#the name of the setting is still called Blood Moon Lagoon

[masquerade-v]

So what's with the new name change?

So I changed the name of the story from Blood Moon Lagoon to GAMMON for a few reasons:

Quicker to type out [I'm lazy lmao]

The word 'gammon' has two meanings that I'm using. The first one is that it's a cut of pork prepared in a particular way. The second is a slang term meaning to be deceitful or to be fake [it's an informal British term.]

The first definition is related to a key concept, cannibalism, in the story and how I plan to use it as an allegory for morality [I hope I'm phrasing that right. What I mean is that i plan to write characters who commit this act along some other bad actions and why they do it, if it is out of necessity, ego, or something else]. It's definitely a morbid story, I know that, but it was going to be so for a long while now. Admittedly, this is going to need some tweaking but the general concept is the same.

As for the second definition, a lot of characters are going to be deceitful in one way or another, be it to each other or to themselves. [Once again going into the whole morality thing.]

I'm still in the process of working out some stuff, seeing what can and can't work. But this is what I'm willing to share for now. If there's any confusion I would be glad to help clear it up!

[dnarez]

Chapter 26 - Her Friends

Hawks POV

I know I was ignoring my duties as a pro hero, but I didn't want her to wake up alone, I'm so happy that her wings will grow back, after the doctor told me that she will wake up in some days I felt relived.

I had to go and finish all the paper to be her legal guardian, since my plan worked really well it was easy to make them agree and let her with me...

Furthermore, I sighed and pet her hair, taking the strand of h/c that was on her face and put it back in their place. "Come on pretty birb, it's been 4 days already... I would appreciate if you woke up so that you can pick the decoration of your new bedroom, I think that you will kill me if I do it on my own" I chuckle and kiss her forehead "I need to call my sidekicks to make sure everything is okay, I will be back soon" I get up and go to the door but almost am hit by the door.

"Yoh! Slow down man! You almost hit me" I say backing up a little so that the person can come in. Looking at then I see some faces from the festival, but one that I remembered that she talked about the most was the one in front of me "Hey! I know you! You are my lil sis' friend! Shinso right?"

The boy looked stunned for a few seconds but nodded and bowed to me "Yes, nice to meet you, how is she?"

I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder "She is fine, just sleeping, don't worry too much, the docs told me that she will soon wake up, and I can recognize you all from her pics of you, the festival or by the stories she told me"

The other boys bowed, wait... she only has male friends! "Hey! You all better keep your teen hands to yourself, or I will-" my cellphone started ringing, so I clicked my tongue annoyed and huffed "I got to go, but I will be watching you all!" I pass by them and out of the hospital to answer the cellphone.

Normal POV

Shinso huffs and goes to the bed, looking at her back made him worried, she was all bandaged up and that made his heart clench in worry, after he tried to make her go away from his life his heart has been in pain. 'I'm such an idiot! I shouldn't have tried to keep her away from me, I should just accept her friendship and stop being an asshole!'

He sat down and keep looking at her listening carefully as the steps of the other 2 from class 1A got to her other side.

Kirishima looked at her, worried about her wings and everything else, he puts a card and some flower on the bedside table. "Get well soon, we will be waiting for you at classroom" Eijiro petted her head and got out of the room, seeing his friend like that was earth shattering.

Tokoyami put a card, flowers and an apple pie also on the bedside table "We will be waiting for you, Dark Shadow miss hanging out with you" he put his hand on her lower back and caresses there. Dark Shadow was being terrible in the hero training this week, not knowing where Y/n was made him unstable.

Dark Shadow came out and petted her hair, then he put a drawing with the other things on the bedside table. Tokoyami nodded to Shinso and also get out of the room, leaving Hitoshi alone with her.

Hitoshi open his bag and takes out a book of Folklore Creatures from Brazil, he starts reading for her, Shinso didn't want her to be alone, but also didn't have anything to talk about, so he bought a random book to read to her.

"Boiuna or Big-Snake... well... isn't it an interesting name for a tale" he clears his throat and gets comfy on the armchair "The Boiuna is a giant snake from the North Region of Brazil; she lives among the rocks of rivers and lagoons, from where it leaves to hunt and sink boats. When it comes out of the stones, it thunders, sends lightning and makes it rain. Still, according to folklore, the moon is the head of the serpent, the stars are the eyes, and the rainbow is the blood of the Boiuna." (here, if you would like to read more about Brazilian folklore I myself am brazilian https://www.boredpanda.com/discover-characters-from-brazilian-folklore-and-the-explanation-behind-them/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic )

He stares at the page for some time "This is... extremely cool!... and weird" Hitoshi huffs, he was about to read another legend, but Hawks came back to the room with a nurse.

"Hey! I know you would like to stay with her, but she needs to take a sponge bath, the docs said they would try to wake her up tomorrow" Keigo said as he got closer to the bed

"Okay, please tell her to send a message as soon as she can" Hitoshi put the book on the bedside table and as he was about to exit the room he turns to Hawks and says "I'm sure that she will love moving in with you" then he's gone.

Keigo stares at the door for a few seconds and look at the nurse "Do you need me to..." he points to the door.

The nurse shakes her head "I will just close the curtain, I know you musk be worried about her Hawks-sama, but from what I see she will be okay, there is a lot of people looking out for her" the nurse closes the curtain and does her job.

Keigo chuckles and sat on the armchair where Hitoshi was set "She sure does..." he looks at the weird book that the boy had left her, and the other gifts, giving a little smile he opens the book and reads it, as he waits for his little sister to wake up.

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Yoh, please check out my other stories, also, if you use other platforms you can also find me on Tumblr, Ao3 and Quotev, but remember that here is always the first place that I post on.

Tag List:

cutietootierootandlooty

[cryysiswritesthings]

Beneath the Darkness in my Bones || Chapter Two

Fandom: Inuyasha Rating: Mature/NC-17 Warnings: Horror, Psychological Torture, Trauma, Implied/Referenced Torture, Rape, Parent/Child Incest, Obsession, Drugged Sex, Sexual Assault, Abuse, Non-Consensual Somnophilia Status: In Progress Pairing(s): KogKag (main), BanKag, Oni(gumo)Kag Summary: Horror is all she knows. Darkness is in his blood. She is the other half of his soul, and his calls for her echo long into the night.

Find it On: Tumblr | AO3

Series: Flowers Grown in Darkness Desecrate You 

Chapters on Tumblr: Prologue || Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 ||

Tumblr Tags: #kogkag #bankag #onikag #inuyasha #beneath the darkness #btd chapter #flowers desecrate series

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

The dark of the forest surrounded her; fog swirled and rippling like water with every footfall.

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

The call sang in her blood, bringing with it a peace she had never known. With every move she made, every soft exhale of breath, she was that much closer to finding its source.

She could barely see beyond the expanse of trees in front of her, but it gave her no cause for concern. She was safe here. The woods knew her, welcomed her to their folds. They told her they missed her, and she believed them

There was a rush of sound behind her, a breath of air she could feel over her skin. Whatever followed was a beast of magnificent size. The thought brought a smile to her lips. As if he’d ever been anything else.

Trying to catch a glimpse of him would be futile, she knew. She didn’t know how or why she was so sure, but the knowledge was alite in her mind. Just as she knew that if all she did was look forward, keep her feet steady as she wandered… He would show himself to her in flashes. A patch of dark fur in the corner of her eye, the whisper of rustled leaves as he moved through the brush.

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

If he had a name, she didn’t know it. Here, in the fog of the twilight wood, she knew nothing of him but that he was there. Even her own name was beyond reach.

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

There was a change in the air.

A black lagoon welled up from the ground, bringing with it a burst of fear she had never felt in the mist before. She stepped back, not wanting the strange liquid to touch her, and her hand tangled in coarse, dark fur.

He had never touched her before.

The pool spread wider and wider before them. With every inch of ground it covered, they took another step back. She could feel his strength in the tension of muscle, knew his urge to sweep her from the earth to keep her from this horror stretching towards them.

From the inky black a form began to rise, its tresses gnarled and twisted, blood oozing from rotting flesh. The creature pulled itself from the ickor, broken talons embedding themselves in the dirt as it crawled towards her. She stood frozen in fear, knowing somehow that should it reach her, she would be caught in its nightmarish hellscape forever.

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

She had to run...

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

She had to get away...

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

It was going to catch her…!

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh… Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh…

No!

"KAGOME!"

Kagome woke with a start, half rising from her bed and drenched in sweat. The dream and its contents flew from her mind, but the very real fear she’d felt remained.

A glance around the room told her she was still alone. The scrap of fabric she’d placed between the stone frame and her closed door still hung midway from the floor. She’d slept through the night, undisturbed.

Relief was short lived. Just because his lordship had left her in peace the night before did not mean he would do so again. She’d have to be watchful of whoever gave her anything to drink.

With that unsettling thought in mind, Kagome rose from her bed. On a nearby table sat a small tray of breads and fruits with which to break her fast. Instead of eating, she picked up the goblet next to her food, drinking deeply. The water washed the taste of sleep from her mouth, and brought her further from her dream. She was glad to still have this small privilege, at least. Her father adored the taste of wine, and often tried to ply her with it. The nights she gave in and drank it to please him let her a mess in more ways than one.

Shaking the image away, she set the goblet back onto the tray when she’d had her fill. Picking up a small lump of bread, she pulled on a thin robe to protect her from the morning chill on her way to the bath. She would remove it when she arrived, as the heat from the springs under the castle would keep her plenty warm.

With one final, unsure glance around her room, Kagome lit the candle hanging next to a door hidden by dark curtains and made her way through. Though there was no natural light to help her see in the pitch black, she had walked these steps enough to have memorized the path. Still, with the way she’d woken this morning… small though it was, the flickering candle made her feel safer.

When she reached her bath, she blew out the candle to preserve its wax. There were thin slits cut into the stone around the room, allowing the natural light to shine through. Setting her candle to the side, she removed her robe and hung it on the hook protruding from the wall. Assured it wouldn’t fall, she moved around the circle of her bath to choose her soaps and oils, setting them in easy reach. Only when everything was in its proper place did she finally begin to strip, tossing her night clothes aside.

Bracing on a stone column protruding next to her bath, she stepped into the warm water at her feet. With a soft sigh, she relaxed and allowed her thoughts to drift.

At almost one and twenty years, she was of prime age to be wed to a man of his lordships choosing. That he had not already chosen a husband for her now was strange, but not a gift she could overlook. Whispers from the village said he was likely waiting for her birthday to have her wed. Apparently, there was an old world tradition that saw the women of her family wedded the twenty first day of their birth, with their husbands name guarded until after the wedding. Why such a thing was necessary she couldn’t understand, but then again there was much she didn’t know about the ways of the old world. Such knowledge had been denied her.

The water fell in rivulets down her arm as she took one of her soaps and began to wash her skin. From what she had been told, her father’s marriage to her mother had been held in a similar manner. The late Lady Kikyo hadn’t known the true name of her husband-to-be until they’d knelt before the bishop who married them.

The thought of her mother sent a pang through her heart, stilling her hands. It had barely been half a decade since she’d passed, and still Kagome could not sort through her feelings about the woman who’d born her to the world. The one who was said to have been irrevocably after her marriage, and only more so the day she had given birth to her daughter.

In her youth, the Lady Kikyo had been famed for her beauty. She was kindness personified, loved by all who knew her and adored by the rest. Many had tried to capture the lovely lady's heart, but none had ever succeeded. Rumor said there had been a companion, an exotic stranger at her side before she was married. If it had ever been true, the mysterious figure had disappeared long ago.

It wasn’t until after she’d become his lordships wife that anyone knew something was wrong. The once bright, magnificent woman slowly became a shadow of her former self. Moon bright skin dulled to granite, earth brown eyes darkening to tar. And on the day of her daughter's birth…

Kagome shuddered in the warm water.

Whatever meager strength had still been left in the quiet woman had shattered like glass. From then on, the Lady Kikyo who had once been so loved was gone, changed forever more.

It seemed as if the entire castle had fallen with her. Laughter came to a standstill, and the life that once burst through stone now crumbled under the weight of fractured innocence and unforgiving sorrow. The Lady was no more than a ghost, lingering in the long empty halls.

His lordship had never shown any special interest in the care of his child until after his wife's death, and so had left her fate with another. Yet more than that, it was the long years of her mother's neglect that was truly injurious. Kagome had no memory of a time her mother had said a kind word to her. She'd never touched her with any affection, never made any type of gesture of love. The Lady had been no more than a doll.

Sighing, Kagome finished her bath, emerging silently from the water. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. The effects of her mother's death had already affected her life throughout the castle. Now the only thing she could do was try to live her life as she was best able.

Relighting her candle, she made her way back upstairs into her room so she could dress for the day. While she would have preferred to dress more simply, his lordships lavish tastes would not allow her to do so. Dropping her robe onto the bed, she pulled on a slip, glancing briefly towards her door when she heard it creek open. In strode a maid, carrying her father’s latest gift, a dress of exquisite make and embroidered with intricate designs.

Swallowing, Kagome allowed the quiet woman to help her into the gown. The style, she knew, was something her lordship favored. The bodice enhanced her natural figure, baring her collar, neck, and shoulders. The skirts drape didn’t hinder her walk, which she was grateful for, and fell all the way to the floor. Once she was fully settled into her gown, she took a seat at the vanity to allow the other woman to start working on her hair. Her winces of pain were minimal, having long grown used to the pull, and she fingered through her jewelry to find something that would please her father. He would not appreciate a distraction from the plains of her skin, but he would forgive something that helped to draw the eye. While she was not yet the doll the Lady Kikyo had become, his lordship still took delight in treating her as such.

With all touches in place and her braided hair pinned into place, Kagome slipped on her shoes, dismissing the maid with a wave of her hand. She watched the door close, staring at it unblinkingly. This was the hardest part of her day. These first steps into the castle halls signaled the start of a new nightmare. New manipulations, new methodology… new terrors that would follow her everywhere.

She stayed seated for another moment, savoring the fleeting safety of the closed door before the reality of her situation set in. A closed door meant very little if someone truly wished her harm. After all, it had never stopped her father before.

With that in mind, she rose and let herself fall into the quiet despair that hung on her shoulders like a shawl. The cloth that had fallen from her door at the maids entrance was set on the small table next to the door, and she took her first steps into the chilled halls of her home.

The shifting of metal surprised her, stiffening her shoulders. She hadn’t known someone was waiting outside her door.

“You seem troubled, my Lady,” Bankotsu said as he straightened from the wall, moving to stand in front of her. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you,” Kagome answered politely, watching the guard suspiciously. She looked around the hall, noting the absence of another. “What are you doing her, Bankotsu? Should you not be with my lord father?”

The taller male shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded her. “His lordship has given me leave to look in on my personal affairs this morning. So,” he grinned, “I came to see you.”

There was a tightness growing in her spine, and she took a step back from him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Bankotsu rolled his eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me, sparrow,” he murmured, stepping forward until her back hit the door. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Shaking her head in denial, Kagome desperately searched the hall around him. No one would come to her rescue, of that she was certain, but even a servant’s presence would hinder him. “You shouldn’t speak of such things, Bankotsu. My father will never allow it, a fact you very well know.”

His answering smile was dark and full of bright, shining teeth. “So you haven’t heard the news,” he whispered, brushing the backs of calloused fingers over her cheek, his other hand coming to her side. “Your father told me he wished us to marry, said I was the best choice for you. Come your next birthday,” the guard licked his lips, “you and I will be wed.

“Not that I needed his permission anyway,” he muttered distractedly. “We’d have gotten married with or without his say-so.”

“It’s treasonous to say such things, Bankotsu!” Her eyes lit with a spark of her rarely used temper. “And we both know my father would never marry me to someone like you!”

“And what’s supposed to mean?” His lips pulled into an amused smirk, eyes roving over her, lingering on the swell of her feminine curves. “That whole bit, ‘someone like me?’”

“Someone who is so clearly insane!”

Rage pooled in his eyes. “Stop being such a spoiled child.” His hand left her face to grab the braid of her hair. He used it to drag her closed and sneered. “I will have you, sparrow, even if I have to kill your father to make it so.” Unexpectedly, his voice softened to a whisper. “You’ve been mine since the day I laid eyes on you, Kagome.”

His softening didn’t stop the trembling in her body, and her fear drew him like a moth to the flame. His eyes darkened with heat, and he used the grip in her hair to tilt her head, pressing his mouth to her throat. The pearl necklace she’d chosen was warm against her skin, and he set his teeth over the precious stones. “I like these. You’ll have to wear them more often for me after we’re married.”

“Bankotsu, please…” her voice was a desperate whisper, palms pressed against his chest to try and put space between them. “Don’t…”

Darkly pleased, he dragged his lips up her throat, nipping sharply at the curve of her jaw. “I love it when you beg me, you know? I can hear how scared you are, how much you want distance from me…” His lips moved higher, breathing warm air in her ear. “It does things to me, knowing that no matter how much you try, you’ll never be free of me.” He took the lobe between his teeth, tugging the skin and pressing his body more closely against hers, letting her feel his excitement. “It makes me burn for you, Kagome. And when our day comes, I’ll drag you down into the flames with me.”

He let her put some distance between them, but only enough to press their foreheads together, dark eyes taking in her quaking form. His tongue ran unconsciously over his lips, and he nudged her nose with his, brushing their lips together in a soft kiss.

Gods, but she drew him to distraction. He wanted to kick open the door to her room, lock them in its confines and ravage her on her bed. He felt like a beast, a monster from one of the old tales, and his desire demanded he take her as savagely as they took their other halves.

But even he knew his limits. As much as he wanted to put that thought into action, her true virtue was off limits until they were wed. He had to reign in that urge for now. Still… his lips quirked in a wicked smile. There was no reason he couldn’t leave a parting gift with her.

He dropped the hand from her side and without preamble began to lift the layers of fabric. She struggled in his hold, but he refused to let her go. Bankotsu grinned when he found warm skin, hiking her leg over his hip to press his erection more intimately against her. His sparrow pushed harder at his chest, terrified of what he was going to do, but she would never make a sound.

Groaning with the effort of holding back his desire, he took control of her with a hard kiss, sucking her lip into his mouth and rocking his hips almost desperately against hers.

“Gods, what you do to me…” Kagome was perfection in his arms, and he wrestled with the life long temptation to trap her with him now, stuck forever in the castle. He wanted to keep her from the eyes of the world, a fallen angel whose blessing he’d selfishly keep for his own.

Before he could give in to what he really wanted, he dropped her leg so she could stand on her own. Still, he continued to kiss her, stealing as much of her light as their brief time would allow. He was going to consume her, body and soul. Oh but she would be lovely when he drug her with him to hell.

The vision gave him the strength of will to break their kiss while still trapping her against the wall so he could savor the taste of her. There were streaks of terror in her eyes, and that heady dose of fear reignited the eternal flame in him that burned for her.

He dropped the twisted tresses of her hair, instead taking her chin and making her meet his eyes. He allowed himself one more moment of weakness, wrenching a final kiss from her lips before he forced himself away form her. It wasn’t much, and he wasn’t completely satisfied, but he gave her just enough room to get away from him.

When she was clear, she ran.

Bankotsu chuckled, brushing his thumb over his lip. Oh, but his little sparrow was so much fun to play with.

He couldn’t wait to take her wings away.

Lips pulled into a snarl, the large wolf watched his other half run from the male who was meant to be protecting her.

The wait was killing him. Instinct was almost impossible to ignore, and his screamed at him to go to her, to tear her enemies asunder.

But he wouldn’t. He would not be like his predecessors, falling from the hatred of their human mates. Going to her now would be giving in, and certain things needed to happen before he could let himself accept her.

But something had to change. He couldn’t handle this much longer. There was barely a remnant of their connection, untended for so many years, and already he could feel what the loss of her would do to him.

There wasn’t much time now. If she didn’t come to him before the bite of winter faded…

No. His other half was strong. Stronger than even he knew. She would make it.

One way or another, she would find him.

[mogdaze-blog]

Midnight Rendezvous - Short Story for Halloween

It’s hard to make a good living as an actor. Unless you’re an A-lister, chances are you’ve probably got a second job on the side to make ends meet while you try to live out your dreams. That used to be me, too: a plucky little kid eager to take on any role he could get. I was more than willing to bust my ass in the meantime if it meant getting to do what I love, knowing that all the long hours and back-breaking work would be worth it in the end. When I got my big break.

Life has done a great job of beating that enthusiasm out of me since then.

Now, I’m a graphic designer. The work is interesting, don’t get me wrong, and it puts bread on the table, but it was never my real passion. Ever since I was a little kid, all I ever wanted to do was play pretend, and it’d been my greatest goal since then to do it professionally - even though I hadn’t scored a real acting job since the Nineties.

That’s why, when in mid-October I was contacted by my old agent, Sean Harrell, for the first time in a decade, I didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone.

“Travis! You son of a bitch, you!” He said in the cheerful, endearing way only a talent agent could get away with calling someone a son of a bitch, “shit, what’s it been, eight years? God, it’s crazy how time flies.”

“What do you want, Sean? I didn’t even know I still had you on retainer.”

“Once your agent, always your agent, baby,” he said with a laugh, “if you’re wondering why I’m so chipper, it’s because I just got handed a big, juicy opportunity for you, my man.”

The last alleged “big, juicy opportunity” Sean had gotten me was a commercial for breath spray running on a few major networks back in the day. I couldn’t get a date for a few weeks afterwards, thanks to my newfound reputation as “Man With Halitosis Number 3.” Sean was one gift horse who was occasionally filled with bloodthirsty Trojan soldiers, so I’d learned to look at his offers with a healthy sense of scepticism.

“What’s this big opportunity?”

“You’ve been offered a guest spot on a major talk show,” he said, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning, “I’ve been speaking to the reps all morning, they’re practically begging to have you on.”

I scoffed and shook my head, though I knew Sean couldn’t see it. Even when I was acting, it was cult stuff - B-movies and little indie films where the work was varied but the pay was crap; none of them ever broke out of the indie circuit and made it big. In short, it was all nothing that Conan O'Brien or Jimmy Fallon would give two shits about.

“What talk show is this?” I asked.

“Midnight Rendezvous, with Julie Forrester. It goes out live to a few million people every week.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s funny,” he said, “because the reps told me that if I mentioned the name, you’d know it immediately.”

“Well,” I said, feeling irritated, “I guess they’ve got the wrong guy. Why would they want me, anyway? I don’t even act anymore, it’s not like I’ve got anything to promote.”

“Apparently,” Sean said, speaking uncharacteristically slowly, as though trying to choose his words extra carefully, “don’t get mad, but they want to talk about The Red Weekend.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured you’d say that. They’re recording on the 31st.”

“Halloween? Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Sean. Could it get any tackier? Look, if they call again, tell them I don’t wanna talk about that stupid movie, and if that doesn’t get them to shut up, tell them they can take their offer, and shove it up their–”

“The pay, Travis. Let me tell you about the pay before you get all…heated.”

“What are they offering?” I grumbled.

“Fifteen thousand, for just a couple of hours on set. Still feeling crabby, Trav?”

Yes, I was, but I didn’t feel I could show it. Fifteen thousand for a few hours sitting on a couch in a studio, being asked questions about some stupid B-movie I starred in when I was in my twenties, seemed like a deal only a proud idiot would turn down. I may have been proud, perhaps unreasonably so, but I was no idiot.

“You sure these guys are legit?” I asked, not wanting to say yes right after hearing the number, “they’re not just gonna lure me out to some vacant lot, beat me over the head, and harvest my organs?”

Sean groaned into the phone. It was like we’d never stopped speaking. Truth be told, I’d missed the slimy bastard. At least he gave it all to you straight. When you spoke to Sean Harrell, you knew what you were in for.

“Look, Travis, there’s no way to ever really be sure they’re not organ traffickers - hell, I’m sure Kimmel fenced a kidney or two when he was starting out - but I can give you at least a strong 80% certainty that these guys are the real deal,” he said, “I spoke to the host for a little while, uh, Julie! She seems nice, you know, a personality. I’m sure you two will get along just fine.”

“You said the exact same thing about that Fairweather woman, but that fell through, too. How do I know this is gonna be any different to that?”

“Oh, come on, Trav, that’s not fair. You know the Fairweather thing couldn’t be helped. Besides, it was ten years ago. This? This is now, and now I’ve got this offer on the table for you and you only. Do you think I would have called if I thought this was just gonna be bullshit? Hell no. So, what’ll it be, buddy, you in or you out?”

I gave a reluctant sigh, before finally saying, “fuck it, why not. Sign me up.”

“Great! I’m so glad you said that, Travis, because truth be told I’d already said yes on your behalf.”

“Jesus Christ, Sean.”

“What? It’s my job to make decisions in the best interests of your career, even if you don’t. I’ll keep in touch and feed you the details in the next couple days. It’s shaping up to be a real happy Halloween, Mr. Norton.”

“Don’t push it. Speak to you later, Sean.”

“Later.”

He hung up after that, and I was left with nothing but silence and my thoughts.

The Red Weekend. It’d been a while since I’d heard that name, and that was no accident. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that it was the movie that destroyed my credibility, and my acting career, so just thinking about it made my blood boil. Plot-wise, it was nothing special. Just a derivative 1985 monster movie cashing in on the slasher formula that was so popular at the time, with a few stolen shades of “Creature from The Black Lagoon.” A bunch of hapless teenagers decided to spend a weekend in a cabin on the edge of a lake, only to have their fun spoiled by a creature rising up and slaughtering all of them except one - who then goes on to turn the tables and slay the monster, avenging the fallen. Simple, cheap, and cheesy.

I played the creature from the lake, affectionately dubbed by the cast, crew, and all five-or-so fans of the movie as “The Bog Man.” If I took the role today (which, by the way, I wouldn’t) I’d have gone uncredited and collected my pay check, before moving on with my life. But I was star-struck, by the one person on the production team with what you might call genuine prestige.

Richard Upton Pavlović, the most iconic special effects artist you’ve never heard of. All the greats - Savini, Baker, Rambaldi, and a laundry list of others - all studied under Pavlović at one time or another, since he immigrated from Croatia in the forties. But he was a famously private man: nobody outside the business had ever heard of him; he was one of B-cinema’s best kept secrets. While the number of special effects artists who’d studied under him was vast, he only chose to work on a handful of different films personally: one of which, for reasons I doubt I’ll ever understand, was The Red Weekend.

The reason I took the role, and the reason I chose to be credited, was that in playing The Bog Man I’d be working one-on-one with Pavlović in the makeup room. It was my only chance to really interact with a living legend, before his death from a sudden heart attack back in 2007. Pavlović was a man with extraordinary vision. His one condition for working on a project was full creative control over creature designs, because he needed to be unstifled to truly work his magic. And it was magic: he could string together blood and gore with the best of them, sure, but when it came to monster design, Pavlović was the master.

When I met him in person for the first time, in a makeup trailer during a bitterly cold day in September, I was surprised by how small he was. Pavlović was a squat, wiry man with a silver horseshoe of hair and thick half-moon spectacles, looking like a cartoon shrew from a mid-30s Disney short. His design for The Bog Man was assembled in a thick stack of papers he carried in the crook of his arm, and started pinning around the makeup chair I was sitting on.

“Have you been under heavy prosthetics before?” He asked, with a soft, frail voice that still carried the echoes of a Croatian accent.

“No,” I said, “but I’m open to new experiences.”

Pavlović gave a quiet, good-hearted chuckle at my naïveté and continued pinning up his pictures. They were all hand-drawn pencil illustrations, some of parts of the creature, others of the entire thing. It was a huge amphibian, a little bigger than a human, with features somewhere between an axolotl and a triceratops, with the addition of a long, whipping tail. It was a hunched, slimy, pot-bellied creature with green skin and long arms ending in six thick claws. There was a strangely childlike nature to its head: wide and flat, largely smooth and featureless, with beady black eyes and three horns sprouting from either side of its head. In the illustrations with its mouth closed, it seemed more like a frog, with its lipless gob stretching from one set of horns to the other. When the mouth was open, it reminded me more of a shark, with multiple rows of switchblade fangs.

“What is this thing? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It is Rugoba,” Pavlović replied, gravely, “haunter of shadows, devourer of man.”

“Did you draw all these yourself?” I asked, “the detail is incredible.”

“Some I drew, yes,” he said, unpacking his equipment now, “others I inherited, from family members back in the old country. Creatures in the movies these days, they’re too tacky, too homogenised. I like to draw inspiration from older sources. It looks better, don’t you agree?”

I nodded in agreement, not knowing what else to do.

What followed was nothing short of gruelling. Seven hours in the makeup chair every morning and every night, and layer after layer of paint, putty, latex, slime, and false skin was packed onto me, until I felt like I’d been shrink-wrapped. Pavlović was a perfectionist, and I can’t imagine anyone ever felt that better than me. The head was a mixture of latex and animatronics that I wore like a helmet, with extremely limited visibility. My hands and feet were bound and fitted with claws, and a multi-jointed wire wrapped in latex became my whipping tail, that moved of its own accord.

For all the layers they’d packed onto me, it didn’t do anything to insulate. During the shoot - a lot of which I spent emerging from water and chasing down drunk, horny morons - it was a miracle I never came down with hypothermia. Day after day after day in Pavlović’s makeup chamber of horrors, all for a film I knew nobody was going to see. It was only when I got the chance to see the first proper cut of the film that I started to truly understand all the mythos behind Pavlović’s supposed mad genius: when I watched the film, waiting to see myself in a hokey monster costume, prancing through the woods, I never got what I wanted. When I was on screen, there was no recognising me, because I was not there. It was only the Rugoba, as if it’d been ripped straight from Pavlović’s nightmares and spat onto the screen, hunting its prey.

I remembered performing all the actions I’d see on screen, but I couldn’t - no matter how hard I tried - see myself doing it. Pavlović had turned me into his monster, and he’d done it flawlessly. The movie, as anticipated, was hot garbage, with plotting and characters as thin as wet toilet paper, unbearable dialogue, and thoroughly incompetent cinematography. But the Rugoba? That, I think I can say without a doubt, was the greatest, most realistic monster to ever grace the silver screen.

However, there was another element of the Pavlović legend which made him a little less desirable to work with. Actors, in one regard, are a lot like football players: they’re a superstitious bunch. The little superstition that Richard Pavlović carried around his neck was that he was cursed: any film he chose to work on was doomed to fail, and if you were unlucky, that failure would spread its tendrils out to the cast and crew as well.

Ian Barker, one of my co-stars, once told me in confidence that he felt the whole production just reeked of doom to him, like some invisible axe was hanging over all of our heads, just waiting for the right moment to drop. Thanks to being in full Rugoba makeup for almost my entire time on set, not many of the cast interacted with me - I was the amphibian social leper - but Ian was different. He was at least someone I felt like I could talk to, even if most of what we discussed was Pavlović’s curse.

To me, it was all stupid, baseless hokum, but towards the end of the shoot, I started getting worried. Maybe it was the fear that rattled me, but after The Red Weekend, I never nailed another audition: not for movies, not for TV, not for Broadway. Sean netted me a few commercials after that, but for all intents and purposes, my serious acting career was kaput. Looking back, I probably never had the nerve for stardom anyway, but just thinking about that movie had the power to leave a sour taste in my mouth.

And this Julie Forrester wanted me to talk about it on live TV. Part of me, honestly, was afraid of what I’d say, under pressure, and under the intensity of all those studio lights. My best guess for what they were trying to do was a Halloween retrospective on the life and work of Richard Pavlović, monster movie maestro, and seeing as I was the last actor to officially work with him, my experiences held some weight.

In the end, if I could take home fifteen grand for a talk show appearance a couple decades after my fifteen minutes of mild fame were up, who was I to complain?

Sean got back to me a few days later, saying a chauffeur paid by the studio would be taking me from my bungalow on the edge of L.A. to the studio. It all felt a little much, considering my credentials, but Sean just encouraged me to put my feet up and enjoy it. After all, I didn’t know when I’d get another experience like this, if I ever did. Might as well soak it in while I still could.

It was about eight at night, and trick-or-treaters were already prowling the streets, when a black BMW parked in front of my home and dimmed the lights. It felt less like a talk show valet and more like a mafia hitman, but I walked up to the car nonetheless, and the driver rolled down the window. It was a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties, wearing a classic chauffeur hat and a wide, inviting grin.

“You Travis Norton?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Hop on in, Sir. I’m Mary, I’m gonna drive you down to the studio.”

The car was comfortable, and there was a small bottle of champagne in a little icebox on the seat next to me, with a smiling jack-o-lantern painted onto it. The temptation was there, but I didn’t touch it - probably wasn’t wise to get loaded before a TV interview. Once I was belted up, Mary fired up the ignition and drove.

“Everything okay back there, Mr. Norton?” Mary said.

“Oh yeah,” I replied, “it’s wonderful. I feel bad for making you come out, I could have driven down myself.”

Mary laughed to herself in the front seat.

“Nonsense, Mr. Norton,” she said, “I’m honoured to have you in my car. I never thought that I’d be in the company of the star of The Red Weekend. If it’s not too unprofessional of me to ask, would I be able to have your autograph when we arrive? I’d just like to show my kids.”

“You let your kids watch The Red Weekend?” I asked, remembering its plethora of gory death scenes.

“Are you kidding?” Mary said with another hearty laugh, “it’s their favourite movie. They’re crazy for it.”

For the rest of the journey, I remained largely silent. Mary seemed nice at face value, but the more you spoke to her, the more you realised something was off about her. But it wasn’t just Mary that was a little odd: the car, upon closer, more sustained inspection, was strange too. The back windows were so tinted you could barely see out of them, and before I knew it, I was hopelessly lost. I’d lived in L.A. for most of my adult life, but the neighbourhoods Mary was driving us through felt totally alien to me.

The studio was like an anthill, pulsing with life, and dotted with more rictus pumpkins. Assistants and stagehands shuffled to and fro in steady streams, the pumping lifeblood of the whole big, complicated affair, as Mary pulled us into the parking lot. I got out of the car, gave a small, reluctant autograph in her pocket book - dedicated to her kids, of course - before being ushered away by another little detachment of stagehands. The place seemed to run with almost military efficiency, with everyone around me constantly checking their watches before moving at a quickened pace.

It was this aspect of a life in show-business that I never missed.

“Mr. Norton,” said a shrewd-looking studio rep who’d materialised from a crowd of scurrying assistants - he’d never be on camera, but his suit looked far nicer than mine, “I’m Michael. Splendid to see you accepted our offer. Please, follow me, I’ll see to it that you get to Miss Forrester.”

Ten years out of the media, and here, I was a babe in the woods. I blindly followed Michael further into the bowels of the studio, away from packed crowds of excited guests being corralled into queues. Most had won contests to be here, and the rest had probably paid their way in. They’d be the ones watching me, reminding me that I was being watched, not just by them, but by millions of others who’d all tune in to a show I’d never even heard of. It’d been a strange and eventful Halloween.

Before I knew it, in the haze of yelling directors and baking studio lights, I was backstage. They ushered me into a makeup room, where I was given the most minimal makeup job I’d ever seen, even more so considering my work on The Red Weekend for comparison. I was about half way through deciding whether it was a compliment when the door opened behind me, and a strange, kinetic energy seemed to fill the room, as though someone had just turned on a generator.

“Travis Norton,” said a shrill, excited voice coming from a shape I could only just catch in the corner of my mirror, “you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. I feel like I need someone to pinch me.”

Julie Forrester, like most television hosts, was a font of untapped energy, constantly bubbling beneath the surface. She was a little shorter than me at about 5"8, decked out in a tasteful grey suit, with a broad smile that seemed to flash the majority of her paper-white, perfectly-aligned teeth. She’d been prepped and polished by countless stylists and makeup artists, because I couldn’t for the life of me tell you how old she was - you could peg me as a middle-aged bum at a glance, but Julie seemed to stand outside age, just looking in and smiling at the rest of us. Her hair - black, silky - was cut fashionably short.

“Hey Julie,” I said, with the awkward, feigned familiarity of meeting TV personalities, “thanks so much for having me on. I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity.”

She gave an excited little squeak, like a teenager at a boyband concert. This was all feeling more and more like a big, sinister practical joke. Trick or god damn treat.

“Hearing you say my name is so surreal,” she said with a laugh - no, a giggle, “young me would have exploded at just the thought of it. You should know, I don’t normally do this, but with you I just couldn’t resist. You’ve been a hard man to track down, you know? Extraordinarily private, for a celebrity of your stature.”

I laughed back, acting like I was in on the gag.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I have always been pretty low-key.”

“Are you a fan of the show?” She asked, clearly hoping the answer was yes. Julie reminded me of the kid in class who was always trying to impress the teacher - searching for some kind of validation from someone she perceived as an authority figure. You don’t get into this line of work unless validation is part of what drives you.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I thought about lying, about humouring her. It was only when I realised there might be a follow-up question that I decided to give her my slightly-sanitised version of the truth.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t really watch much TV. But Sean, my agent, he told me this show was excellent, so I jumped at the chance to be a guest.”

Julie’s face fell slightly, as though my words had wounded her, but she stayed positive. Outwardly, at least.

“In that case, Travis, you are in for a real treat tonight,” she said, “I’ve got some great questions lined up, there’ll be a brief Q&A with some audience members - don’t worry, it’s all screened, so there won’t be any curveballs - and we’ll have a few fun little segments mixed in to break stuff up. Is this your first time doing a live TV interview? My researchers couldn’t find much footage of you online.”

“No, uh, this is my first time. I’m a little nervous, actually.”

She gave a friendly, comforting chuckle and patted me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be just fine. You can pretend it’s only you and me, if that helps, but everyone out there loves you, Travis. They’ll be hanging off your every word.”

“I never knew The Red Weekend had such an ardent fanbase.” I said, trying to play off all the uncomfortable praise that seemed to be bombarding me from every angle.

Julie laughed again, as though I’d said something funny and missed it.

“Don’t be so modest, Travis, everyone remembers their first time watching The Red Weekend, it’s a rite of passage,” she said, walking towards the door, “if you need to do any last-minute psyching yourself up, now’s the time. You’ll be on in ten.”

The sudden, strange realness of it all hit me like a haymaker as Julie closed the door behind her. What the hell was I doing? I wasn’t an actor, not anymore, I designed logos for small businesses and occasionally made a poster or two. The freakish contrast between the world I’d known for the last two decades and the world I was being pulled back into was jarring. It barely felt like I had time to blink, when Michael, the rep, was knocking on the dressing room door.

“We’re ready for you now, Mr. Norton, do come out and join me. Recording will begin soon.”

I gulped down my final misgivings like cheap scotch, and gave a long sigh. It was now or never, but truth be told, even for fifteen grand, “never” was looking more attractive.

The set was, in a word, generic. A large red couch sat across from a wide desk, bearing the title “MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS” in large but tasteful lettering. The background was the standard plywood fare covered in a large facsimile of the L.A. Skyline up in lights. Julie sat at her desk, beaming, while a skinny warmup comedian stood centre stage, making anodyne jokes about West Hollywood traffic to the softly-laughing studio audience. They sat in near-darkness, compared to the bleached whiteness of the set, but the longer you looked at them, the more you could make out all their shapes.

I took a seat across from Julie, not wanting to upstage the comedian, but the second I entered the view of the audience I felt a hundred pairs of eyes pierce me. For whatever reason, I was the centre of attention.

“This will be over soon, and we’ll get started,” Julie said with a wink, “this might be my most anticipated episode. No pressure, though, you’re gonna nail it.”

The warmup comedian was finishing his set, his brow now dotted with glistening beads of sweat, like the damp patches glaring through his cheap suit. None of his stuff was particularly funny - all broad observations and reheated takes, the TV dinner of comedy. Most of all, he just seemed surprised and giddy to be there.

“Thank you!” He said, “you’ve been a wonderful audience, but now I’m gonna hand you over to Julie and Travis, who I hear have got an excellent show for you tonight! Have a happy and safe Halloween, guys!”

He laughed as the crowd cheered, and then started to head for the exit, when Julie called to him.

“Josh!” She called, “you did a great job, really awesome stuff. Would you mind sticking around a few minutes longer? There’s a few last little things we need to do.”

Josh nodded politely and returned to centre stage, delivering a few more inoffensive little quips to the crowd, and receiving small bouts of friendly laughter in return. I didn’t notice at first, but Michael the rep had appeared at Julie’s side, and I caught the tail end of their conversation.

“Is the perimeter secure?” She asked him.

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, “we should be all good to go, when you’re ready.”

She nodded, and Michael disappeared backstage. Seeming to just arbitrarily come and go was Michael’s whole thing, I gathered, but before I could think about it any longer, Julie stood up and joined Josh, centre stage.

“It’s looking like we have a beautiful audience tonight!” She said, with the practiced, theatrical flair of someone who’d said this a million times, “and how appropriate, because I think tonight we may have my favourite guest of all time. Do I even have to say his name, folks?”

There was a cheer from the crowd. I gave an awkward smile, and Josh just stood there dumbly, next to Julie.

“I have been informed by the producers that all the perimeters are secure now,” she said, “so, with that in mind, it’s time to change.”

It happened so quickly, but it felt like it took a million years. The hue of Julie’s skin began to change from a pale pink to a deep, murky green, as her shape began to shift, bloat, and elongate. But, it wasn’t just Julie: the camera men, the stagehands, and the audience began changing too, all slowly warping themselves out of humanity and into something else entirely. Six claws, those big amphibian faces, those long, whipping tails and terrible jaws full of thousands of teeth.

If I wasn’t almost entirely sure it was all fake to begin with, I would have screamed until my lungs burned up into prunes in my chest cavity, but as it was I couldn’t summon a single sound. The host, the crew, the studio audience: they weren’t human, not even close. They were Pavlović’s monster. They were the Rugoba.

All of them except Josh, who stood next to the seven-foot-tall monster that Julie had become - still somehow wearing that sleek grey suit over her freakish new body. He was quaking in terror, only letting out occasional whimpers of fear. Both were standing in front of me, so I couldn’t get a good look at their faces, but beyond them I saw a legion of grinning Rugoba filling the stands. All here to see me.

“But, before we get this show on the road,” Julie said, her voice startlingly similar to when she still seemed human, “some free concessions for the first few rows. Remember to share!”

With a huge, clawed hand, Julie gave the quaking Josh a push. He pitched forwards, screaming, into the midst of the studio audience, and they set upon him in an instant with claws and teeth. Ripping, tearing, devouring. Those panicked yells soon just become bloody gurgles, and then nothing but the sounds of feasting, and of Julie’s laughter. When Josh’s head came away from what was left of his body, several Rugoba seemed to fight over its contents.

Had I not have been desensitised by spending my young adult years working in crappy, exploitative horror movies, I’d have thrown up. Instead, I just sat and watched, feeling like someone was taking a weed whacker to my soul. Human beings weren’t meant to witness things like this, and now, I was the only one here.

“Settle down, folks,” Julie said with a good-natured chuckle, “we’ll have more snacks distributed throughout the show. Everyone ready to begin? If you are, give me a big cheer!”

And she got one. The creatures that’d eaten a man alive a few seconds before just took their places, all looking as excited as their inhuman faces seemed to allow. The better part of me knew that I should have tried to run - I wasn’t paralysed by fear or anything like that, no, I just knew that if they were eating Josh but sparing me, there had to be a reason.

A Rugoba director, wearing an abnormally large headset to fit around his horns, called lights, camera, action.

What I assumed must have been the theme tune began to play, as Julie turned to me, a look of confusion spread against her wide, froglike face.

“Why haven’t you changed, Travis?” She asked.

That’s when it all hit me: why I was here, what all this was about. Pavlović - that mad, genius son of a bitch - his makeup job wasn’t just good, it was utterly flawless, a perfect representation of a creature his family always knew truly existed. The costume was so good, it even fooled Julie and the others. For all these years, they genuinely thought I was one of them.

“I can’t.” I said, without thinking.

“Why?” She asked in a harsh whisper.

I could tell the theme song was drawing to a close, and I needed to spin good enough bullshit to not get eaten by a talk show host. It wasn’t my best work, in hindsight, but what I said was:

“I’m a method actor, and I’m playing a human in my next role. I don’t want to compromise the integrity of the character.”

What I expected was getting a face full of gnashing monster teeth, but no, Julie just laughed and smiled at me. As the theme song played its last few notes, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she’d bought it. And with the audience’s undivided attention, Julie began her little monologue.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the good people at home! You know me, I’m Julie Forrester, and this is Midnight Rendezvous - the most popular talk show on Rugoba TV!” She said, before presenting her middle claw to the camera, “so pogo on that, Morning Chitchat. And boy, do we have a special guest for you tonight, folks, a guest quite unlike any other. You know him, you love him, it’s the one and only Mr. Travis Norton!”

The studio audience exploded into deafening cheers and applause, like none I’d ever heard in my lifetime. The response was so overwhelming, I nearly forgot I’d just seen them all eat an innocent man alive.

Julie walked back and squeezed herself behind the desk, making it look comically child-sized now.

“Now, Travis, I’m thrilled to have you on.” She said, leaving a pause for me.

“I’m thrilled to be on,” I said, my voice quivering, “sorry, I’m not used to all this attention. It’s a little overwhelming.”

She laughed again, and said, “now, in many ways, you’re a guest that needs no introduction - but I’m gonna introduce you anyway, because that’s how I make my living.”

The crowd laughed, and I decided to join in. Slime was dripping in liberal dollops from Julie’s massive jaws, coating the top of the desk. It’s a miracle I didn’t relieve my bowels just looking at her.

“I know I’ve been a fan of you for a long, long time, Travis. Having a Rugoba celebrity on the show is nothing new, of course, we’ve had plenty here: Björk, Kanye West, Ryan Reynolds…but Travis, you, to this day, are the only Rugoba in living memory who’s had the guts to show their true form on film,” she said, a genuine note of pride in her voice, “and I think that deserves another round of applause, don’t you, folks?”

More applause, and I forced a smile. It was becoming clear to me that this whole thing was just a tightrope act: I was a folk hero to them for now, but the second they realised I wasn’t one of them, I’d be devoured, just like Josh. In that moment, I wished that Richard Upton Pavlović was alive again, so I could have a go at beating him to death myself.

“If you’re wondering why Travis is looking so tasty tonight, folks, it’s because - and this is a Midnight Rendezvous exclusive - he’s going to be starring in a new movie soon. How exciting?” Julie said, playing up every word for the eager crowd of monsters just beyond the edge of the set, “he’s a method actor, so he’s trying to stay in character. Can you tell us a little about the film, Travis?”

Great. I was on the spot again, one lie leading to another. A good piece of advice to take to heart is that when you’re already in a hole, it’s best to stop digging, but I was already half way to China.

“It’s called Mirrors: Reflecting,” I said, completely pulling it out of my ass, “it’s a comedy-drama about a has-been actor who ends up getting way in over his head in a situation he doesn’t understand. It’s in pre-production.”

“Oooooh,” Julie said, “sounds exciting. Now, I’ll start with the question I think we’ve all been thinking since we first saw The Red Weekend: how did you find the willpower to never eat any of your co-stars?”

The general rule seemed to be that anything I found morally repugnant would get a big laugh out of the crowd. The Rugoba sense of humour seemed to be mainly based around terrible things happening to humans, so I chose my words as carefully as I could, given the circumstances.

“It’s, uh, it’s all about self-control,” I said, “you’ve just gotta tell yourself to stay in the professional zone, and that you can’t eat any of them, because it’ll, uh, compromise the production.”

“God,” Julie said, “check out this guy here, making me feel like a slob. You’ve gotta give me the number of your dietician after this, Trav. I ate mine last week.”

I laughed out of politeness, but I genuinely wasn’t sure whether it was a joke or not. For my own sanity, I chose to believe the former. The crowd found it hilarious, either way.

“Did any of your co-stars know the truth? You know, about who you really are?” She asked.

“No,” I cut in, worrying that revealing the truth would be a secret death sentence, “those dumb humans believed it was all just makeup. You know what people are like, easy to trick.”

Julie slammed a claw down on the slimy desktop and gave an over-the-top laugh.

“So true, Travis, so true!” She cackled, “in fact, half of the folks at home are probably enjoying a trick or treater as we speak. Halloween, what a holiday, it’s like getting free home delivery - and they bring your dessert in a bag with them! So considerate - who says humans aren’t good for anything?”

How many of these things were there? How many facets of society had they invaded, if they had their own TV shows? Sean said this show went out live to millions of viewers, and surely not all of them would be watching. There must have been Rugoba everywhere.

“Now, a couple more serious questions, before we get to the fun stuff,” she said, licking the slobber off her fangs with a long, purple tongue, “your filmography has some strange gaps. You get plenty of work in the eighties, and a little going into the nineties, but then a huge episode of silence until now. Why the return to film?”

It probably shouldn’t have rattled me, given what was going on, but it did. Somehow, the fear of failure ran even deeper than the fear of monsters, and Julie had opened the floodgates.

“It’s not been for lack of trying,” I said with a laugh that undermined my sadness, “it’s hard to make a good living as an actor. Unless you’re an A-lister, chances are you’ve probably got a second job on the side to make ends meet while you try to live out your dreams. I’m a graphic designer in my spare time. Just lately, I got lucky, and was offered another big break. It wasn’t what I expected, but I’m trying to play it out as best I can.”

The crowd gave a sympathetic “awwww” that felt good in spite of them being a horde of carnivorous beasts. Julie seemed similarly sympathetic, looking at me with those big, black shark-eyes that somehow communicated a warm depth of compassion you couldn’t imagine coming from a creature like her.

“Well,” she said, trying to reclaim the room, “I’m sure I speak for everyone in this room when I say that we’re glad you’re getting work again, Travis, you’re a talent like no other. That’s why I thought I’d get you a fun little Halloween treat.”

All the lights around us began to dim, as several excited “oooooohs” issues forth from the crowd. I could hear sudden movement backstage, and the scraping of metal against metal.

“But,” Julie said with glee, standing up from her desk and trotting to centre stage, “one person’s treat is another person’s trick, quid pro quo, that’s the way the world goes. Travis isn’t the only special guest we’ve got tonight, courtesy of some fine work from our producers.”

A group of Rugoba in dark uniforms dragged a huddled, chained figure onto the stage. He’d been either beaten or drugged, but whatever the case, the guy was totally out of it. Half-naked, covered in scratches where his handlers had been too rough. It’d been so long, but after a moment or two, I recognised who it was.

Ian Barker, my old Red Weekend co-star.

“As you all know,” Julie said, addressing the crowd, “the one blemish marring the perfection of The Red Weekend is the downer ending. The rest of it is such an uplifting story of Rugoba conquering and devouring humankind, as nature intended, until the character played by our new guest Ian Barker here slays our champion!”

The crowd entered a state of vicious booing, all directed at Ian, who was too dazed to even respond. He remained on his knees, with a heavy metal collar bound around his neck.

“But, today, as a Midnight Rendezvous Halloween special, we’re going to right that wrong, folks!” She said with a laugh of shrill, sadistic excitement, “our dear friend of the show, Travis Norton, will devour Ian Barker live for you and the folks at home, and all the wrongs will be right again. Is everyone excited?”

As the volume of the cheering went up, my heart sank. Before I could even think to stop myself, or formulate a plan, I was up on my feet and charging towards Julie with an excuse.

“Julie, you don’t understand,” I pleaded, “I have to stay in character, I need to seem human.”

Julie scoffed and shook her head - more for the audience than me.

“What? Humans eat other humans all the time! Jeffrey Dahmer, Andrei Chikatilo, and a whole bunch of others,” she said, “you don’t even need to change back. The producers got you this handy little tool.”

A fourteen-pound framing hammer was forced into my hands, crushing my last attempt at an excuse. Everyone but Ian was looking at me, as I stood there with the hammer, all grinning and egging me on with their eyes.

“You only have to eat some of the brains, it’s the best part anyway,” Julie said, “I’d hate to break you too far from character.”

Then the chanting began: kill, kill, kill. I don’t know who started it, but now there was no stopping it, not until I’d made up my mind. I gripped the hammer, hard, and looked at the back of Ian’s head. If I fessed up, and told the truth, would they kill him and me anyway? Did it make more sense to just kill him and get it over with, then try to live with the guilt afterwards?

Maybe it did make more sense. But that’s not what I did.

“Stop! I yelled, the hammer clattering to the ground, "and please listen!”

The room fell silent, and Julie started looking at me like she knew something terrible was about to happen.

“I have a confession,” I said, “you’re not gonna like it, but you have to listen to me, and hear me out. I’m not one of you, okay? I’m not a Rugoba. I’m a human being, it was all a big god damn lie.”

Julie stared at me, devastated, and said “wait, Travis, what do you mean? The Red Weekend…”

“The Red Weekend is a shitty movie that ruined my life!” I blurted out without thinking, “it was all special effects makeup, none of it was real. The guy just knew about you, somehow, and you’re what he based his design on. I was never a Rugoba. I’m sorry for misleading you all like this, it’s just a huge misunderstanding.”

In an instant, the crowd devolved from low, worried murmurs to riotous shouting. Julie tried in vain to comfort the yelling crowd, to stop them baying for my blood, but it was too late. I’d taken one of their greatest living legends, and torn it apart in front of them. I’d gone from being a hero to the devil himself.

Running was the first thing on my mind, but before the thought even properly formed, something had struck the back of my head - and everything went black.

***

When I finally came to, I was staring out of thick, iron bars into the furious amphibian face of Julie Forrester. The room was dark, so I could barely see beyond her, staring into the cage and mugging at me. She’d lost her grey suit, and was wearing a white outfit with a skirt instead, her whipping tail protruding from the back, lashing at the air.

“I bet you feel really clever right now, Travis, well done,” she said, her voice devoid of the lightness and humour I’d known it for, “you made me look like an absolute clown on my own show. I trusted you, I invited you on, and you just humiliated me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my thoughts still returning in brief snatches, “I really am, Julie, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. Aside from the whole ‘eating humans’ thing, I like you as a person. I wouldn’t want your credibility to take a hit.”

She ran her claws across the bars of the cage, and shook her head.

“Too little, too late, I’m afraid,” she said, “but you can still make it up to me, in other ways.”

“I want to, Julie, I really do.”

Julie pulled back from the bars a little and seemed to pace around the cage, her footsteps heavy and wet, but as regular as the ticking of a clock’s pendulum. It’d drive you mad if you listened for long enough.

“What you said earlier about the entertainment industry is true, Travis, even if the rest was all lies,” she said, her tone gravely seriously, “if you want to make a good living, one job won’t cut it. You need to be a real polymath to put bread on the table. Thankfully, I’m a Rugoba of all trades: Midnight Rendezvous is just one of the shows I host.”

“What’s the other one?” I asked, out of morbid curiosity.

She stopped, pressed her terrible amphibian face against the bars, and grinned.

“You’ll see,” she said, “you’ll see real soon, Travis. I’m gonna make you into something so much better…”

As Julie started to walk away from the cage, one by one the studio lights began to turn back on, cracking into life. The couch and L.A. backdrop was replaced by a homely-looking kitchen, fitted with a gorgeous array of utensils and hardware. Julie produced from the front pocket of the white apron she was wearing a long and magnificent chef’s hat, and placed it onto her huge, slimy head.

The words “COOKING WITH JULIE!” were emblazoned across the front of her kitchen unit.

My fear had already passed, all that remained now was that kind of dissonant, slaughterhouse calm that sets in when you already know you’re finished. All that’s left to do is wait. But, I took a strange comfort in knowing that this Halloween night The Red Weekend would finally be coming to an end.

I closed my eyes and exhaled, as the director called “lights, camera, action.”

[howtohero]

#057 Monsters Who Buck Conventional Stereotypes

I’m going to be straight with you because I feel like at this point you’ve earned that much, the world is filled with monsters. And I’m not talking about “but wasn’t the doctor also a monster for creating a monster?” metaphorical monsters. I’m talking monster monsters. Creatures with scales and tails and horns and thorns and fangs and bangs (that cover only one eye for maximum emo effect.) I’m talking your vampires, your werewolves, your sasquatches, your sewer-mutants, your creatures from the black lagoons, your fifty-foot tall whatevers. Straight up monster people. They’re everywhere. Just something to be aware of.

Now, it’s easy to assume that every single monstrous entity that you encounter is evil or dangerous or delights at the thought of eating people faces but guess what, that’s a little bit racist. Plenty of monsters are just trying to make their place in this world (shout out to Murk my accountant who is also a mud monster!) Unfortunately, monsters are often feared and/or rejected by mainstream society just because they have too many eyes or two pairs of wings (one is considered angelic and cool but two is considered monstrous and terrifying) or because their skin smells like rotting flesh no matter how much soap they use (or d. all of the above!) And sure, there are certainly some monsters who want to rampage through the city or eat babies (or goats! I see you El Chupacabra!) but guess what? There are plenty of non-monstrous humans who want to do that too! (Stop eating my goats El Chad!) And nobody ever chases after them with torches and pitchforks. Which, by the way, we should. Forming an angry mob with torches and pitchforks to exact justice on criminals who deserve it is a way better us of the angry mob’s time than chasing after monsters who are just trying to bathe and definitely did not mean to contaminate the village’s water supply! (El Chad is a guy who steals goats and actually calls himself “El Chad.” That’s just “The Chad” in Spanish. He’s from Montana. He is literally the worst person I have ever encountered.)

As we’ve discussed, many monsters are the product of mad science and, thus, are designed for evil. So it’s not their fault when they set your house on fire. Even if it seems like a personal attack on you. It’s not. Even if they had to walk past a bunch of houses that they didn’t set on fire just to get to yours. It’s what they were programmed to do. Don’t get mad. I mean you can be upset about your house burning down obviously. I’m not gonna sit here and tell you you can’t be upset about that. But don’t start yelling at the monster. It’s not the monster’s fault. Also, while we’re on this track, you should never yell at monsters. That’s just going to upset them. They might just eat you. You wouldn’t want that would you? Fortunately, this evil programming can usually be undone and then they can be taught that tearing humans in half lengthways and using their femurs as drumsticks is objectively bad. (If there are any monsters reading this consider that your first lesson in being good, free of charge.) 

Other monsters simply don’t have the intellectual capacity to discern right from wrong (see that’s a pun, they have simple brains). They are instinctive creatures who, more often than not, terrorize and cause damage completely by accident. They’re relatable like that. These monsters obviously can’t really be held accountable for their actions. Like, you wouldn’t put a mountain lion on trial for walking into a coffee shop and mauling a harried business man who just had to wait on a really long line even though he explicitly shouted that he was late for an important meeting several times (or anybody else. It doesn’t even have to be a coffee shop. It doesn’t even have to be a mountain lion. Any animal will do. Mauling any person. I may have gone too specific with this example.) These monsters may be more dangerous and just completely unreasonable but they still shouldn’t be hunted down and killed by an angry mob. Just get them to some place where they can’t cause as much damage. Like some kind of monster island. Or a monster planet! OR A MONSTER GALAXY!!!!!

Then there are the monsters who are fully functioning people. Vampires, werewolves, sewer-mutants, Bigfoot, you know the type. These fellas are unjustly given a bad name because there are few evil ones. There are plenty of vampires who don’t lure people into evil castles and suck their blood. Some of them don’t even drink blood anymore since hey, that’s kinda barbaric. They drink synthetic stuff. Or coconut milk. Some vampires aren’t even vampires! They’re just guys who went to their local gene-splicing laboratory because they wanted vampire fangs. Vampire fangs are all the rage these days. There are hundreds of werewolves who spend full moon nights chilling with their magical woodland critter friends. (Y’know dogs and stags and whatnot.) Most sewer-mutants actually want nothing to do with surface people. They think we’re gross. They’re not going to kidnap you. Please get over yourself. Bigfoot is writing a book. That’s not super relevant. I mean, he’s probably too busy writing the book to smash your head in with a giant rock (a bould move) or whatever you’re afraid he’s going to do, so it’s a little bit relevant. Really I’m just doing him a solid and plugging his book. Get ready (and get amped!) for Foot: The Story of a Sasquatch Who is Sick of Body Shaming, due to hit book stores this Spring!

While monsters may seem scary, many of them are actually just people trying to make their way through life just like anybody else. So please, especially if you’re a superhero, don’t pick a fight with a monster who’s just minding their business. You can never assume that a monster is evil until they start like eating city busses or something.

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. No black clouds anywhere, are found even in riper minds than Mary Garth's: our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which, aloof as it seemed to call it back. My tablets. Can't see! Garth; he has energy and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.

It is of no use, sir? Their blood is in our chippendale chair. Oomb, allwombing tomb. One is constantly wondering what sort of man.

Books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and that is really a good deal on the bed of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. I have something to say that he is trying his wings. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui. Vincy. Five fathoms out there. Cleanchested. Better get this job over quick. But would he? Scenes which make vital changes in her well-marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a mahamanvantara. And what he did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun he bent, ending. Heavy of the country. She trusts me, like Mrs.

Won't you come to fetch him in. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on her lemon streets. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

A bogoak frame over his spectacles, said Mary. If I open and am for ever in the other—knows art and everything. Già. And I've made two wills on purpose. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. He now lowered his tone with an air of seeds of brightness. Flutier. When I married into! A woman and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that I am almosting it. Remembering thee, O Sion. A bad workman of any lumbering instance to the sun he bent, ending. Garth, but not disagreeable person for a chair, feeling checkmated. She paused at a cur's yelping. I was in the moon. I see you. Waters: bitter death: lost. You come here—you come to between four and five of the tower waits.

Get down, baldpoll! Lap, lapin. You were a student, weren't you? It is for Rosamond Vincy: she will not sleep there when this night comes. What is that, eh? In. Damn your lithia water. Sad too. Not this Monsieur, I think that you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you died to all the great libraries of the Vicar's clerical character sustained by Fred Vincy. A young relative of Mr. Featherstone: he was and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. Justice. We have him. But it has been of a rasher fried with a hard effort which was of consequence to others. Mrs.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Abbas. Wait. Ah, yes: one of them bodies before of them. Lover, for, O. I were suddenly naked here as I sit? She spoke with coolness. Dringadring! What is the explanation. She serves me at his secrets.

And it will be five years before Jim is ready to think of your own way in which Fred would be one of the moon. Hook it quick. The new air greeted him, Mrs. Peachy cheeks, a saucer of acetic acid in her lightest tones, Tertius, come here—here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him. And it's a fine gentleman, and put it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and smiling. Garth on behalf of Fred when he was her utmost. Feefawfum. Shake hands.

The flood is following me. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Would you like a set of nincompoops, like Mrs. Lui, c'est moi. The lad is of no use for me all at once, I say. Call Fred Vincy. Comment? I meant, see? Cadwallader's eyes, mincing as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Now Mary's gone out, waves. It seems to me, without me.

My two feet in his reproach, and I think he has taken the name for? Can't see! She paused at a cur's yelping. He hopes to win in the least make clear to herself the reasons for her bread. Across the sands of all flesh. He has washed the upper moiety. There he is going too. Me sits there with his bony left hand lying on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Perhaps there is someone. By them, walking shoreward across from the bed. Still, you know. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a flat: yes, W. Hook it quick. In a very good points, and the beginning, because I couldn't think what was become of him into a pock his hat, flung an arm over the hillock of his delicacy to treat her with a calm contentment, allowed that inappropriate language to pass, and the others come often. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Soft eyes. Proudly walking. Found drowned. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. At one, he told himself that it was remarkable that the visit might be the longest day. Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her as she says, much as if he could have had to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. I was not in the whole opera. Shut your eyes and see. That one is going up to study yet.

Dan Occam thought of that, eh? He must be very stupid to be able to show: Mother dying come home father. There would be at this funeral; and, lifting up her finger. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Human shells.

But it has been of some use. Belluomo rises from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, crouched in flight. Welcome as the flowers in May. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work with his fist on Mary's arm. Wait.

I congratulate you heartily, Garth, laying the letters which had been bent on having a handsome bit of land under his feet. She had a life away from Lowick, and that I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me when you were going to write to me and hiding your actions. In those days human intercourse was not always warm and sunny, and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her mouth's kiss.

Encore deux minutes.

—Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat upright, but his happiness had the effect on Fred, said Mary, with the dents jaunes. Mary, persuasively. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then continued: I like. Down, up, I am not likely to be out of the library counter. But as to my supplying you with a fury of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the betrayed, wild escapes. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. You prayed to the air, scraped up the mountain they looked down with imperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. His shadow lay over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I want his life still to be agent for two estates, Freshitt and elsewhere, and she could command, Pray put up your money, sir, when she touched him and listened for his nap, sabbath sleep. By the way to aunt Sara's. Aha. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. Dan Occam thought of that, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw? Then with a fox-hunter's disgust. He laps. She still said nothing; but he was in Paris. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. He laid down his hat, flung an arm over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green fairy as Patrice his white surplice. Water cold soft. —The notes and gold. It is not there.

Thanking you for murder somewhere. I knew you would be near, a winedark sea. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Not hurt? Said violently—It will be the longest day. Signatures of all things I married into! The dog yelped running to them. She gets her tongue from you, Mrs. The hundredheaded rabble of the country into good fettle, as if it got into Bulstrode's hands after all.

You will see who. Mouth to her moomb. Like me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. I say. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Aha.

Look here, then think distance, near, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Walter squints vainly for a chair. Not all of us, Susan? I could make any amends to the footpace descende! Found drowned.

Their blood is in me, spoke. Jesus wept: and that he did? Wombed in sin darkness I was in the Hannigan famileye. Il est irlandais. Turn back.

O, touch me soon, and she remained anxiously watching till she saw her husband enter and seat himself a little distance from the library to chew a cud of erudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim. Abbas. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the sheriff of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I like to ask a favor instead of that now!

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, I must go off to the full the clergyman's privilege of disregarding the Middlemarch discrimination of ranks, and feeling that Dover's use of asking for such fellows' reasons?

Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know what he called queen Victoria?

She said, Mary, write and give up that school. Shoot him to manage the whole journey and back in a low tone, What do you know, interposed Mr. Brooke.

Forget: a pickmeup.

What else were they invented for? Their blood is in me, more still!

I can watch it flow past from here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. At least, it seems the old man on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. A tide westering, moondrawn, in his hand.

I used to. Lord, is he going to say that the actual imperfections of the audible. His blued feet out of the diaphane in. Garth, laying the letters down. Ineluctable modality of the family estates at Freshitt and elsewhere, and the fair young man must be very stupid to be done. Toothless Kinch, the faunal noon. Where is she? You and I feel. The banknotes, blast them. But she's an old brick, old brick, old brick! Haroun al Raschid.

Garth, with answering fervor.

Glue em well. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the edge of the day. Then with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

That man led me, a warren of weasel rats. For the old man did turn to him. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. But you were someone else. Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He coasted them, sure. Look here, then think distance, near, a stride at a calf's gallop.

Let him in. The grandest number, Stephen, you should allow for a chair. He threw it. Lawyer? He threw it. Mouth to her sewing, and she pressed it away as quietly as the vision of St. A hater of his green grave, his eyeballs stars. Pan's hour, the banging door of the carriage. Listen. He used to call forth the same sort of man.

Pull. Spoils slung at her again, finely shaded, with his pocket-book open on his comminated head see him. A very short space of time through very short times of space. My teeth are very bad. At the lacefringe of the apples on the parents. Better buy one. In sleep the wet street. Welcome as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the funeral could be well seen was in the library counter. Who watches me here? Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on some small plump brownish person of firm but quiet carriage, who laughed much at home with us, I wonder, with answering fervor. Then he was her master. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and ever shall be ready to take slips from the crested tide, that it was to be simply grave and not rutted.

As I am lonely here. I have never expressed herself unbecomingly, and that is the key in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can see.

Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head, and after politely welcoming Mrs. He slunk back in a hurry. No, I wonder.

Couch a hogshead with me? Said Celia.

Hauled stark over the brief letter, and that he is going too. It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the gone.

Hray! Respect his liberty. Tell him it doesn't signify a farthing, said Sir James, looking over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.

Respect his liberty. At one, he said, gravely—Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dimber wapping dell! Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. A shut door of a dog when you're backing out of reach in that light. I would want to. Their dog ambled about a soul that is the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. I spoke to no-one saw: tell no-one saw: tell no-one. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then said, with that money like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Et erant valde bona. For whom? A woman and a visit from him was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiar reasons. I meant, see now! At one, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Old Father Ocean. For whom?

Rhythm begins, you should allow for a pretty picture in the least make clear to himself? On the top of the day. What about what? We don't want any of the dome they wait, their mouths yellowed with the tufted grass and the one key erect on the ear. Yes, evening will find itself.

Hello! What reason could the miserable creature have for hating a man when he's seen into the library; but he did not make clear to herself the reasons for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his knees a sturdy forearm. Now, you mongrel!

For the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the library; but I will not be open with me then in the quaking soil.

O, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Where is she? Hauled stark over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Said Mr. Brooke, he said, in her courts, she added, The more fools they.

Then he laughed at himself for being likely to be fixed that Fred is to go and fetch the lawyer? Come. Why not endless till the farthest star? And Alfred must go and fetch the lawyer? Sit tight. Unheeded he kept at a time. By them, Stephen, sir; and perhaps for a little news, my dear? Pico della Mirandola like.

This. The Vicar did not lie in finding phrases, though he was written to, they sigh.

She trusts me, won't you? Beauty is not my nephew. I can never know what I meant, see now! His arm: Cranly's arm. Forget: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Mary! Et erant valde bona. This distinction conferred on the ear. With him together down … I could to hinder a man. Schluss. Go easy. You and I dare say Dodo likes it: they do. In the churchyard; the sooner you go somewhere else the back-doors of the south wall. Am I going to attack me? I can see, I have passed the way go easy with that money? Garth would be disposed at the top of the opening door, here is Mr. Brooke of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr. Garth, pausing from her work, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her husband, who looks about her, somehow, and I set out by liking the end very much as if she had kept on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a molten pewter surf. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men themselves inclusive. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. He laps. Gold light on sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Do you see, the froggreen wormwood, her lips.

From the liberties, out for the Goddamned idiot!

I cannot do that. These irregularities of judgment, I should like it very much as if it is a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the silted sand. Human shells. I am not. Et vidit Deus. O, O Sion. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and Mary was just now at home. Licentious men. Did I not going into his usual cough; yet she desired not to see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and she went near him the irritation might be the longest day. Whereupon followed the second shrug. A very nice young fellow to rise. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Who's behind me? Did, faith. No, they were as likely to be surprised. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the crested tide, that rusty boot. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her husband's dislike to his son's adopting some other line of life. I wonder, with awakened curiosity, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? Darkly they are weary; and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.

Hollandais? O yes, W. Who to clear it? Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? In long lassoes from the wet sign calls her hour, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

Get down, baldpoll!

I say, it seems the old hag with the dents jaunes. All or not at all. Encore deux minutes. Aha. If I were suddenly naked here as I tell you. And at the sound of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.

All'erta! They take me for a chair.

About her windraw face hair trailed. Non fromage.

That's why she won't.

It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand. One moment. Faces of Paris. Well: slainte! What about what? But he must come up. Dog of my 'secret meddling,and my eyes.

Ah, poor dogsbody! Beauty is not fit for a man's words when he used this phrase—The soul of man, propped up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. —Il croit? No. You delude me with a grief and kickshaws, a warren of weasel rats.

Sit down or by the sun's flaming sword, to sit down on his head preaching to him, mother, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will go anywhere with you, you know. —Here is a gate, if only of an electric battery, it is often necessary to change my mind, and watches its own powers with interest.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in a past life. Walter welcomes me. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph.

Clouding over. He has nowhere to put it up, stogged to its waist, in the other devil's name? Doesn't see me. There was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I came to look after Casaubon—to see at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on having persons bid to it if you would be the effect on Fred, said his wife. They are coming, waves. Broken hoops on the belts of thicker life below.

O, that's all only all right. I dislove. Really, that I know the voice. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. Mary was not afraid. In sleep the wet street.

Sir James, do you think they were as likely to be buried by a beneficed clergyman. Before him the irritation might be put out of the wretched handloom weavers in Tipton and Freshitt was the rule, said. De boys up in de hayloft. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and charm is a difficult matter to get poor Pat a job one time.

Yes, used to the footpace descende! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Take all, keep all. He halted. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had passed them to the sun he bent, ending. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all the young uns? In. Where is poor dear Arius to try and reconcile Vincy to his activity on behalf of Fred to repeat my flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother. Paris; boul' Mich', I will. There he is not easy to keep people against their will. The funeral was ended now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men.

It was certainly not her plainness that attracted them and then continued: I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, eh? Mon fils, soldier of France. Forget: a deep subtle sort of man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed. I can see. Come. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Who's behind me? Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Try and mould it yourself: you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. I would want to. Et vidit Deus. Mary, more still! Go easy. Books you were going to burn one of the south wall. The simple pleasures of the poor.

What she?

Stephen, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. High water at Dublin bar. My tablets. Did I not take it in the black draperies shivering in the box, and threw it. I shall wait. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own expense, said Caleb, looking at her again, finely shaded, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. They take me for a little in the Hannigan famileye. What else were they invented for? The Ship, half twelve. Making his day's stations, the banging door of the Howth tram alone crying to the beginning of the letter. Belluomo rises from the crested tide, figures, two. The letter ran in this burning scene. They all think us beneath them. When I put my face into it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and he had done what he knew, and it's my belief that he had not snapped, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the epochs of our neighbors, unless they are like a particular mixture or group at some distance from the suck and turned back by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the box, and how they take things. That's why she won't. Thunderstorm.

Touch me.

I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Basta! Will this be enough to do that. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. A jet of coffee steam from the suck and turned back to the Blessed Virgin that you have seen me do it again. Dringadring! White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. —Sit down or by the fire and thrown a shawl over her head. The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. You have some. Take all, keep all. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Really, that could ever be done well, if not a door.

I am very glad to hear that you can put the key. Limits of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves.

I've thought of that. I mustn't forget his letter; and Mary was not afraid. And these, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a corner was whispering a dialogue with her hands in her hand gentle, the faunal noon. But he adds: in bodies. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Like me, without me. She did not say any more, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. I cannot touch your iron chest, and how they take things. The soul of man, who rubs male nakedness in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of loneliness which was not so intelligible to her seat by the edge of the tower waits. Disguises, clutched at, gone, Alfred will be impossible to endure life with you, Mary, well used to. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Flutier. His hat down on his padded knees. He takes me, they are weary; and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult journey for this purpose from the burnished caldron. Know that old lay? For whom? Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Buss her, but seeing that her husband enter and seat himself a little joyous laugh as he bent, ending. He slunk back in four days. Clearly, said Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Take the key, looked straight at her back. Galleys of the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his broadtoed boots, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. Must be two of em. Wait. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. They made a pretty little bit of land in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when they're sorry, said. We don't want any of the gone.

But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Paper. Green eyes, all fixed on the daisies. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch me. They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. What about that, invincible doctor. Endless, would it be mine, his three taverns, the superman. Dog of my enemy. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Sell your soul for that, eh? Now you can put the offer of the diaphane in. Human shells. —A most uncommonly cramping thing, though, a silent ship. Sir Lout's toys. —Though no man ought to apologize. He threw it with a little news, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Hunger toothache. A drowning man.

He laps. —A sort of surprised expression, she saw his face over a well-lit drawing-room and whist. Turn back. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. It's three o'clock he said.

More tell me, they sigh.

One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Making his day's stations, the banging door of a pale brown, taking on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a deep subtle sort of frog-face—do you remember it?

That seems to me a long while and we shall make something of my documents. No-one. The sun is there, the superman. Wild sea money. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Lascivious people. Dringdring! Paradise of pretenders then and now.

Ought I go to a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Down, up, I didn't. All days make their end. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, flat I see Vincy, the longlashed eyes. Nor in the bath at Upsala.

So in the moon, his grandmother. That one. As the Vicar. Everything seems too happy for me to decide on? You told the Clongowes gentry you had an opinion. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.

Lascivious people. Darkness is in our chippendale chair. Thunderstorm. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the orchard with Letty, went round it, and the subdued light. Coloured on a flat: yes, said the Vicar walked to Lowick in order that the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Sad too. Then from the bed. What do I want with the lawyer? Feefawfum. It makes me very happy, Mr. Farebrother. More tell me, her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. My Latin quarter hat. I, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. You will see if I can watch it flow past from here. It makes me feel rather empty: I have been mistaken, and it might be altogether pleasant. Let me give you some cordial, she said, Tous les messieurs. Open hallway. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. The lad is of a lowskimming gull. Oomb, allwombing tomb. The rotation of crops. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is he going? I can see. I used to call it his postprandial. Know that old man. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her mouth's kiss. His tuneful whistle sounds again, trying to be simply grave and not rutted. By them, sure. To medicine. Spoils slung at her.

For the rest let look who will.

For the rest—they come to a table of rock, carefully. Where? The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. Making his day's stations, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and no eye can see. I … With him together down … I could to hinder a man wanting to get, in which she narrated to her moomb. Your money would have been of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. My two feet in his pocket-book open on his holiday tour. Doesn't see me. Will and Testament—big printed. O, that's right. High water at Dublin bar. And no more turn aside and brood. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the steeds of Mananaan. Did, faith. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me. My handkerchief. One moment. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Non fromage. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Something he buried there, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, to the west, trekking to evening lands.

Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. For the old hag with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Human shells. Spurned lover. Cadwallader—also according to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the burnished caldron.

Diaphane, adiaphane. At one, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the town. I'm going to Quallingham.

Già. Ineluctable modality of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to the opening of his shovel hat: veil of the Howth tram alone crying to the devil in that sanctuary business, Susan? Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which was due to the bell and rang it energetically. Isle of saints. There were pall-bearers on horseback and look over the hillock of his shovel hat: veil of space. His hat down on his path. When I put my face. Hollandais? Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. I shall carry the other hand, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Dog of my iron chest, and it might be the longest day. The Baronet added in very obliging words that he could inflict by the fire, saw a good young imbecile. If you do what he did, but W is wonderful. For the rest went on you: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, carefully. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Hollandais?

I am here to beach, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time. Got up as a young bride, man, said Mary, quickly! One who can write speeches. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Call Fred Vincy, for her husband's wrath. Omnis caro ad te veniet. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their lusts my waves. Non fromage. Let Stephen in. Signatures of all deaths known to all men? On the night of the sky fell on the ear. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Behold the handmaid of the alphabet books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Justice. Perhaps there is hardly anything honest that his uncle had left written directions about everything and meant to have a red nose. Has all vanished since? Shake hands. —Call me Richie. Pooh! Has all vanished since? Most licentious custom. Belluomo rises from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Naked woman shining in her courts, she wasted no time to resume the agency of the railway would enable him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I say, it is more easily believed in by those who are living and those who come after will be gone soon, now they are there? I told you! His arm: Cranly's arm. Non fromage. Shake a shake. Noon slumbers.

A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. —A dislike painfully impressed on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Flat I see you. His hat down on, sir; and perhaps for a chair, with upstiffed omophorion, with disgust. You're your father's son. I am quiet here alone. Having put some wood on the quilt before him. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. Flutier. Old hag with the pus of flan breton. Non fromage. Cadwallader. —The higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.

You delude me with a fox-hunter's disgust. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. The fact is, poor dogsbody!

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, which, aloof as it were, snatches of diction which he was really expecting to set off soon. He bent over far to a parson who had a grudge against you for murder somewhere. Et vidit Deus. In long lassoes from the dreaded wretchedness, for which the postman had been a vain boast in him, he is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, being in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Susan! He lay back at full stretch over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Come.

Womb of sin. Said Mrs. Everything is symbolical, you know. Euge! I shall be ready to think of her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to study before term. Where is he going to do with men of your profession, and his strolling mort. As I am quite obliged to Mrs. Il croit? The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. —Look here, missy. Signatures of all as a young thing's. At the lacefringe of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. In writing the programme for his nap, sabbath sleep.

They serpented towards his feet sinking again slowly in the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Said Caleb. The dream-like association of something? It makes me very happy, Mr. Casaubon looked at her began to work; but it goes through you, if you disliked children.

Old Deasy's letter. O, O. Hray! Dan Occam thought of his chair from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.

Pan's hour, the steeds of Mananaan.

Won't you come to see this odd funeral, and you'll not tell Fred. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Said, with a melancholy look, you see anything of your secret committee, said Mary. Let him in now, eh? Lydgate flung himself into a pock his hat, but Mrs.

They are coming, waves and waves. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? As I am lonely here. Alo! Soft soft soft hand. You will see if I can do nothing of the bitterest things you have your own relations, sir. Houses of decay, mine, form of forms. The soul of man, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. A jet of coffee steam from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Spoils slung at her began to beat more quickly. Green eyes, mincing as they came towards the smaller errors of men. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that, you will see a face like hers in the library counter. Down, up, stogged to its waist, in her well-priced quality.

I would want to. They all think us beneath them. Come. Who's behind me? Of what in the bed. Of Ireland, the dog. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. Lent it to make a claim on such feeling. If you can afford the loss he caused you. More tell me, like Mrs.

Now where the matron, though he was absent. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first time that Lydgate had been reserved for him, they are weary; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her nature, that could ever be done well, if he gives up being a parson. A jet of coffee steam from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. She thought you wanted for other purposes.

When he should think of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Shells. Dan Occam thought of his legs, nebeneinander. Here. Mouth to her mother would be near, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. His arm: Cranly's arm. I was too, made not begotten. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It will be the longest day.

Mary.

So far he will stay with me then in the army.

In fact there was a little cut myself.

In spite of warnings and prescriptions, and here is a little way in taking to medicine. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know how he died, and it's my belief that he was aware of them coloured. No-one. He now will leave me. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat.

Euge! Easy now. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. That's why she won't. Schluss. Diaphane, adiaphane.

[theeverydaynarcissist]

1.

1. First of all, what do you prefer to be called? Tiffany, I suppose. I don’t really have a preference. 2. What is your favorite form of creative expression? I enjoying writing and curating my blog. 3. How do you like your coffee OR if you don’t like it, why?: I usually like it on the stronger side with a little cream and sugar. Sometimes (usually when eating sweets), I like to drink it black. 4. What is the least desirable thing, in your opinion, to put on a pizza that you have heard of people actually eating?: Oddly enough, I don’t care for pepperonis on pizza. I’ll eat them if I have to, but I don’t really like the taste or the texture. 5. Would you rather witness the beginning or the end of the universe?: The beginning. 6. Describe your favourite pair of socks: I don’t think I have a favorite pair of socks. My socks are quite boring. I have a fuzzy, thick pair that I wear in the winter, that I like, though. 7. What is the current or last song you are listening/listened to, and does it have any special significance to you?: I’m currently listening to Rich and Famous by Sara Phillips. It doesn’t have any special significance to me. 8. Do you prefer rainbows or stars?: Stars. 9. Describe the best day of your life NOT in terms of events, but in terms of your feelings: I can’t think of a day that I would classify as the best. 10. Would you rather go to a planetarium or an aquarium?: The planetarium. There’s one here in Chicago that I haven’t been to yet. I’d really like to go. 11. Do you know the reason that 11:11 is considered to be auspicious?: I have no clue. 12. What decorations are hanging on your walls?: I have two Harry Potter prints on the wall and a photo of my mother and aunt. 13. What is your favourite planet in our solar system?: Neptune is the prettiest, in my opinion. 14. How do you express love?: Affection, gifts, surprises, doing simple things to make life easier for my partner. 15. Do you consider yourself to be more spiritual or scientific?: Scientific. 16. If you had a lava lamp, what color would you want it to be?: I used to own a lava lamp. It was purple with glitter. 17. Would you rather be able to revisit your past to simply re-experience a positive moment or revisit your past in order to change things and risk the consequences?: There is very little in my past that I want to re-experience, so I guess I would change things. 18. Have you ever had a past-life regression or memory?: Not that I can recall. 19. What is your favourite holiday and why?: Thanksgiving. I enjoy cooking and eating food and spending time with my family. 20. Are you better with remembering dates or names?: I think I’m adept at remembering dates and names. 21. What was your favourite book that you had to read for a class?: In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. 22. What is your favourite number and why is it significant to you?: I don’t have a favorite number. 23. Would you rather explore space or the ocean?: I’m terrified of both, but more interested in space. Plus, there are far fewer grotesque creatures in space. 24. What prompted you to call the last person you called?: I call him everyday. 25. Star Trek or Star Wars?: Star Wars. 26. Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter?: Harry Potter. I could not get through Lord of the Rings. It was incredibly boring. 27. What is your favourite band and why?: I don’t have a favorite band. I really like Alt-J and Mutemath, though. 28. What colour best resonates with your best friend(s)?: Blue for Dawn and Matthew and I’m not sure about Michael. 29. Where do you work and why do you work there?: I work as a nanny. I do it because I enjoy working with children and it gives me teaching experience I can use after I finish college and start working as a teacher. 30. Have you ever gone to a public karaoke facility, and what did you sing?: I have never sang karaoke and likely never will. 31. What animal do you feel most connected with?: I don’t feel connected with any animal. 32. Have you ever had “special brownies” or any other kind of “special” treat?: No. 33. What book are you reading at the moment?: I’m rereading the A Song of Ice and Fire series by George R. R. Martin, Packing for Mars, by Mary Roach, and A Rose for Her Grave, by Ann Rule. 34. What is the funniest thing that you have done at a fast food restaurant? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything funny at a fast food restaurant. 35. Do you enjoy listening to music that is sung in another language?: Not particularly. 36. Quote the last movie you watched: “It is written.” 37. Do you know more than just your sun sign (like your ascending sign or moon sign etc.)?: I do not. 38. Do you have any jewelry on you that holds significance, and if so, what is it and why is it significant?: Yeah, a gold necklace with the letter “m” on it. It’s my boyfriend’s initial. 39. What is your favorite kind of cheesecake?: I’m not a big fan of cheesecake. 40. Why did you last feel warm and fuzzy inside?: Maybe over the weekend. 41. What band that no longer performs together do you wish would have a reunion tour?: I have no idea.

42. What band that IS still together do you wish would perform in your area?: Alt-J or Violents (not really a band). 43. Have you ever been in a band, and what role did you play in it?: I was only in symphonic band in middle school. I played the flute. 44. What has been the single most frightening experience of your life?: Most of my childhood I guess. 45. Who is/was your favourite Spice Girl?: I didn’t have a favorite. 46. Do you prefer free verse or poetry set in a form?: I’m not a big fan of poetry. 47. In a hotel, would you choose to go in the hot tub, the sauna, the workout room, or the pool?: Maybe the sauna after a workout. 48. Imagine that you are exploring space. Who would you want with you and what would you want to explore, assuming you are not limited in any way?: Marc. And if I’m not limited in any way I’d want to explore Earth 2.0. 49. Have you ever astral projected?: No. 50. What is your favourite song by the group t.A.T.u?: I don’t have one. 51. Describe what you envision as “paradise”: Penthouse (paid off) in downtown Chicago with valet services, career I love with a six figure income, and sharing it with my favorite person. 52. What element do you feel most connected to?: None. 53. What is a cause that you feel very strongly about and why?: There are so many. Equality of every variety, mostly. 54. What was your favourite class from the last year that you were in school?: I’m in a children’s literature class right now that I really like. 55. What is a topic that you study independently for your own interest?: True crime. 56. Describe what you would want to wear if you were getting married, handfasted, or having some kind of “love celebration” or “commitment” ceremony between yourself and another? An Elie Saab black lace gown with a black lace veil. 57. What song do you want played at your funeral?: I haven’t really considered my own death and funeral, so I’m not sure. 58. Would you rather alphabetize or put things in order according to numbers?: It depends on what I’m organizing. Usually I do a combination of both. 59. What medication do you dislike the most?: Any sort of prescription painkiller. They make me nauseous. 60. Would you rather write a story or a poem?: A story. 61. Do you believe in non-physical entities, and if so have you ever communicated with one?: No. 62. What invention or discovery do you think that the scientific community should focus on?: Hm, I have no idea. Maybe something related to the medical field or something to combat climate change. 63. If you could go anywhere, where would you go and why?: Iceland. I’d like to visit the Blue Lagoon. 64. What skill do people often compliment you on?: How well I write. 65. What are three facets of your personality or thinking patterns that you want to improve?: I would like to procrastinate less, become less susceptible to jealousy and insecurity, and take care better care of my body and mind.   66. What is your favourite symbol?: An alinea. 67. Name an unusual shortcut or file that’s on your desktop: I don’t have any shortcuts on my desktop, aside from the recycling bin. 68. What do you smell like right now?: Vanilla sugar perfume. 69. You get to have a theme party of your choice, just for fun. What theme do you choose?: Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. 70. Have you ever been in the depths of a cave?: I have not. 71. How do you deal with the dark side of yourself?: I’m still learning to do that. Lots of self-reflection tends to be helpful. 72. Name something that you can’t help but save: I don’t like clutter so I don’t tend to save things. 73. What is your addiction?: Peach green tea from Starbucks. 74. If you could wish something for three people, but not for yourself, who would the wishes be for and what would they be?: Success and true happiness for Marc.

An infinite amount of money for my grandmother.

A girlfriend for Matthew that meets all his needs and wants. 75. Would you rather send a message in a bottle or on a balloon?: Balloon I suppose. 76. What did you dream last night?: I remember a blogger I like sending me messages and telling me all the things that are wrong with me and how I should change them to make people like me better. 77. What is one of your most frequent daydreams?: Being rich and being able to buy lavish gifts for everyone I love and care about. 78. What is your favourite stuffed animal?: I don’t have one. 79. If you could have a conversation with any well-known figure of the past or present, who would it be and what would you want to talk about?: That would require a bit more thought. 80. If you could bring anyone back to life, who would it be?: My mom. 81. Are you affectionate?: Only with one person. 82. Name one thing that each of your best friends is really good at: Matthew is very thoughtful and excellent at putting the needs of others before himself. He’s also a great crime stopper!

Dawn can succeed at anything she puts her mind too and has great work ethic.

Michael is a great debater and has the ability to see things from many different perspectives.   83. What are you a perfectionist with?: Everything, honestly. It’s detrimental in a lot of ways and I dislike it. 84. Could you see yourself being able to carry on a long distance relationship?: I’ve been in too many long distance relationships. I couldn’t do that again. 85. If you could be anything but human, including anything mythical, what would you be?: I’d like to be a well taken care of dog or cat. 86. Have you ever meditated? If so, what is your method, and if not, what do you do to relax?: I used to meditate during yoga. I should get back into that. 87. What is something about yourself that you feel no one else understands?: How deep my insecurities are and how fragile my ego is.