it might have all been a complete waste of my time, energy, and money. My greatest and most ambitious projects in recent years have been the water house and the book. But the ongoing events of recent months continue to push me away from this place, and I keep returning to the conclusion that I need to buy a van and be prepared to live on the road. The only thing I have left is this book.

  Late August in Lawrence, I stayed at Stella's old house on Montana street during the time when she was moving to a rental property and putting her house up for sale. Many times I had noticed a weird vibration that seemed to be running through the east side of the house. This was the first time I felt any kind of strange electrical vibes in Lawrence. It should be noted that I had logged onto my computer, using Stella’s wifi connection. Perhaps this made my presence known, putting me on someone’s radar. After feeling bad vibes in the southeast bedroom, I moved my sleeping pad into the living room where no vibes were apparent.

  When I told Stella about the bad vibes in that southeast corner room, she said that her daughter did not like that room and would never go in there. Stella reacted strongly to what I was telling her, as it appeared to add some credence to whatever her daughter had been experiencing. Stella seemed to be pondering about a ghostly presence, while I was thinking of something electronic and man-made. I began to notice that the vibration was also apparent in the bathroom, the kitchen, and the laundry room. It was extending lengthwise, north and south, through the entire east side of the house.

  In late August, I bought another old Dodge van. Deciding to stay in Lawrence during the fall and winter, I made arrangements to move in with two friends, though I did not want to be on the lease. By early September, I had settled into a house near the campus of The University of Kansas. One of my early mistakes was logging in on my computer through the wifi in that house. Eventually, I learned about and purchased a VPN (Virtually Private Network) service which is meant to provide some privacy for my online activity, re-routing my connection through another server somewhere. But my attempts at hiding my location had failed, as I had already logged on without the protection of a VPN. I’ve had doubts about whether or not the VPN actually hides my location from the feds, anyway.

  Several times when I went to go walking or riding my bike, I noticed someone in an idle car, stopped in the middle of the street, just staring at me as I made my way from the house. Each time, it was a different person in a different car, not parking anywhere, just sitting idle in the street, staring at me. Every time it happened, I walked or biked directly toward the person, then he or she would drive away as I got closer. It seemed really strange. Not long after those encounters, a weird vibration started happening in my temporary new home. At first, I noticed it in the bathroom when I was standing in front of the toilet to pee. Then I was feeling it in the kitchen as well.

  Luke knew all about my struggle with the bad vibes, and when he came over to see the house, he asked, “Do you ever feel those vibrations when you're in Lawrence?”

  “In the last couple of months, I have. I was getting weird vibes at Stella's old house, all along the east side but not on the west side. And now in this house, I keep getting it in the bathroom and in the kitchen.”

  After Luke left, I wondered why I had not asked him to stand in the bathroom and tell me if he felt the vibrations. My two housemates knew nothing about my years of struggle with the bad vibes on the farm. Several times I had mentioned the weird vibrations in the bathroom and kitchen. When they gave no response, I said nothing more about it.

  During September and October, I became more convinced that I was being electronically harassed at the Lawrence home. Along with the vibrations going through my skull, there was often a feeling of tightness, almost a numbness in my throat area, like the glands were being assaulted. With the vibes penetrating through my chest, my heart often started racing at a much faster pace than usual. It would be normal if I was engaged in heavy exercise at the time, but it often happens when I am fully relaxed, or even when I'm lying down to sleep. There is no reason why my heart should start racing so fast when I am not moving at all. Actually though, there is a reason: electronic assault. One day I was describing the rapid heartbeat to Luke, then he asked, “Is there anything that would be causing you anxiety, to the point where your heart would speed up?”

  “Yes. Getting zapped by electronic weapons causes me anxiety. It causes anxiety when it's happening. And when it's not happening, the thought of it returning makes me apprehensive, too.”

  Once or twice a month, I made the drive up to the Little Farm. It was good to see Herb, Larry, and the dogs in the Grove. The cats, too, especially my cat on the farm. For several days I would hang out, in and around my home. Everything was calm. It seemed apparent that whoever had been assaulting me, they had found my location in Lawrence but were no longer aiming their devices at my home on the farm. When my life returns to that level of calm and serenity, it is the greatest relief I know.

  Back in Lawrence, however, the vibes were becoming more commonplace. At first, it was the steady vibe constantly running through the bathroom, and eventually through the kitchen, as though the perpetrators were uncertain about which room I was occupying. I imagined them projecting a steady vibration, perhaps while figuring out the lay of the house. That's how I thought of it, anyway.  

  As November came along, I started feeling the disturbance in the living room at times. I would abruptly get up and move to different parts of the house, trying to decipher whether the vibes were happening in those areas. One evening, Cory asked, “What are you doing, Joe?”

  “It's difficult to explain. You wouldn't understand.”

  “What do you mean? Why wouldn't I understand?”

  “Because nobody understands. It's something I've been dealing with for years. Most people don't believe me, anyway. I don't like to talk about it.”

  Cory's curiosity was growing, along with his confusion about my reluctance to speak about my situation. Then I told him, “I've written a fairly detailed chapter about it. It's the longest chapter in my book, and you can read all about it when I get the book published. Or if you want to read it on a computer sometime, maybe I can put it on a flash drive for you. But generally, I don't talk about it with people anymore.”

  “You could email it to me.”

  “No. I definitely don't want to do that. Other people could see it. The wrong people. Shit, they've probably already crept into my computer and got everything in there... any of those times I went online before I had a VPN, they could have done that. But you never know. Maybe they haven't seen that chapter. I'll put it on a flash drive sometime, and we can put it on your computer.” “Okay… well, I'd be interested to read it.”

  For about three months, I had not been feeling anything bothersome in my little room at the top of the stairs. I was able to sleep without much concern. By the end of November though, I was getting more disturbing vibes in my room. One morning, I frantically began to load the van with the things I would need to get away to somewhere, to anywhere. Before I left for another spontaneous escape, I put the majority of this chapter on a flash drive and told Cory, “I have to leave, but I want to put this on your computer before I go.” So we sat down with his laptop computer and made that happen.

  In December I began to document my frequent encounters with the house vibrations by making notes on the December page of a calendar, taped up on the inside of my room door: December 7, 8, 9 – zapped. Familiar pressure in my skull, tightness in my throat glands. Light but steady vibe going on. 10 – calm. Left for farm. Calm at farm. December 13 – returned and zapping started again. 14 – Zapped, heavily. Stopped around 10-11pm. December 15 – Left for Ozarks. December 17 – Returned to Lawrence – calm. After the word, “calm,” there is an arrow pointing through the remaining days of that week, indicating that the calmness had remained.

December 25 – vibes, 26 – vibes, 27 – calm again. At the top of the December calendar page, I began to write down the encounters occurring in January: Vibes on Jan. 5th, 6pm – Vibes.

  Then everything remained calm for twelve days until I got caught up in argument on Facebook. It was a discussion about the idea of mandatory vaccines. In the comments, I went on a rant about the toxic poisons in vaccines, and that mandating forced injections on people was another extension of fascism. Within hours of posting those comments, I was clearly feeling the bad vibrations again. I imagined there was a correlation between my speaking out, then getting assaulted.

  During the many years I was getting zapped on the farm, I often went searching online for some clues to the mystery I was experiencing. Yet for so many of those years, I never thought to do a simple search regarding electronic weapons. I was researching wind-farm vibrations, cell phone tower microwaves, “stray electricity,” and other things. When I finally searched for answers by typing “electronic weapons” in the search box, I was suddenly exposed to hundreds of links dealing with electronic assault, harassment, and torture. It was then I began to realize that there were many other people dealing with the same problems I had been going through. Some of these folks were labeled as “targeted individuals.” People's descriptions of experiences were similar to mine. For example, one thing that seems common among targeted individuals is the claim that the first episodes of electronic assault were very intense, as if to let the victim know with certainty that these attacks were coming from an outside source. Then the level of intensity is brought down to a small fraction of the original attack, though it keeps going for days, weeks, months, or years.

  This was precisely how it happened to me at the farm. That first night I was assaulted in October of 2007, it was extremely intense, then it seemed to gradually diminish in the days that followed, yet it was still going. After that first night of attacks on the farm, I did not think to write down the exact date. I only know that it was middle to late October, in 2007. Had I known what an ongoing ordeal was about to unfold for the next eight or ten years, I most certainly would have written down the date of that first experience.

  Some victims of electronic assault claim to have sensations of feeling like their skin is being burned. This is something I have not experienced. Not once, did I ever feel like my skin was burning. For me, it has been the intense vibrations going through my skull and chest. Many times, my heart was pounding so hard and fast, I felt that someone was trying to cause me to have a heart attack. When the glands in my jaw go numb, I feel like my lymphatic system is being assaulted.

  I understand that much of this chapter is speculation, as I have no way of proving any of this. I can only give my detailed and honest description of what I have experienced. It makes sense to me though, that the perpetrators have developed a method of attacking people in a way that the victims cannot prove. Additionally, it seems that the underlying goal is to discredit the victims by making them appear as delusional and insane. This is what the FBI did to Pedro Campos in the 1950s. While I still consider purchasing a microwave detector or radio frequency indicator, some of those devices cost several hundreds of dollars. With my limited budget, I am not anxious to spend that money.

  In September of 2017, I was introduced to a Missouri chapter of the Native American Church, down in the Ozarks of Southern Missouri. The location was beautiful and I liked most of the people I met. So I returned in October. (For now, I am bypassing the details of what those ceremonies were about, as they could become another entire chapter, separate from this one, and I am trying to stay on point here.) When I was on my way down there for the November ceremony, I stopped at Mama Jean's grocery store on Sunshine Street in Springfield. Using my computer with their wifi, my VPN service would not turn on without me logging in to the service's website. I had forgotten my password, though I knew I had emailed a clue about it to myself. But the only way to retrieve that password was to log in without the protection of the VPN. So I went ahead and logged in, opened up my email and got the password. Also, I replied to an email from my sister, telling her I was heading toward the Ozarks.

  Driving another twenty miles or so to my destination, I put some Rush tunes in the CD player and blasted the music for the last stretch of my trip. When I pulled onto the grassy parking area and turned off the van, I was immediately sensing weird vibrations. In an instant, I felt surprised and upset.

  “Are you kidding me?! Are they really fuckin’ with me... all the way down here in the Ozarks?!” Looking up, I noticed a power line connected to a transformer on the utility pole. I said, “Maybe that's what I'm feeling.” So I took a walk, perhaps a quarter of a mile or more to the south, yet the vibrations continued to follow me. Closing my eyes, I wondered what direction the assault was coming from. Suddenly my hands reached up to a certain location in the northern sky. I perceived the bad vibrations to be coming from that direction. In my mind, I was thinking of a satellite with electronic weapons. I went back to the van, opened the computer and attempted to write about the experience. The vibes increased, and I knew I was being assaulted. It was too obvious, as my skull and my chest were pulsating with vibrations.

  I frantically drove out of there, taking the winding mountain road all the way back to the nearest town, fourteen miles to the west. When I pulled over near the town square and turned off the engine, everything felt calm again. For several hours I walked around the little downtown area, thinking maybe I would sleep there in town, where the van was parked. By midnight though, I decided to drive all the way back to the Native American Church location. When I shut off the engine, everything felt calm. After sleeping in the van, I woke to join in the morning ceremony. For the rest of that Saturday and into the night, I could only feel the calm normality of nature all around me.

  On the 15th of December, I drove to the Ozarks again. My friend Michael rode down there with me. I slept in the van and woke to join in the morning ceremony. During the usual introductions, a woman named Audrey spoke of some papers she had written as part of a book she was working on. She was offering free copies to anyone interested, and asking for donations. She spoke of information she was trying to get out to people. Then she mentioned something about electronic weapons, and that caught my attention.

  Later in the day, people had gathered in a large circle and were “passing the feather.” It was actually not a feather that day, but a small maraca. Each person who held it would speak of their thoughts and feelings while everyone else listened. When someone handed the maraca to me, I stood up, not really knowing what I would say. Then the words just came pouring from my mouth: “Nice day today. Too bad about the chem-trails.” I pointed up to the haze in the western sky, noting that the day had started with a clear sky until we observed those planes spraying trails that do not fade, as normal vapor trails do. A few people in the circle said, “Aho.” (This, I am told, is a Native American expression which means something like, “Amen,” “Right on,” or, “I agree with you.”)

  Continuing, I said, “I hear a lot of people sharing experiences with all of these messages of positivity and hope. I don't want to bring anything negative into this circle, but I feel compelled to say some things that need to be addressed. There are a lot of bad things happening in the world… cops going around murdering people, government starting wars for profit... and it seems that in order to stop the bad things from happening, there needs to be awareness. I mean, how can we stop the bad things if people aren't even aware that those things are happening? This morning, someone mentioned something about electronic weapons.” A woman stood up, saying, “Yes, that was me.” It was Audrey. I looked at her and said, “I have been dealing with this for over ten years. You are not alone.” “Thank you,” she said, “Thank you,” seeming grateful that I was acknowledging the issue. And though I rarely ever mentioned this subject to any of my friends, there I was, telling my story to more than fifty strangers:    “It all started for me in October of 2007 and continued for many years. It's like getting hit with a beam of energy that vibrates through my head and my chest.” Audrey was still standing, nodding her head while saying, “Yes, yes...Yes.” I continued, “I live on a farm, way out in the country. For a long time, I tried to believe that I was dealing with vibrations from the wind farms that are south of my home. Those wind generators are huge, and they have to be anchored way deep into the ground, so I thought maybe that was the cause of the vibrations I was feeling. But over time, I realized that this was something deliberate. I've been writing a detailed chapter about all of this…” Looking to Audrey, I said, “I'm also writing a book.” She was still standing and facing me, while most people in the circle were sitting. I went on, saying,“The thing is, at some point I became a target. I used to walk around with a big sign that said, 'The Government did nine-eleven.' Actually, I don't know who did nine-eleven, but whoever it was, they had the full cooperation of the United States Government, at the highest levels.” Someone in the circle said, “Aho.” “Anyway,” I continued, “The point is that I drew too much attention to myself, and I became another one of their targets.”

  As I spoke, a younger, bearded guy walked around the outside of the circle and put a hand on my left shoulder, saying, “Sorry to interrupt.” Then, in a louder voice, he spoke to the crowd, saying, “This guy is telling the truth. I've been through some stuff, and there's a lot of things I want to say when the feather comes around to me.” I was slightly annoyed that he had interrupted me, yet I allowed him to continue, as he was giving some verbal backing to my claims about electronic weapons. When he let me resume speaking, I tried to pick up where I had left off, though I was somewhat thrown off from a few points I had wanted to make.

  “This has all been a living nightmare for me. I keep hoping and praying that they will leave me alone. They didn't bother me for a year and a half. But when I started posting things on Facebook again, stuff about government corruption and war crimes... Lo and behold, they started zapping me again. It’s like they’re trying to control my freedom of speech.” Audrey said, “Yes, yes...” The rest of the circle remained silent as they patiently listened to what I was saying. While I've forgotten much of what I said that day, I do recall that near the end of my monologue, with emphasis, I said, “This stuff is real. It's electronic assault and harassment. It's electronic torture.” Several people said, “Aho.” I passed the maraca on to the next person to my left, and the speeches returned to less intense subjects.   With the passing hours, the evening had darkened as many of us gathered around the bonfire. Suddenly a woman walked over to me and said, “It is real. I had to move my entire office. My family has seen what this has all been doing to me.” For a few seconds I had mistaken her for Audrey, the woman who mentioned electronic weapons that morning. Then I realized that this was someone else talking to me. We spoke briefly about our experiences with electronic harassment. I did not get her name before she walked away. In the next moment I made a mental note about being surrounded by approximately fifty people, and of that fifty people, three or four of us were claiming to have been assaulted by electronic weapons.

  A while later I saw Audrey on the opposite side of the fire, and I stepped over to speak with her. With her right hand, she made a gesture near the left side of her head as she said, “I'm getting it right now. They're hitting me with it.” I asked,“Really? You're getting zapped right now?” She nodded her head, saying, “Uh-huh.” As soon as she said that, I had my doubts. It didn't seem real to me, but then I caught myself. In my mind, I asked, “Why wouldn't I believe her?” Only one month before this, I had the experience of getting zapped, not far from that same location, on the Friday afternoon before anyone else had arrived. Yet I was doubting this woman. In an instant, I felt surprised by my reaction. For more than ten years I had already dealt with this ongoing disturbance, then suddenly I was having doubts about another person's claims on the issue. This increased my realization that most people are not likely to believe any of this, especially if they have not experienced it for themselves.

  I wanted to get a copy of whatever Audrey had written, then Michael said that he grabbed one for me, so I stopped looking. After we returned to Kansas, I asked him about the copy but he said he had lost it.

  Back in Lawrence, I was getting more disturbed by the vibrations in the house. On the 24th of January, 2018, I began packing the van for another spontaneous trip, feeling chased away by the ongoing turmoil. Driving south on 59, I began to feel relief as I sped away from town. For three nights I stayed with my friends in Hutchinson. Everything felt calm. Then I spent three nights with my former neighbors in Wichita. All was calm and serene. Driving east on 400, I was slowly moving toward the Ozarks for the next ceremony, scheduled for February 3rd.

  I made the mistake of sending two messages about attending the upcoming ceremony in the Ozarks. These were “private” messages, sent through Facebook. When I arrived at my destination, everything felt calm. No one else was around. It was Friday evening, February 2nd. I went walking toward the area where people would be gathering in the morning. As soon as I got there, I felt a disturbing vibration and immediately turned to walk away. The vibe followed me. When I crawled in the van, the vibration seemed to increase with intensity. I went back outside and began walking across a field of grass, toward a highway bridge. Going under the bridge seemed to diminish the vibration, so I stayed down there for nearly an hour. When I emerged on the other side of the highway, walking out into the open, everything felt calm again. I slept in the van and felt no disturbances for the rest of the night.

  The next day passed without any weird-feeling vibrations. The ceremonies went on as usual, and I enjoyed visiting with several people. Late that night, however, I felt strong vibrations in my van, just as I was leaning in through the sliding door. It was like a field of weird energy was already being projected onto the van. Crawling in there, I felt absolutely sure I was being assaulted. I walked away and went under the bridge again, feeling slight relief from the vibes, though I was cold. When I came walking out from underneath, I felt the vibes going through me again. Then I returned to the van.

  Taking my blankets along, I walked way over to the river and found a sand bar to sleep on. It was soft and comfortable but I was shivering with cold, and the weird vibes were still assaulting me. I went back to the van, then to the chapel. About fifteen or twenty people were in there with their sleeping bags and blankets, laying all over the floor. I stood near the entrance, not wanting to wake anyone, yet unsure about where to go or what to do. I left the chapel and walked over to a small kitchen shack, looking around inside for some aluminum foil to wrap around myself. Finding none, I walked back over to the front entrance of the chapel, stepping in for a moment to get warm. Someone raised a head to look at me. All this time, I was getting zapped.

  Then I decided to leave. I went back to the van, started it up and drove out of there. It was after five o'clock in the morning, and I had not slept all night. The winding highway brought me west to the nearest town, and from there I went north until I connected with highway 60. Although I was sad to leave without telling anyone goodbye, I felt I had no choice, desperately needing to get away from the assault I was feeling. That afternoon I was caught in a snowstorm with car wrecks all up and down the highway. When the van started sliding around, and with the temperatures quickly dropping, I pulled over in the town of Clinton and booked a hotel room for the night.  

  When I returned to the house in Lawrence, I immediately asked my two house mates to not tell anyone I was back in town. Mostly, I stressed that I didn't want them texting or saying anything over their phones about my return. They both assured me they would not do such things. It was Tuesday afternoon, February 6th. No bad vibes were apparent for a day. By Wednesday evening though, I was feeling weird pulsations again, buzzing through my skull. I left the house and rode downtown on my bicycle, but the bad vibes seemed to be following me.

  I ran into Stella at the Jazzhaus, and she offered me a place to sleep in the upstairs of her place on Ohio Street. I walked with her to the parking garage, then she drove us to her house. She showed me the upstairs room and told me I was free to come and go, as the front door would remain unlocked. After going back to the Jazzhaus for another hour or so, I rode my bike over to Stella's place. When I went to lie down that night, I immediately felt a strange energy in my chest as my heart started racing, pounding intensely for no plausible reason – except for perhaps another electronic assault. With a heavy sigh, I cussed a few words and started putting my clothes back on. I rode my bike home and went upstairs, still feeling the strange pulsations in my head and chest.

  The next day I pulled a large cardboard box from the basement and broke it down to lie flat over me. Then I started layering sheets of aluminum foil over it, and each night I would pull it over the top of me before falling asleep. The cardboard had two folding points, allowing the flaps to hang over each side of me, with the middle portion resting directly over me. By morning it would be in shambles, with strips of foil falling in different directions, leaving only the bare cardboard above me. I went to buy some duct tape and spray adhesive, planning to make a more permanent blocking device. Before I spent time doing that, I wanted to use a much larger piece of cardboard – a refrigerator-sized box. I began asking for such a box at a home appliance store, and they promised to save the next refrigerator box for me.

  For now, I am still using the crappy rig of aluminum foil, loosely wrapped over the same piece of cardboard I was using. There were nights when I wasn't feeling any bad vibrations, so I didn't concern myself with it. The cardboard and aluminum stayed in the closet. Recently though, I have been feeling disturbing pulses of vibrations, so for the last two nights I have pulled the cardboard and aluminum shield over me. It seems to block some of the disturbance, and I am able to sleep with less concern about my well-being. Some folks might say that this is psychosomatic, though I say it is not. Either way, it's better for my healthy state of mind.

  On two separate occasions when I had the foil and cardboard shield over me, I clearly heard a small “popping” sound, like little grains of sand hitting against the aluminum. It was a steady tempo of tapping sounds; it had a rhythm to it. I first heard this back in January, then again last night, on the first of March. After feeling the disturbing vibrations for several hours before I settled in to sleep, I had just pulled the shield over me, and I was clearly hearing that tapping sound again. I laid there in disbelief, wishing I had something to record the sound with, or to make a video. My digital camera was not far away. Then I had a better thought that I spoke to myself: “If I'm gonna be wishing for things, then actually, I wish for these fuckin' vibes to go fuck off somewhere else and leave me alone.”

  In the morning, most of the foil had fallen away from the cardboard. I laid there wondering how much I had been getting zapped during sleep. Downstairs, I went through my stretch routine. Then sat on the toilet, pondering over which direction my day would go. A part of me wanted to find a different appliance store to get the box I needed to make a better shield. Another part of me wanted bring the computer to a coffee shop, hoping to find an end to this chapter.

  When I finally got a large refrigerator box, I opened it up to lay flat on the back porch. On a day that was sunny and calm, I began using spray adhesive to attach strips of aluminum foil to the cardboard. Brooke came outside to smoke a cigarette, and asked, “What are you making?”

  “Nothing. Don't worry about.”

  “I'm not worried, I'm just wondering what that is.”

  “I can't explain, Brooke. You wouldn't understand.”

  Then she was on the phone, talking to someone as she started saying, “Joe is out here making this… thing. It's a big piece of cardboard and he's putting…”

  I interrupted her.   “Brooke, will you stop? Just stop. It ain't nobody's business. It's none of your concern.”   I was annoyed with her for talking about my project over the phone. Several times, I had asked Brooke and Cory to not mention my presence around there, over the phone or internet, but they both kept doing it, anyway. Cory was sending me an email each month, showing the breakdown of the previous month's utility bills. That was pissing me off. He could have easily told me in person, as we would see each other nearly every day. He was basically confirming my location every time he did that. Multiple times throughout the winter, I had to leave, trying to get away from the electronic assault I was experiencing. No matter how many times I asked my housemates to not be sending anything online that would reveal my return or my presence there, they both kept on doing just that. I was also annoyed that I had shared much of this chapter with Cory, and he still didn't believe me. I should have known.

  When I began to move out, near the end of March, I kept noticing different people at different times, sitting nearby in an idle running car, just watching me as I loaded my things into the van. As usual, they were not picking up anyone or dropping anyone off, and they were not looking for a parking space. They were just watching me. One woman sat there for maybe an hour, staring at me as I brought many loads of things out to my van. Then I held up my arms and yelled, “What? What do you want?” I walked directly to her car, took a good look at her face as I walked past her car window, and continued to walk beyond her car. She appeared to be talking on a phone. I glanced at her license plate when I began to walk back toward my van, and as I walked past her, I spoke out the letters and numbers on her tag. A frightened look came over her face as she started driving away.

  After I had cleared all of my things out of the house, I temporarily stayed with Stella and Kelly, near Ninth and Ohio. I had already brought all of my big aloe vera plants to the farm, hoping we were beyond anymore hard freezes with the weather. Then I saw a forecast for really cold weather over the next few days. I had to make a sudden trip to the farm, to light up the wood stove and save the big aloes from freezing. It was the first day of April. There were multiple car accidents all along the highway, as wet snow was falling, then turning to ice on the road. I stopped at a rest area on Interstate 29 to get out of the traffic. Having recently bought a cell phone for the first time in my life, I called Herb's cell phone to tell him I was on my way up.   “I'm at the rest area on 29, south of Saint Joseph. There were car wrecks all up and down the highway, ever since I left Lawrence.”

  “Where are you calling from? I mean… how are you calling?”   “I bought a little flip-phone the other day. Anyway, I should be there in a couple hours.”

  Not long after I left the rest area, I noticed a little black sports car directly behind me, following way too closely. I slowed down to 60 miles per hour, but they did not pass me. I slowed to to 50, then 40. Any other car would have gone around me, but this car stayed directly behind me. I slowed down to 30, then 20. While all the other traffic was flying past us at seventy miles an hour or faster, this car remained close behind me. I was getting angry. I hit the breaks, several times, yet they still did not pass. Then I pulled onto the shoulder, rolled down my window and put my left arm out, pointing forward as a gesture for them to go around. They appeared to be pulling over behind me, like they were undercover cops or something. Then they started going past me, hesitantly, like they didn't know what to do to next. As they were finally going by, I yelled, “Get the fuck away from me! What the fuck do you want?!” With their windows closed, they likely didn't hear me. It was two men. They finally went on past me, then I sped up behind them to get a reading of their license plate. They took the next exit as I held up my middle finger, asking, “What the fuck was that?”

  It becomes more and more apparent to me that there is a vast network of creeps who are on a government payroll, wasting American tax dollars to spy on people like me – someone doing nothing wrong, but had made the mistake of speaking out about government corruption. It appears that these jerks are relentlessly watching me.

  When I arrived at Herb's house, Herb told me he was leaving for Guatemala in the morning. I was glad to have seen him before he left. He poured me a glass of beer as he, Larry, and I all talked. When I slept on the farm that night, everything remained calm. No weird vibrations were apparent. The next evening when I went to the Grove, Larry told me that Frank had called and wanted me to call him. As usual, Frank and I talked for more than an hour on the phone. Also as usual, our conversation evolved into an in-depth discussion about the evil in our government. That second night back on the farm remained calm.

  The next day, I was over at Herb's house when Larry and Russ walked in from somewhere. I went out to my van to grab some DVD movies I had borrowed from Russ. As I opened the passenger-side door, there on the road in front of me was a man in a tan-colored sports utility vehicle, sitting idle and looking at my van as he appeared to be talking on a phone. I wrongly assumed he was with Larry and Russ. Stepping back into the house, I asked, “Is that dude out there waiting for you guys?” Larry and Russ said they were not with anyone, so I quickly looked outside and saw the guy rolling away. Suddenly I felt a growing rage toward that man. It appeared that another person was keeping a watch on me. “God damn that fuckin' prick,” I said. “These creepy feds need to go find some bigger fish to fry. Jeezus Kreist, they are pissing me off.” Larry and Russ, I'm sure, were uncertain of what I was talking about. Still, I continued ranting about electronic weapons assaulting me for so many years.

  The next few nights on the farm remained calm, but then on the morning of Friday, April 6th I was sitting at my computer in the bus when I started feeling strange vibrations in my head and chest. “No. It can't be,” I said aloud. Then I focused my mind to “listen.” It was happening again. I was being assaulted. It seemed to be coming from the southeast, as it always had before. With another feeling of rage building inside me, I stood up, facing toward the direction of assault, clinched both of my fists and screamed, “God damn you, fucking cowards!” Turning off the computer, I began to organize a few things as I planned to drive the twenty or more miles to Frank's place.

  I stopped twice along the way, turning off the engine to “hear” the vibrations. I did not detect anything. When I pulled into Frank's driveway and shut off the engine, though, I felt the bad vibes again. Frank came walking outside as I said, “They're zapping me, Frank. I came all the way up here to get away from it, but I'm feeling it here, just as soon as I shut off the engine.” We both went into the house and talked about it as I paced back and forth, keeping my body moving around, not wanting to be a stationary target. My throat was feeling tense and tight again. Frank noticed me holding my throat, and he asked me about it. I told him, “Yeah, my throat keeps feeling all tight and numb for the last several months. I feel like they are targeting my glands in there.” I continued pacing back and forth. Then I went outside, walking toward the field to the east. I ducked behind the north wall of a metal shed and instantly felt relief from the assault, which seemed to be coming from the south. So I squatted there with my bare feet on the dirt as I imagined a computerized, automated tracking system that had lost me. In my mind, I pictured it quickly scanning the area, then perhaps resetting the weapon to an inactive position. I thought maybe it might let me be. After ten minutes or so, I walked back over and went into the house. I wasn't feeling anything weird for a while, but then the vibe became apparent again. I went out to hide behind the metal shed, and again I felt relief, but only for as long as I stayed there. Going back in the house, I told Frank, “That metal shed out there seems to block the vibes that appear to be coming from the south, from the direction of Albany.” Frank said, “From the south, that's where it was coming from when I was getting it.”

  I grabbed the phone to call my sister.   “Hello?”

  “Hey Liz, I need prayers again.”

  “Joe, Hi. I was just thinking about you.”  

  “Yeah... telepathy. Liz, I'm getting zapped again, and it's ruining my life.”

  Another long conversation ensued about the ongoing ordeal. We were on the phone for more than an hour. At one point, I mentioned that the ongoing electronic torture was making me feel suicidal at times. Liz said, “Oh, Joe, no...” I replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m not gonna let them win. There are things I want to do before I'm gone. Publishing my book is one of them. I need to get it done, but it's really difficult when I keep having to jump up and run away from the bad vibrations. My life is becoming more random and spontaneous, having to be constantly on the move. I don't tell people where I'm going, because usually I don't know. This is no way to live. I'm so tired of all this.”

  Again, Liz said she and her children would pray for me. In the next few days, I was relieved to observe the naturally occurring calmness around me. I went to Lawrence and returned, feeling only a calm peacefulness for many days. Then I was at herb's house when the phone rang. I was the only person in the house at the time, so I answered the call.   “Hello?”

  “Herb?”

  “Herb went to town for a bit.”   “Oh. Who's this?”   “Joe.”

  Oh, Hi Joe. This is Frieda. Are you back now?”

  “At the moment, yes.”

  “Are you gonna stay around for a while?”   “Maybe. I don't know.”

  She went on about a relative who was bringing a trailer to her property across the road. She asked if any vehicles were blocking the drive, and if so, could someone move them. I told her I would go look, and that I would speak to Herb about it. She called back three more times. While I tried to be polite and accommodating, she kept asking me questions that were specific to my whereabouts at any given time:

  “Are you going back over to the farm tonight?”

  “Yes.” With that reply, a discomfort came over me. It was a truthful answer, but I felt bad for saying it. This annoying phone call was demanding too much information, and I felt that my safety was being compromised. My mind was asking, “Why am I allowing this conversation to happen? Should I have just lied and said I am not going to the farm? Should I hang up the phone?” Then she asked,  

  “Will you be around Herb's tomorrow?”

  “Possibly.”

  “In the morning or in the afternoon?”

  “I don't know, Frieda. I gotta go.”

  It must have taken me another forty-seven seconds to shake her off the phone, and I became irritated, wondering why I didn't just hang up on her. In the days that followed, more electronically bad vibrations returned, bringing the nightmare back to life as I began to gather a few things for another trip to Lawrence. I felt angry with Frieda for asking so many questions, and I was angry with myself for responding to them. Driving away from it all, I said, “Fuck it. I just won't answer that phone anymore.”

Returning to Lawrence, I found some relief for a few days.

  On the internet, I discovered a woman named Doctor Katherine Horton. A physicist, formerly employed at CERN (the European Organization for Nuclear Research), Doctor Horton is a self-described whistle-blower and targeted individual. She was in multiple videos, addressing the issue of electronic assault and torture. In one of these videos, she held a detection device which lit up with lights and sound as she held it to areas around her head, especially when she held it near her throat. She said, “Look at this. Look at this,” as she moved it back and forth, close to her throat area, then away. The device was showing a more intense reaction each time it was near her throat. This woman was apparently being assaulted, electronically. She showed and described some of the measures she had taken to protect herself, including a Faraday cage and walls lined with aluminum. She was also interviewed in podcasts with other targeted individuals, discussing protective measures.

  I found it refreshing to hear people speaking of these things in such a matter-of-fact way. They all know the electronic assault is happening, and they get right to the point in their discussions. It gives me a sense of hope, knowing that some folks are out there speaking truth and raising awareness about this issue.

  All has been calm since my return two days ago. I was in Lawrence for five days, and my concerns about being targeted had faded. The strange experience of my throat going tight and numb, that had gone away as well. I was feeling grateful, giving thanks for the calm serenity that was completely normal for most of my life. Although I have wanted to call a few people, I've refrained from picking up the phone.

  On the evening of May the first, I was home on the farm, preparing to drive to the Grove when I heard a truck coming down the road. I decided to stay back in the darkness to see what the driver would do. Strangely, the truck slowed as it approached, turned toward the fence across the road from me, then backed up, turned in the direction it came from, and drove away. This was suspicious behavior. I thought that they could have been random thieves, looking to scour the farm. But I also felt that it could have been a part of the surveillance, checking to see if I was home. Most people are not going to drive the gravel road two miles away from the highway, just to turn around like they weren't actually going anywhere. It seemed obvious that the driver slowed and turned around as soon as he or she saw my van in the driveway.

  Everything remained calm through the night and into the morning. Herb came over here a while ago as I was cooking a pot of soup. He sat on the porch and talked to someone on his cell phone. At one point, I heard him say, “I'm up at Joe's place.” I gave Herb a bowl of soup, then he laid down to rest on the porch. I brought him a sleeping pad and pillow. After a short while, he got up to go back to the Grove. As Herb was driving away, I sat at my computer when suddenly I felt some weird pulses of vibrations coming from the southeast. Again, I felt my throat getting tight and numb. I had not felt anything like that for about a week. Making a mental note that Herb had just mentioned on the phone that he was “up at Joe’s place,” I thought maybe that call could have alerted someone to my presence there, and perhaps that had something to do with the weird vibrations abruptly returning.

  The bad vibes were off and on for the next two days as I gradually organized the van for another drive away from the farm. On Friday evening, May 4th, I drove over the Missouri River at Atchison, Kansas, and continued down to Lawrence. As usual, I've apparently escaped of “their” tracking system, as I have not been feeling any weird vibrations now for the last three days. Often I have thought that if “they” were that serious about continuing to assault me, they could have put a tracking device on my van. I wouldn't know where to look for such a device, and with modern technology, the thing could be extremely small. But it seems that no tracking devices have been on the van, because I generally seem to escape the torment when I drive sufficiently far and fast.

  On the farm, May 17th, 2018: I left here thirteen days ago to escape the weird vibrations. I Had not felt much of anything bad since leaving. For the most part, everything has been calm, with no tension or numbness in my throat area. Three days ago, on Monday I returned, and everything remained calm until just a while ago.

  Earlier today, I drove to town to renew my vehicle registration, get some groceries, and I picked up some movies from the Library. I wondered if checking out things from the library would alert certain people of my return, or maybe renewing my vehicle registration might have made my presence known. I am certainly not not looking for any bad vibes to return, though I couldn't help noticing that something hasn't felt right since I parked at Herb's house. Then I drove here to the farm, and my throat has been feeling stiff again. There is the slightest sensation of a vibration, ever so faint, yet it's enough to let me know that something is not right. Suddenly I am faced with perhaps another spontaneous escape from this place.

  It has been five days since I wrote that last paragraph. I rolled to Lawrence on Sunday afternoon, feeling free of the weird energy after I got far away from the farm. My first stop was at the Gaslight Tavern for the weekly open jam.

  The next evening, I went to Papa Keno’s for the open jam session. Shortly after I began playing my guitar, a middle-aged couple came out onto the back patio. Sitting at a table, they immediately lifted their phone-cameras and started recording me and the others. It felt wrong and it seemed out of place, and I turned away to keep my image from being captured, though I knew it was already too late. I felt nearly certain that those two were another pair surveillance people. The man went inside Papa Keno’s for a moment. When the woman continued to aim her camera-phone at me, I walked over to her and said, “Will you please stop pointing your camera at me?” I felt a strong urge to grab the beverage from her table and throw it in her face, but I restrained myself. She said, “Oh, Okay,” as she lowered her phone. When her partner returned, she whispered something to him and he looked at me. I glared at both of them, almost wishing for some terrible tragedy to fall upon them.

  I stepped away from the patio and walked down the alley, around the south end of the block, then north on Massachusetts Street. As I went through the front door of Papa Keno’s, those same two people were in there, appearing like they were leaving, though they seemed hesitant about what they were doing. They both acted surprised, even nervous about me suddenly being there in front of them. As they exited the place, I watched through the front window glass, observing their behavior as they went across the street and continued going north. Several times, the man turned back to look at me.

  I went out the back door to speak with the others. Of all my friends and acquaintances on the patio, none of us knew those two people. They were unfamiliar to all of us, yet they immediately started recording us when they arrived. One of my friends suggested, “Maybe they were just excited about the music and wanted to film it.” I replied, “That’s entirely possible, but that’s not how it felt to me.”   After all the years of being electronically assaulted, while also noticing the strange people following or photographing me, I felt more resentment and disdain for those creeps – working for an evil government, targeting innocent people, and living off of taxes like a bunch of parasites. Perhaps those who do the following and photographing are completely disconnected from, and unaware of the programs of electronic assault. Such may be the case with compartmentalized government operations. Perhaps it’s like the saying goes: “The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing.”

  While I can offer no proof that those two people at Papa Keno’s were spies or informants, my intuition strongly told me it was so. Many of these encounters might have gone completely unnoticed by me, had I not experienced the years of electronic assault, coinciding with incidents of surveillance. What the trauma has done is put me on high alert, making me pay close attention when people’s behavior becomes obviously strange and out of place. And though some people would call this paranoia, I call it awareness. There is a big difference.

  Little Farm, 17th of June: I was down in the garden, wearing the upper portion of a protective bee suit to keep the mosquitoes away from me while I hoed weeds. Suddenly I heard several guys on ATVs roll up near the driveway. They were noisily sitting idle, just outside of the driveway as I heard a voice yelling, “You wanna go first?” I got the impression that they were about to roll across the Little Farm bridge. (One of Herb’s cars had recently been vandalized, as someone had smashed out most of the window glass with a brick, and I was thinking about that incident when I heard these guys yelling.) Before they attempted to come onto the farm bridge, I emerged from behind some trees and bushes, and began to walk toward them with the hoe in my hand. As soon as they saw me, they all started driving away, crossing the county bridge toward the south. They were fat and bald, with mustaches on their faces. Their behavior was suspicious, and they seemed like cops. It was an intuitive feeling that occurred to me; they had that “cop vibe.” Then I had the thought that I should have waited behind the bushes to see what those guys would have done if they thought nobody was there. Would they have come onto the Little Farm? If so, then what? Feeling slightly disturbed about the encounter, I walked up the hill to my place.

  Later that night, I started getting heavily zapped. It was some of the strongest electronic assault I had felt in years, and I immediately began to pack the van for departure. I wondered if perhaps there was a correlation between the odd experience in the south driveway, and then getting zapped a few hours later. “It wouldn’t surprise me if some cops have been involved,” I said to myself as I began packing a few things into the van, planning to leave in the morning. I slept under the cardboard and aluminum shield which seemed to be blocking the assault. The zapping continued steadily through the night and into the next morning, as I finished packing for a drive to Lincoln. Putting away the ladder, turning off the propane, and locking the gates, I was frantic about trying to hurry away and escape the onslaught of bad energy.

  My niece, Nancy, had invited me to her wedding, scheduled to take place on the 23rd of June. So I drove toward Lincoln, five days early. For most of that drive, I felt like the vibe was still on me, though it was difficult to decipher with all the normal vibrations of rolling on the road.

  Arriving at Liz and Frank's place, I parked under the shade of a tree. (Frank in Nebraska is my sister’s husband, not to be confused with Frank from Missouri.) I felt rattled, yet uncertain if I was still getting zapped. Soon, however, I was totally feeling it. I began to notice that the attack seemed to be coming from a place in the southern sky, about forty-five degrees up from the horizon. In all the years I had been to visit Liz and Frank, I had never felt the electronic assault on their property. They had been on a ten-acre spread for many years now, and it was always a calm place of refuge for me. That afternoon, however, I went into the van three times, pulling the aluminum shield over myself, feeling relief while napping and sweating. The temperature was really hot that day, though I didn’t mind the heat; it was nothing compared to getting zapped. The first two times I came out from under my shield, I was still feeling the assault. The third time, however, all seemed calm, like the weapon had finally switched off.

  I felt really upset that I was getting targeted at Liz and Frank's farm. I told Liz about it, though she was preoccupied with wedding preparations. I asked her if she had told anyone of my presence there, over the phone or internet. She said, “I called Anne and told her you were here.”   “When was that?”

  “Not long after you arrived.”

  “Well, that would explain it.”

  For the next five days, I felt the usual symptoms of a numb throat and jaw area, pressure in my skull, and the continuing pulses of vibrations. Each night, I found relief by sleeping under the protection of my aluminum shield.

  On the morning of the wedding, I was talking to Frank in the living room when I suddenly felt strong electronic pulses coming from that same part of the southern sky. It was enough to make me spin around and go out the north door, through the mud porch. I went out the east storm door and immediately crouched down beside the foundation wall of concrete blocks, hoping it would shield against the oncoming assault. I did feel alleviation. It seemed that I had temporarily shaken whatever tracking system had been locked onto me. I stayed squatting there for several minutes, breathing sighs of relief, wondering how long until “it” latched onto me again. That last series of pulsations interrupted my chat with Frank. He had been speaking to me at the time when I abruptly turned around and left the room. A few seconds later, I was crouching near the north foundation wall.

  After I stood up and walked around the northeast corner of the house, all felt calm, as though I had successfully escaped detection for a while. But as soon as I returned to my van, leaning in to grab something, I felt the vibes latching onto me again.

  My brother Dave drove us to the wedding. It was at a Catholic church in Lincoln. As far as I could tell, the tracking system was still on me, still causing that constant numbness below my tongue, and the familiar pressure in my skull. The wedding was long and unbearably dull – a Catholic mass with an arrogant priest spouting words of ignorance. He was annoying. Moreover, I still felt like I was getting zapped by something in the southern sky. So I exited several times, noting a feeling of relief from the vibrations when I stepped outside the church and stayed near a north wall.

  When Dave and I left the church parking lot, we followed our nephew a few blocks east to a health food store, and I felt completely disconnected from the weird vibes, having apparently evaded them again. Then we all went to the reception, ten miles away, mostly to the west. For several hours, I felt free from the electronic assault. It was gone, and I knew I had broken free again. At the same time, I suspected that whenever I returned to my van, the bad vibes might return.

  Dave drove us back to Liz and Frank's property, and sure enough, when I opened the sliding van door and leaned in to grab a few things, I felt that weird energy going through me again. I started building a fire in the nearby fire pit, thinking, “What else am I going to do?” I smoked some cannabis through a carrot and continued putting sticks on the fire. Then people began to return from the wedding reception, mostly my nieces and nephews. Several of them were asking me to sing songs. So I strummed a guitar and sang, feeling like I was getting zapped the entire time. I tried to ignore the assault while I focused on the feeling of the music.

  After a while, I put the guitar away, thinking I needed to get ready for bed. Mostly, I wanted to pull the aluminum shield over myself for protection. It was undeniable, the relief I felt whenever I was using that shield during my time there. At one point, I said to myself, “The good news is that the shield seems to be working. The bad news is that it’s probably been a microwave weapon zapping me.”

  Waking up on Sunday morning, I pushed the shield to the side and immediately felt bad vibes, like a field of weird energy was being projected onto the van throughout the night. With the usual disturbing feelings of electronic assault going through me, I went through my morning stretches.

  Then I started organizing a small pack to bring to Colorado. My nephew Tom had offered me a ride, saying I could sleep on the couch in his apartment. So I accepted the offer. As we rolled further away from Lincoln, my anxiety began to diminish with the fading vibrations. During the early part of the drive, I told Tom and Katie about my ongoing ordeal with electronic weapons, while stressing that I did not want anyone on their phones, speaking or texting about me riding to Colorado. They both agreed to “keep it on the down-low,” and they didn't seem to think I was crazy when I told them my story. With each stop we made during the six hour drive, I noted the complete disconnect I felt from any hint of electronic assault.

  For a week I slept on the couch in Tom’s apartment. Each day while Tom and Katie were at work, I took long walks through the surrounding neighborhoods of Lakewood, feeling extremely grateful for the relief I was feeling. Most of that time, I was reluctant to log into my email or Facebook accounts, fearing the dreaded return of the electronic nightmare. I kept mentioning to Tommy that I had not felt any bad vibes ever since we drove to Colorado: “It’s been like a complete disconnect from any of that electronic weirdness. It’s such an obvious difference... I can tell that they’ve lost track of me again. They don’t know where I am.” Tom said, “Well, that’s good.” “Yeah, it is,” I said. “Everything feels totally calm... like it was for most of my life before all that weird shit started.”

  Then one day I took my computer a few blocks away to borrow the wifi signal from a tire store, making sure my VPN service was turned on. After looking at my email and Facebook accounts, I closed the computer and began to walk north, across Colfax Avenue. About midway up the next block, I suddenly felt an electrical kind of pulse coming from the northwest, and penetrating into my skull. Multiple thoughts raced through my mind, like, “Am I getting zapped? Was it just some cell phone microwaves flying by? Maybe it’s wifi signals.” Walking toward Tom’s apartment with my throat feeling strange, I took an indirect route, altering my course several times in an attempt to avoid being tracked or followed. At one point, I stepped into a creek and went under a bridge, partly as an attempt to decipher whether I was feeling differently down there, and also to shake off any type of electronic tracking system which may have been onto me.

  When I finally came back above ground, I ran toward Tom’s place and let myself in, breathing heavily from the running. Katie asked, “Are you okay? What’s going on?” Between deep breaths, I said, “I was just trying to… shake off a weird vibe that... I thought might have latched onto me...” As my breathing slowed, I told Kate and Tom what I had experienced after logging into my email and Facebook accounts. For the next several days, there were moments when I wondered if I was catching any weird vibes. I was no longer feeling the “complete disconnect” of the previous week. Instead, I was noticing occasional pulses of weird energy that kept me wondering.

  Then my sister Anne invited me to stay with her and Duncan. So I gathered my things and settled into a basement room in Arvada. For the first few days, everything felt calm and normal. But after talking on the phone and using the internet, I started feeling weird vibrations again. At times I wondered If it might be the nearby freezer or refrigerator causing the disturbance, so I would step outside the room, only to notice that those appliances were not running at the time; they were completely silent. Then I went upstairs to see if any fans were on. No fans were running. So what were all of these strange pulses of vibrations I kept feeling, and why was everything completely calm for the first several days? Initially, I was reluctant to talk on the phone or use the internet. Then I let down my guard, and everything went strange again.

  At times, it seems there is no escape. When I run into friends and relatives, they want to take pictures of me and post them on social media. They also text each other about seeing me somewhere. I began thinking, “Do I have to abandon everyone I know and move to another country?”

  For many years I had remained mostly silent about my ongoing experience with the electronic assault. In recent months, however, I had begun to tell more people about it.

  My cousin Janelle came to visit Anne’s family during the time when I was there. On the Fourth of July, Janelle and I were out at Tony’s place near a lake. As we talked under the shade of a porch roof, I began to relay most of my story to her. She was receptive, patiently listening, then she said, “Wow, Joe. That’s quite a story.” It was not in a tone of ridicule or doubt; she seemed to believe me.

  A few days later, I was riding in a car with my niece, Kim, and a few of her kids. While driving us through Westminster, Kim spoke of a friend, telling me, “Her dad had mental illness.” Then I noted a hint of ridicule in Kim’s voice when she said, “He thought the government was after him.” I interjected, saying, “How do you know they weren’t?”   “What?”   “Kim, I’ve been having my own struggle with the government. They’ve been messing with me for more than ten years.”

  “Really? What do you mean?”

  I began telling her my story, from being an outspoken activist, to the surveillance I had noticed at times, to the ongoing electronic attacks. When we arrived at her house, the conversation continued into the kitchen. I gave her many details, including the case of Pedro Campos in Puerto Rico, the podcasts with Doctor Katherine Horton and other targeted individuals, and the things Annie Jacobsen had spoken of on the radio. At one point, Kim said, “Uncle Joe, I believe you.” I replied, “Thanks, Kim. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

   Occasionally I talked with Anne about the disturbance. She said she believes me. I did not mention any of it to Duncan because I was fairly certain he wouldn’t believe me, and I don’t think he would keep the conversation between the two of us, since Anne told me that he cannot keep a secret about anything.

  The strange vibrations at Anne and Duncan’s house were off and on for several weeks. I took frequent walks to escape the disturbance, exploring the parks that run along Ralston creek. On days when I felt the vibe was still on me, I stayed for some time in the tunnel that goes under Simms Street, pacing back and forth, hoping the thick concrete would be enough to escape detection. Every time I went walking, which was several times a day, I always felt calm upon my return, like nothing was zapping me. Then the weird vibrations would start up again.

  When I first escaped to Colorado during the last week of June, I did not know how long I would be out here. I thought it might be a couple of weeks. Yet Anne kept encouraging me to stay longer, saying she wanted to throw a birthday party for me and two of my nephews. So I stayed around and tried to work on the book. A few weeks had gone by when I called Liz on the phone to discuss my eventual return to her place:   “Is it alright that my van is still parked there under that tree?”   “Oh yeah, it’s fine.”

  “Thanks. At some point, I’m gonna take the train from Denver to Lincoln. It arrives after three in the morning, so I don’t know what I’ll do. As much as I would like to see all of you, I might just get in the van and drive away. I want to go to a random place for a while, to see if everything remains calm. I need to know if there is some kind of tracking device on my van. I’ll leave you guys a note or something.”   “That’s alright, I understand. How’s it going out there?”   “I don’t know. I’m still getting some weird vibes at times. Whatever this is, and who ever has been doing it, I wish they would leave me alone. I’m sure they think they’re clever with all their technology, but they’re really just a bunch of cowards.”   “Yeah.”   “Anyway, I did escape to the mountains a few times, and that was nice.”

   Although my three treks to the tops of Colorado mountains were adventurous, the third trip was disturbing. In his truck, Duncan drove us to the base of Uncompahgre Peak in Southwest Colorado, where we camped for the night. Waking early, we began our hike at around 3:30 in the morning, and I was feeling a steady vibration going through me. Hiking up the trail, I wondered, “Am I getting zapped?” It most certainly felt like I was. I thought about Duncan using his GPS (Global Positioning System) when he drives anywhere. That would make our location known to certain people in government. We descended down the mountain and prepared to leave. Duncan was driving us along the rocky road away from there, when something strange happened. We passed a man and woman who were driving an off-road vehicle toward the base of the mountain, and as we went past them, the woman held up a camera and took a picture of us. Duncan and Tom both commented on the oddness of that occurrence. For me, it was a moment of verification – another incident of surveillance, along with the vibration I had been feeling that entire time; it bolstered my suspicion that I had been electronically assaulted all the way up and down that mountain.

  During the last week at Anne and Duncan’s house, I was feeling strange electronic pulses in other parts of the house, apart from the room I was staying in. Taking more frequent walks, I managed to avoid some of the weird vibrations. Near the end of August, I went to house-sit for Tom and Kate for five days. Everything felt normal and calm while I was there. The apartment was only a few blocks from a Denver Light-Rail train stop, so when Tom and Kate returned, I gathered my things and rode the W train to Union Station in downtown Denver.

  Paying with cash, I bought an Amtrak Train ticket to Lincoln, scheduled to depart that evening. My hope was to slip away from Colorado unnoticed, without being tracked. After seven or eight hours on the train, I rode a taxi to Liz and Frank’s place. The van battery was dead. Frank helped me with charging the battery before I drove east.

  In Maryville, Missouri, I stopped to buy some groceries, including a large bottle of Heineken beer. When the young lady at the register asked to see my identification, I asked, “Do I really look too young to buy this beer?” She said, “I’m required to ask everyone for their I.D. when purchasing alcohol.” I said, “That’s ridiculous, since I’m obviously way over the required age of twenty-one.” Then I pulled out my driver’s license and held it out to show her the date of birth. She took it from my hand and scanned it. When I heard the “beep” sound, I said, “Fuck! What did you do that for?” I put my right hand over my eyes, feeling angry and upset. After being so careful to get away from Colorado without being noticed by “the enemy,” suddenly I felt that I was likely on their control grid again. I asked the cashier, “Are you familiar with the book, ‘1984,’ by George Orwell?” She replied, “I’ve heard of it.” I said, “Maybe someday you might read it.”

    Upon returning to the farm, everything remained calm for about a week. On September fifth, I received a package that Anne sent from Colorado. That night, I started feeling the disturbing vibrations again, so I drove to Lawrence, getting some peace and calm for several days before returning to the farm. Throughout September, October, and November, the same pattern repeated: I would enjoy several days of calm on the farm, then disturbing vibes would return, so I’d pack a few things and escape to Lawrence.

  On Saturday, October 27th, I drove toward Lawrence. Passing through Oskaloosa, I turned west on highway 92 and went to visit Stan and Cathy’s home near Perry Lake. Shutting off the van in front of their house, I immediately felt the weird vibrations going through me. Stan came outside talking to me, and I was temporarily distracted from the vibrations. Inside the house, Cathy gave me a hug, and Stan poured me a glass of beer. They were inviting me to join them on the deck overlooking the lake, and to fly Stan’s drone while making video of the flight. But I was feeling that continuing, disturbing vibration, and though I really wanted to experience flying the drone and seeing the view from above, I knew I could not stay. Several times I paused, focusing on the electronic assault, then Stan said, “Are you okay, Joe?”

  “I have to go. I’m sorry. I really wanted to fly the drone and drink this tasty beer, but I can’t stay.”

  “Is something wrong? You looked like you were having a moment of revelation there for a minute.”

  “Yes, something is definitely wrong. I grew up thinking we had freedom of speech in this country. But apparently I was too outspoken, and I became a target. The government has been messing with me for more than ten years. I used to carry a big sign that said, ‘The government did nine-eleven,’ and I really regret being that outspoken about things. Back then I was like, ‘freedom of speech, use it or lose it.’ I had no idea of the repercussions or consequences of speaking out against an evil government. I was so naive.”

  Tears were running down my face. I felt devastated, knowing that the perpetrators of electronic torture had tracked me to my friends’ home. It was no longer a place where I could feel safe, and that made me extremely sad. The last time I was there, which was about a week earlier, Stan had expressed interest in reading my book, and giving me his thoughts about it. So I put all of the chapters on his computer, including this one. Could that be the reason why the government criminals were now assaulting me there? I had never told Stan and Cathy about the years of electronic assault, feeling that they probably wouldn’t believe me. I hugged them both and drove away with tears rolling down my face. Arriving in Lawrence that evening, I detected no more of the bad vibrations.

  On Monday, November 19th, I left the farm for another escape to Lawrence. North of town, I stopped by a friend’s house near Wellman Road. It happened again. When I shut off the van, the vibrations were obvious. This was a place I had been to many times, for about fifteen years, and I had never felt the electronic assault there. I told my friend that I had to leave. When I got to Lawrence, everything felt calm and normal.  

  Though I did not feel any disturbing vibrations in Lawrence during these past few months, I did notice an alarming increase in the level of surveillance over me. It was completely obvious on many occasions. The surveillance continued in Wichita. The only reason I can fathom for the ridiculous amount of surveillance I’ve been seeing, is that the government criminals know I am trying to tell this story. In December of 2018, I drove to South Texas to avoid the cold weather. I was sleeping in my van every night. The surveillance over me continued in San Antonio, Port Isabel, South Padre Island, and El Paso. I could give many details as to how I know I’ve been under constant surveillance, yet I may save all of that for another chapter. It is just too much information to keep cramming into this chapter, and I am tired of all of it.

  While I was still in Wichita during early December, neighbor Marc emailed me some ebooks from Author Richard Lighthouse. Here are a few excerpts from his book, Targeted Individuals & the Air Force Space Command:

  “These medical doctors, scientists, and former intelligence agents have made statements

supporting the evidence that microwave satellite attacks are real, and happening on a global

basis:

Dr John R. Hall, M.D., author (“New Breed: Satellite Terrorism in America”)

Dr Daniel Lebowitz, M.D. (Senate Committee presentation, 2014)

Dr Barrie Trower, government Scientist, microwave expert (youtube videos)

Dr Katherine Horton, Oxford University Scientist (youtube videos)

Dr Spencer Carter, M.D. (BiggerThanSnowden.com)

Dr Colin Ross, M.D., author (“The CIA Doctors”)

Dr Robert Duncan, author

Dr Doug Rokke, government Scientist

Dr Eric Karlstrom, Professor

Dr Nick Begich, Scientist

Dr Paul Batcho, government scientist

Dr Paul Marko, Psychologist

Dr Curtis Bennett, Professor

Dr Corkin Cherubini, author

Dr Matthew Aaron, Scientist

Dr Sean Andrews, Scientist

Willam Binney, NSA Whistleblower

Kirk Weibe, NSA Whistleblower

Karen Stewart, NSA Whistleblower

Carl Clark, CIA Whistleblower

Kevin Shipp, CIA Whistleblower

Mark Phillips, CIA Whistleblower

John DeCamp, Army intelligence Whistleblower”

    “There are 4 active-duty squadrons within the 50th Operations Group, under the Air Force

Space Command. According to the Linkedin Profile of Charles Shurchay (Superintendent -

Air Force Space Command) there are 1,300 personnel, 7 DoD Satellite constellations, and 9

weapon systems that are operated under the 50th Operations Group. Clearly, these are not

simply communications satellites.

  Many of these satellites are positioned in geosynchronous orbit, and are part of a network that

includes communications, tracking, and attack satellites. Using the precise GPS coordinates

of any Targeted Individual, the coordinates can be transferred to local cell towers or UAV

drones for additional targeting. The GPS coordinates are accurate to +/- 0.5 centimeters or

better, which allows different body parts to be targeted and attacked in a grisly, daily ordeal.”

    In another of his books, Cell Towers and Targeted Individuals, Richard claims that most of these attacks on targeted individuals are coming from microwave cell phone towers. This would make sense regarding the attacks on the farm that I felt were coming from the southeast, as there is an array of cell phone microwave towers that are east of the farm, extending southward. According to Richard Lighthouse, these microwave attacks are being orchestrated by the United States Air Force, under the direction of the CIA.

  After all of the strange incidents of surveillance in Texas, I began having thoughts that I need to get this chapter out on a public internet forum. Then maybe the government criminals will leave me alone and let me finish my book. I hope so. Or they might kill me. I hope not. My computer started doing strange things after two creeps sat suspiciously close to me at some outdoor tables on Padre Island. Then I tried connecting to the internet in Port Isabel at several locations with public wifi, but it would not connect. I tried several more times on the way back to San Antonio, but could not get connected to any public wifi. After attempting to connect from outside a store in El Paso, a creepy helicopter came along, going fairly low when it flew directly over my van. That’s when I got back on the highway and drove all the way to Las Cruces and beyond. I went as far west as Tucson, and south to Bisbee.

  Then I started back toward the east. From New Mexico in the final days of 2018, I decided to drive north and go all the way to my sister’s place in Colorado. The government criminals know I am here. I am hoping to throw this document out there on the internet soon. I am not looking for anyone’s sympathy, I just want people to know that these microwave attacks are happening. Treasonous criminals are wasting billions of tax dollars to assault, harass, and torture innocent civilians in this country and around the world.  

  Feeling extremely weary of writing this story, I want it to be over. Not only has this been the most depressing chapter in my book, it has also been the most depressing chapter of my life, and I want this sad chapter to end.

[dweemeister]

49th Parallel (1941)

The Allies were losing the Second World War. In London in 1939 or 1940, the Ministry of Information (the propaganda house of the British government) met with film director Michael Powell and asked if he might want to make a film about minesweepers. Powell’s interest was piqued, but then he suggested making a film that might inspire the United States to abandon their neutral stance on the conflicts in Europe and Asia. His new partner-in-crime, screenwriter Emeric Pressburger (Pressburger would soon become Powell’s co-director on their subsequent movies), relished the prospect, hoping to “scare the pants off the Americans” with this newest project.

By the second half of 1941, the situation appeared dire. The Allies evacuated Dunkirk (their last foothold in continental Western Europe) the year prior; Nazi Germany was making advances in the Balkans; Fascist Italy was reclaiming the former African lands of the Roman Empire that it long sought; Imperial Japan had completed its military stranglehold on modern-day Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was the most vocal in pleading with the United States to enter the war, but still Washington sat on the sidelines, adopting the policy of appeasement. Michael Powell’s 49th Parallel is an unusual propaganda feature film, and ultimately did not inspire the Americans to declare war on the Axis. Though released in the United Kingdom in late 1941, the film was not given a general release in the U.S. until April 15, 1942. By then, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor already provided the impetus for the Americans joining the Allies.

Powell and Pressburger’s newest work was no longer needed to scare the pants off any American. With 49th Parallel (originally released in the United States as The Invaders, which is also how it is listed in the records of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences), they introduced a narrative centering around Nazi soldiers looking to impose their values an ocean away from home. Many WWII-era propaganda movies have lost much of their watchability given time, but that is not the case here.

A German U-boat has surfaced in Hudson Bay in Canada. Six sailors are tasked by the captain to search for foodstuffs and supplies, but shortly after they reach land, the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) has destroyed the U-boat. The six Nazi raiders are now at large, looking for ways to return to Germany or to rally the Canadian people to their side and begin an insurrection. Their commanders, Lieutenants Hirth (Eric Portman) and Kunhecke (Raymond Lovell), push the men forward. The raiders soon terrorize a band of French-Canadian trappers led by Johnnie (Laurence Olivier with an atrocious French accent) and murder a local Inuit named Nick (Ley On; whose people is described by Hirth as, “sub-apes like Negroes, only one step above the Jews” – this line was cut from the American release to avoid offending segregationists). Kunhecke is killed by an Inuit marksman as their raiding party attempts to steal a floatplane, and becomes the first casualty as these six are picked off one after another. Their mission to return to Germany will encounter several stops, including a community of Hutterites (a Germanic Anabaptist group, similar to the Amish, that fled Europe in the nineteenth century due to religious persecution) that they will attempt to convert to Nazism and Banff National Park.

Also featured are: Hutterite leader Peter (Anton Walbrook), Hutterite villager Anna (Glynis Johns), writer Philip Armstrong Scott (Leslie Howard), and Canadian soldier Andy Brock (Raymond Massey). Rounding out the U-boat’s raiding party are Vogel (Niall MacGinnis), Kranz (Peter Moore), Lohrmann (John Chandos), and Jahner (Basil Appleby).

If 49th Parallel was not a propaganda film, it would be more commonly labeled a war thriller. Editor David Lean (1962′s Lawrence of Arabia, 1965′s Doctor Zhivago) was one year away from directing his first feature film, and his ability to string together frantic images in the handful of pursuit scenes means that 49th Parallel never needs spectacular violence nor masses of soldiers engaging in a firefight to send hearts racing. Lean’s future cinematographer for both Lawrence of Arabia and Doctor Zhivago, Freddie Young, is also involved. And though the widescreen camera lens of the 1950s and onwards had not been standardized yet (the film is in the typical 1.37:1 ratio for the time), his opening images of Canadian mountains and the nature photography found in the film’s second half are spectacular to behold. For eighteen months, the filmmakers traveled over 50,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean and Canadian wilderness to shoot this film. 49th Parallel is a cross-country, cross-continental effort. When put through the paces of Lean and Young’s work, puts into doubt the certainty of any propaganda movie’s ending – even for a few minutes.

Emeric Pressburger’s screenplay keeps the war thriller based in Western anti-authoritarian rhetoric. Pressburger, a Hungarian Jewish refugee who fled continental Europe and whose command of English was imperfect, allows the Nazi characters to spout dogma without challenge; their ignorance and contempt for anyone not like them obvious soon after the U-boat surfaces in Hudson Bay. Their victims are never entirely helpless, often challenging the Nazis with celebrations of Western democratic and classical ideas championing a person’s fundamental rights to free thought and to live the life they please. Unlike a typical, pure war movie, 49th Parallel is a Nazi struggle to escape North America contained within a grander ideological dialectic. The film makes no pretense on what side it is on (it should not in any case). Its messages are articulate, achieving its initial goals to disturb and terrify the audience with the mindsets of men willing to slaughter their way home.

Uneven performances are expected in propaganda cinema, and 49th Parallel is no exception. Established actors like Leslie Howard and especially Laurence Olivier are serving overcooked ham with their performances. By the midpoint, Eric Portman, as Lieutenant Hirth, begins to dominate the proceedings – all of the scathing and pedantic lines penned by Emeric Pressburger go to the unshakeable Nazi commander. As a result, Portman’s performance lacks any nuance or self-doubt, as he becomes the equivalent of a tea kettle that has been left on the stove whistling for too long. Nevertheless, Portman is also involved during 49th Parallel’s most blatantly political, yet most effective moment. At a community meeting, Lieutenant Hirth, believing that the German-speaking Hutterites are closeted Nazi sympathizers, begins to traffic slogans of racial superiority, shredding the Allied nations as unwilling, unmanly combatants. Hirth has misinterpreted the people who have offered them food and temporary shelter. The Hutterite community’s leader, Peter, played by future Powell and Pressburger regular Anton Walbrook (1943′s The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, 1948′s The Red Shoes), dismisses the hateful rhetoric by invoking the history of his people – a history, defined by personal freedoms and the intolerance of others, that makes their existence a living refutation of Nazi doctrine.

Concludes Peter:

You think we hate you, but we don’t. It is against our faith to hate. We only hate the power of evil which is spreading over the world. You and your Hitlerism are like the microbes of some filthy disease, filled with a longing to multiply yourselves until you destroy everything healthy in the world. No – we are not your brothers.

One could say that Walbrook is over-explaining the film’s subtext here, but other propaganda films released from the Allied nations were far more heavy-handed than this to insensitive faults (see: 1944′s The Negro Soldier – an American propaganda piece meant to increase black enlistment which celebrates black cultural excellence, yet completely fails to mention slavery or racial segregation in its historical passages). Walbrook’s presence, however brief, electrifies the audience’s energies in the scenes that follow.

The individual whose work on 49th Parallel could be called transcendent is English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. Those knowledgeable with classical music probably just read that last sentence in disbelief but, yes, Ralph Vaughan Williams composed for films. In fact, 49th Parallel contains the first Vaughan Williams score for a feature-length film. Decades earlier, Vaughan Williams studied under Impressionist composer Maurice Ravel (Boléro), and the Frenchman considered his English pupil among his most gifted. Influenced by English folk songs and Tudor-era modal music, Vaughan Williams’ rhythmically complex style did not cohere until shortly before World War I. He served in the Great War, returning home emotionally traumatized, his hearing permanently damaged. For 49th Parallel, Vaughan Williams wished to invoke musical nationalism in ways he believed no composer had yet accomplished in British cinema.

Recording with the London Symphony Orchestra, Vaughan Williams begins his score with the “Prelude” – a molto legato statement of an opening, meant to invoke the lyricism of Christian hymns that extol freedom and human fellowship. One can hear the influence of Ravel’s Impressionist roots in this music, rejecting Wagnerian leitmotifs and versatile enough to adapt to 49th Parallel’s shifting moods and settings. The majesty of the prelude shares few similarities to “Hutterite Settlement: Anna’s Volkslied” (“Volkslied” is German for “folk song”). Wandering flutes, wisping the rural landscape along with the solo German-language vocalist. It is a peaceful, somewhat elegiac cue – combining Vaughan Williams’ strengths of string-led pastoral stillness, pre-Baroque influences, and the sweep of North American music. Throughout, Vaughan Williams will alternate between non-resolving passages for the Nazis to juxtapose a musical uncertainty to their ideological rigidity, as if their experiences in Canada may be inspiring second thoughts; the early Hollywood musical-esque bustle of a large city; and an Englishman’s interpretation of Native American music. Much of the music is written not to respond to what is occurring on-screen, but to empower the images. It is a virtuosic composition from Vaughan Williams that sounds as fantastic within the film as when listened to independent from it. Vaughan Williams would work on ten more movies until The Vision of William Blake (1957), with his efforts for 49th Parallel displaying a remarkable musical versatility in style and in musical medium.

During production, Raymond Massey, Leslie Howard, and Laurence Olivier all agreed to half-wages during production to assist the war effort. An aberration the year of this film’s release, the remainder of the cast was not comprised of just English actors (more specifically, London-area or Southern English actors), but Scots (Finlay Currie) and Irishmen (Niall MacGinnis). Few British films had ever been made with such a stacked cast, let alone being set on a grand international stage. Lawrence of Arabia this might not be, but this is as close to being an epic film as any British film production was able to be by the 1940s. The film’s financial success across the West allowed for the creation of independent British film production companies like The Archers (Powell and Pressburger) and Cineguild (David Lean), among others. The face of the non-Alfred Hitchcock British filmmaking industry would be strengthened by the marvelous reception given to 49th Parallel, securing the nation as one of the greatest forces of world cinema.

With its value as propaganda ended due to the course of history, 49th Parallel should be watched as both a historical landmark for British filmmaking as well as an excellent, potent thriller. It may not have changed any of the military or political outcomes Powell and Pressburger and the rest of its cast and crew were targeting, but the positive impacts of this production – for audiences and within the film industry – have outlasted many other works of propaganda.

My rating: 8.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

[xtruss]

What I Learned When I Rented My Parents’ Former Home as an Airbnb

They’d tried to escape the future by building a home off the grid. But the future found them anyway.

— By Thad Russell

— The Atlantic | August 29, 2021

September 2005 (All photos by Thad Russell)

About the author: Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

Two summers ago, my siblings and I found my late parents’ former house in northern Vermont listed on Airbnb. Once we got over our shock—“Wait! That’s our house!”—we immediately made reservations to rent it for a family vacation. The new owners had known my parents and generously waived our rental fee upon realizing who we were. The online description—“rustic retreat”—brought back memories of countless family gatherings of summers past: taking long walks, swimming in the lake, eating local corn and blueberry pie. I remembered hanging out together on the deck that extended into my parents’ gentle, south-sloping meadow like a pier, appreciating the peaceful view of hay fields, spruce trees, mountains, and an ever-changing sky.

I looked forward to the reunion for months. And yet, as I drove with my wife and young children along winding mountain roads that I knew by heart, I was surprised by the emotions stirring inside me. I began to realize something that should have been obvious. This special, idealized place that I was so excited to return to wasn’t a repository of just happy memories, but of difficult ones too. My parents had been concerned about the political and environmental trends in America. Their place in Vermont was meant to be a political statement in the form of a modern-day frontier house—hand-built, off the grid, and completely DIY. In other words, it was very difficult to live in and maintain. Now that many of their worries about climate change and political unrest have become reality, I understand the prescience of their vision and the virtues of the life they were designing. I also realized something even more important, however, when I rented their home as an Airbnb: No matter how hard you try to escape the future, the future will find you anyway.

May 2015

In the 1990s, my parents sold our family home in suburban Boston and moved to a virgin piece of pasture in Vermont’s rural and remote Northeast Kingdom in order to build a house—and a life—from scratch. They wanted to slow down, to live simply and more in concert with nature and its seasonal rhythms. My siblings, their spouses, and I not only supported this new chapter but were actively involved every step of the way. Though we all had careers, homes, and lives in other places, we would parachute in every August to help pour a foundation, build a timber frame, side a barn, or mow a field. This collective labor gave us a sense of investment in the property—“sweat equity”—and senses of accomplishment, pride, and joy in its growing compound of rough-hewn structures. We finished the “little house” (which is actually tiny) in time for my sister’s wedding one August, and we finished the “big house” (which is actually quite little) in time for my brother’s wedding six years (to the day) later.

This property was the realization of a long-held dream. My father was an MIT-trained architect and builder with his own brand of rugged modernism. His houses were shrines to their specific surroundings, made out of locally sourced wood, stone, and glass. After spending a lifetime building homes for others, he wanted to finally build one for himself and his family.

But he wasn’t trying to construct a well-appointed vacation home, and my parents weren’t hoping to retire comfortably to the country. They were hoping that their modest compound could be a refuge, a place separate and protected from the evil and disease of the modern world, a place to which we could all retreat when the long-prophesied and always-imminent economic and ecological disaster of Man’s own making finally came home to roost. With its solar panels, windmill, vegetable garden, root cellar, and well, it was designed to be a self-sufficient place apart, a lifeboat of sorts.

Though my parents’ organic, less-is-more lifestyle was supposed to be simple, it was never easy. Their life was intentional and incredibly labor-intensive, marked by hard work and discomfort. Their property became an unrelenting taskmaster. Many projects never got completed. Some just didn’t work. The sun didn’t always shine. The wind didn’t always blow. Batteries failed. The bespoke, high-efficiency refrigerator didn’t actually keep food cold. The well was contaminated with surface water from a nearby cow pasture and never produced reliably potable water. My parents’ self-imposed restrictions on energy usage—my father designed an aggressively frugal system that used only one-20th the amount of electricity of an average American family—seemed arbitrary, impossibly difficult, and puritanical; a dishwasher or clothes dryer was out of the question.

They—and we—argued a lot about how they lived, and the choices they had made. I thought theirs should be a model home, an equally attractive, non-fossil-fuel alternative that others could easily emulate so that we could collectively save the planet. My father thought it should be more of a laboratory that embraced cutting-edge experimentation, took risks, and courted failure. He thought it should be difficult by design so as to attract only zealots, purists, and true believers.

August 2019; May 2015

My mother sometimes complained about the ways the house didn’t work and she felt burdened by the endless list of domestic chores that seemed to fall disproportionately on her, but she nonetheless embraced this new life with passion and conviction. Why? For starters, she loved my dad and believed in his genius and vision. She was also a longtime political and environmental activist. Lastly, thanks to her strong Protestant work ethic and her progressive Christian faith, she always believed that wisdom and virtue came from labor, sacrifice, and struggle. I think she loved this new, difficult chapter of her life, not despite the challenges but because of them. It made her feel more alive, more connected to her husband and to herself, her planet, and her God.

One particularly hot and restless night in the summer of 2003, while sleeping in my parents’ barn, I awoke with a scary premonition: Things here were not going to end well. My parents were not going to live forever, and I had a feeling that their path ahead might be far more difficult and treacherous than any of us were prepared for. A few months later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The next three years were consumed by her illness, including her weekly drives across the state for radiation and chemotherapy. The August after she died, we had a memorial service for her under a tent in the exact same spot in the meadow where my sister and brother had each been married years earlier.

My father lived for eight more years, but his heart was never the same. First it was broken, and then, eventually, it began to fail. What he could do—and wanted to do—shrank considerably. For the first time ever, he stopped planting a garden. “What’s the point?” he said. Mail piled up. Bills went unpaid. Phone calls went unanswered. Dirt and dust collected everywhere. Necessary and long-overdue house maintenance was put off indefinitely. He would spend hours and days sitting and staring, at the clouds in the summer and at the wood fire in the winter. The house he built with his own hands became a waiting room, a purgatory clad in native spruce. One day in November 2013, he couldn’t get out of bed. I was visiting at the time, having driven north from Rhode Island after receiving a call from a concerned neighbor. I remember the ambulance in the front yard, parked on top of my mother’s perennial garden and EMTs dressed in Carhartt overalls taking my dad away on a gurney.

My father died the following August; two months later, we mixed my parents’ ashes and spread them in the meadow as friends and family looked on.

After my father’s death, my siblings and I debated whether to keep the Vermont property. I always thought we would. But the more we talked, the more I realized it was going to be financially and logistically impossible. The buildings were not in great shape. Managing their restoration and preservation was going to be complicated and expensive, and was going to take time, energy, and money that none of us had. Moreover, the property was hard to reach. We also realized that we weren’t simply inheriting a house or a piece of land, but a way of life, a philosophy, a set of values that we all respected but didn’t fully subscribe to. No, we all decided, it wasn’t right—or perhaps the right time—for any of us. With heavy hearts, we decided to let it go.

October 2005

Fast-forward to the summer before last, five years after my father’s death: We were returning to our family homestead, but this time as Airbnb guests. As we approached the house from the long dirt driveway, everything was at once familiar and surprisingly different. I instantly noticed all of the improvements: a new metal roof, new wood siding, and a completely rebuilt breezeway connecting the two houses; lush new landscaping featuring exotic flora and brilliant orange poppies that reminded me of California; a new well, professionally dug, with (I learned later) sweet, cold—and E. coli–free—artesian water.

The interior was stunning and immaculate. Everything seemed carefully and painstakingly finished, no more exposed electrical wires or pipes. A new floor was made out of spotted maple, and a fresh coat of satin varnish covered all the wood surfaces. The decor was modern and sparse—chairs made out of soft Italian leather and German stainless-steel appliances, including a dishwasher and a dryer. To my eyes, the house had never looked better and had never been more beautiful, more finished, more realized. The future looked good on this house. My appreciation was complicated, however, tinged with envy and regret. Why couldn’t this beautifully designed and now brilliantly realized house still be ours?

I also couldn’t help but notice what was no longer there: the vegetable garden; the windmill; the woodshed, wood stoves, and Finnish oven; the solar electric system. The house is now on the grid and comfortably heated with gas, its massive propane storage tank elegantly concealed underground. Sure, the house still looks groovy, but it’s now hippie house lite, like tie-dyes and distressed bell-bottoms one buys at the Gap. It has the counterculture aesthetic but all the dirt, difficulty, and rebelliousness have been removed. As my father might say, “What’s the point?”

But I have come to realize that the new owners have actually been the perfect stewards of our old property. Their careful and systematic restoration has removed the dust, decay, and dysfunction while preserving the essential design and rustic charm. I also realize that it is their house now, not ours, and maybe that’s a good thing. The burden of the property, its deferred maintenance and challenging memories, was too much, and is too much for me still.

The author’s brother, mother, and father. August 2001

Now, two years—and a world of difference—later, I find myself thinking about that piece of pasture in northern Vermont and my family’s 25-year adventure there. We are living through such scary and turbulent times. We are simultaneously in the throes of a resurgent global pandemic and a rapidly emerging climate crisis. Viral death tolls, huge heat domes, megadroughts, and 1,000-year floods mark our daily news. As I write this, dozens of massive western fires burn uncontained, their smoke turning even eastern skies an eerie and unhealthy shade of ocher. The world is changing in ways that many people find hard to believe and hard to endure, but that my parents essentially anticipated. They were preparing for this future; they saw it coming and tried so hard to protect their family—and themselves—from the pain and suffering that they feared it might bring. Now that that future is here, I realize we can’t really escape it. The future always catches up with us, and no matter where we are or where we go, we are all survivalists now.

— Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.