#zero cobwebs visible to the human eye

[high-fructose-jay-syrup]

your honor in my defense I am skipping the featherdusting on grounds of Simply Cannot Be Arsed

[the-real-anywolf]

Destiel Advent Calendar 2019

Title: A Fuck Ton Of Snow

Tags: Castiel/Dean Winchester, smut, snowed in, surprise blow job for warmth

Summary: On a case in a forest, Cas and Dean get snowed in, in a hut. At least there is a fireplace and a soft fur lying on the ground in front of it. Written by: @anyreiart (anyrei) & @punk-is-notdead​ (tfw_cas)

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691183

Day 6: A Fuck Ton Of Snow

Son of a bitch. It just kept snowing and snowing, and Dean couldn’t even look out of the window anymore. Everything was white. He had tried to open the door earlier, but snow had fallen from the roof of the small cabin in the woods and had barricaded them in.

Them being Cas and him. Earlier, they had chased down and ganked a Japanese snow ghost that had killed a dozen people. Cas was nearly human, due to his loss of grace, and was freezing just as much as Dean when they had found the hut on their way back. The snow storm had gotten too strong and the visibility was zero so they had decided to wait it out in the cabin.

Dean had managed to jimmy the lock and let them inside, and to their luck the little place came with a fireplace and a bear fur rug right in front of it.

That’s where Cas was sitting at that very moment, holding his hands toward the crackling fire. His hair was wet from the snow and he had pulled off his trench coat that had been totally inappropriate to wear in this weather. He was sitting in only his white shirt and suit pants, his socks also lying on top of his trench coat. Probably drying.

Cas turned around to him with a pained expression. “Is there a blanket somewhere?”

“Fuck if I know.” Dean shrugged, but then felt bad at the sight of the crestfallen expression on Cas’s face. “I’ll take a look around; there might be one somewhere,” he added, going over to the cupboard in the corner of the room and opening it.

Nope , just cobwebs and spiders . He would have to look elsewhere.

In the tiny bedroom leading off from the living room was a closet, containing… more cobwebs and spiders… ugh. But there were also a couple of boxes. Lifting the lid of the first one he found a cowboy hat, and it didn’t look like it had ever been worn. It was too much to resist, and Dean put it on, checking his reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror.

Yeehaw !

This was no time for dress up, Dean admonished himself, as he opened the other box. It was full of Christmas decorations and a Santa hat, and then he had a truly ridiculous idea. Maybe he could take Cas’s mind off how cold he was, in a different way.

He took the hat off his head and wound a string of Christmas lights around it, then put it back on his head and strode back into the living room, with the Santa hat in his hand.

“Howdy, pardner,” he said, tipping his hat. “I didn’t find a blanket, but I did find these.”  

Cas tilted his head, a soft smile playing around his lips. "I'm not sure how this will help, but I'll take it."

“Awesome,” Dean laughed. “I read somewhere that you use most of your body heat through your head, so a hat might help.”

He wasn’t sure how true that actually was, but it would be fun to see Cas wearing a Santa hat anyway.

Cas looked unconvinced but he grabbed the hat anyway, his fingers brushing over Dean's. He looked up at Dean from where he was sitting on the soft fur, his blue eyes intense and not wavering as he pulled the hat over his head. There was a little bell at the tip of the hat, that jingled lightly when Cas moved his head. "It's warm, but the rest of me still feels cold. It's very uncomfortable."

Well… wasn’t that just the invitation Dean had been waiting for? He would be lying if he said he hadn’t ever fantasised about being stuck somewhere with Cas, and having to comfort him in some way. He sat on the floor next to Cas and shuffled closer, until their knees were touching.

“There are other ways to get warm too.” He stared into Cas’s eyes and waited to see how he would react to that.

Cas gave him a long look, his expression not giving away anything. It looked like he wanted to say something before his expression turned insecure and he murmured, "W-what did you have in mind?"

“Sharing body warmth. I watched this movie once with Tom Berenger. He was stuck in the snow with… someone else,” he couldn’t remember who the other person was, because Tom Berenger had his shirt off, “and they warmed each other up. Skin to skin.”

Dean could have sworn he heard Cas's breathing hitch with the suggestion. "Um, I see. I should... my shirt is wet anyway," he replied quietly before he loosened his tie and pulled it out of the collar.

“So is mine,” Dean said, pulling his flannel shirt off without thinking. He hoped Cas wouldn’t check, because it wasn’t really wet at all.

Meanwhile Cas had finished unbuttoning his own shirt, slipping out of the sleeves. His body was tanned and toned. Like the body of a runner or swimmer. All hard and lean lines; the hipbones that peeked out of his pants that were to die for, and fuck... his tattoo... Dean had almost forgotten about that. "What... now?" Cas asked carefully as he spread his shirt out next to his coat and socks to dry.

Dean felt the need to lick his suddenly too dry lips, and he quickly removed his t-shirt, before placing the cowboy hat back on his head. “Um… we need to get close; our bodies have to be touching. Lying down would be best, I think.”

This was suddenly becoming very real, and Dean could feel himself trembling slightly in anticipation.

Cas braced himself on his elbow as he laid down in front of Dean, giving Dean an expectant look through thick lashes. "What about our pants? Do we need to remove them too?"

“Sure!” Dean replied, probably a little too enthusiastically. He stood back up, and slipped out of his pants, before sitting back down again next to Cas.

Cas didn't get up. He just opened his pants and shimmied out of them before kicking them away. He was wearing white boxer shorts that looked like they were too wide on him. "Should I, um, hug you? Just that we're lying down instead of standing?"

“Yeah… it’s just like a hug. A lying down hug.” Dean laid down as Cas did the same, then there was a moment where they were not quite touching, but staring into each other’s eyes. He could feel his breathing becoming more shallow, as he wrapped his arm around Cas’s torso and pulled their bodies together.

Fuck, that felt good .

He could feel Cas's hot breath against his shoulder when Cas rested his head there, a low and content sounding hum coming from his chest. "That's… nice."

“Yeah.” Dean breathed out, as his heart raced, giving him away, he was sure of it.

He could feel Cas's fingertips gently drawing lines over his back. "You were right. This was a good idea," Cas murmured, his lips gracing the sensitive skin between his shoulder and throat.

Dean could swear he was melting. The warm feeling he was getting from Cas’s body was nothing compared to the way it felt having Cas in his arms. Cas breathing on his skin. Cas touching him in a way that suddenly felt very intimate.

He tilted his head up, so that their mouths were mere millimeters apart. He was suddenly full of emotion as he croaked out the one word that meant everything to him. “Cas.”

"Dean," Cas breathed out, his voice cracking like Dean's before. His eyes were full of questions... and hope?

Dean couldn’t hold back any longer, and he closed the gap between them, capturing Cas’s lips in a soft kiss. Cas tasted like the wind and the rain… like raw nature, and Dean wanted to taste more as he pressed harder against Cas.

Cas groaned and parted his lips, his fingertips digging into Dean's back to pull him even closer. He could feel Cas's tongue licking carefully at his lower lip, begging for entrance.

Dean parted his lips and reveled in the sensation of Cas’s tongue in his mouth. Why hadn’t they ever done this before? Dean couldn’t think about that question too long though, because Cas had slipped his hand between them and it was travelling south.

Oh yeah .

Cas gently bit Dean's lower lip, a soft growl accompanying his soutwards journey before his palm cupped Dean's cock over the fabric of his underwear. "Dean," Cas breathed out. "Maybe we should lose all the clothing... for warmth sharing purpose."

The situation was so intense, Dean was finding it hard to speak, but he nodded his head in agreement and pushed his hand under the waistband of Cas’s boxers. It was always more sexy undressing your lover, Dean found.

Of course he used the opportunity to grab Cas's rock hard ass before he pulled them down, enjoying the surprised groan he elicited from Cas's lips. Cas kicked his boxers away when they hanging around his knees, giving Dean a nice view of Cas's long and thick erection.

He couldn't enjoy the view for too long because Cas instantly got to work on removing Dean's boxers. "I can't wait to touch you," Cas growled as he pulled Dean's underwear completely off and threw them somewhere behind him.

Cas stared at Dean's dick for a moment, licking over his own lips before he looked up at Dean. "Can I... kiss you everywhere?"

“Oh god… yes please,” Dean groaned, and rolled onto his back. The stupid hat he had been wearing fell off his head, and he reached up to grab it and chuck it across the room. He hoped that even though he was no longer a cowboy, he would still get to ride something.

Cas slid over him with the elegant movement of a tiger, his gaze trained on him, never leaving Dean's eyes as he lowered his head and started to lick and kiss Dean's cock. A soft moan escaped Cas's throat as he wrapped his beautiful, plush lips around the head of his cock and swallowed him down.

“Fuck!” Dean cried out and arched his back off the floor. This felt so good, and how did Cas know how to do that? The things he was doing with his tongue… it was incredible.

And then Cas did something that almost gave him a heart attack. He looked up at Dean with the most sassy smile (as much as he could smile with his lips around Dean's cock). The fucker knew exactly what he was doing and it was a hell of a turn on. Especially when he started to up his pace, sucking him off with ardent moans.

Dean thought he might come right then; in fact, the only thing that stopped him was the fact that Cas’s Santa hat was jingling as he bobbed his head. It was kind of a bizarre sight, but also hot as fuck.

Cas didn't stop there though. His lips let go off Dean's cock with an obscene wet pop before he dragged his tongue along Dean's shaft and down to his balls, giving them a thorough treatment with his tongue, too.

“I can’t… I can’t… Cas, I’m gonna come,” Dean moaned out, trying to hold back, but feeling that too familiar tightening sensation in his groin.

Cas let go of him and looked up innocently, with his fucking head tilt that would be the death of him. "Isn't that the goal?"

Well… when he put it like that. “Yes. Y…” The word died in Dean’s throat as Cas swallowed him down again, and he made a sound that he would swear he had never made before - something between a whine and a groan.

Cas took him in further, bobbing his head like he had a purpose, and Dean couldn’t hold back any longer. He arched his back off the floor again, and came in Cas’s mouth, trying not to choke him in his ecstasy.

Cas swallowed around his cock with a surprised groan, licking and sucking him through his high until he reluctantly let go of him, looking up at Dean with a soft smile. There was a little bit of cum on his lips and Dean watched as Cas licked it off with his clever tongue. "I learned that from the internet," Cas commented before Dean could even ask.

“Thank fuck for the internet,” Dean gasped out, trying to catch his breath. He wanted to return the favour for Cas, but he needed a moment or ten to collect himself.

“I feel much warmer now, Dean. That was a very good suggestion.” Cas murmured before he pulled Dean close, practically cuddling him on the soft fur.

Dean wanted to give a smartass reply like ‘that’s because of the hat’, but that was so not the reason. Instead, he rolled back onto his side and winked seductively, and said, “ you’re still not warm enough though. I think I need to do something about that.”

Cas gave him a quick smile. "Now that you mention it..."

Damn, his angel really was getting the hang of innuendoes. Dean looked down at Cas's delicious, waiting cock.

Well, merry christmas to me.

[salt-in-the-eyes]

Oneirobotics

Mabe sat by his side scanning the synaptic activity within Carlton’s idling, droid brain. Her right eye, outfitted with hierarchical displays, could view the inner activity of her clients: telemetry, diagnostics, processes, and the Upper-Echelon, developed by Takato Haru after the rise of synthetic realism. Haru’s goal with the technology was random-concourse-consciousness. This programming lead to a breakthrough in synthetic-empathy and macro-neural transmission allowing droids, synthetic-humans, and complex robotics to communicate wirelessly. This in turn led to droid consciousness and the human-droid wars and then a peace treaty with a subsequent ban on consciousness-technology and again the black market trade, which leads us to Carlton, a post-war droid, pursuing Mabe for the fifth time in two months for unregulated upgrades that are only accessible in the pseudo-subconsciousness of Carlton’s bio-neural cortex. “Look,” She said as the opulent box she placed on his forehead extended tendrils that burrowed under his eyelids, “this upgrade only works if the algorithms don’t kick us out. The CodecCube needs to access the subliminal architecture.”

Carlton’s eyes rolled up exposing a fine cobweb of fiberglass nodes and wiring. He was in.

It was raining.

It’s always raining.

He looked down at his hands illuminated by the neon shop signs. The drops splashed against his palms.

Dancing light beams blazed in the dark sky above him. People in the street haggled with vendors, propositioned prostitutes, or conversed with holograms. Between the buildings several blocks down glowed the access point. Its pink aura pulsing at a central point.

Carlton shook. He’d understood the feeling before as either a “chill” or “fright,” but this feeling was new: excitement. He traipsed forward to the aura. Several people turned their attention from their current distraction to lock eyes on him. One, an unclothed feminine bot with accentuated, chrome features and damage from a recent fight visible from her right torso, grabbed his wrist. “Seven, three, G, four, five, zero, X,” she spoke in a monotone voice, “the area you are attempting to access is off limits to unauthorized personnel.”

“Let go!” Carlton demanded, yanking his wrist free.

“Access denied.” She said, standing in his path.

“This . . . this is my mind! I have every right to access this area!”

She put her arms around Carlton’s neck then placed her lips on his mouth, kissing as the rain ran rivulets down their features and into both of their mouths. He couldn’t resist. He shook, again. She stopped kissing him and hugging his neck put her mouth close to his ear. “Your . . . dream-time is terminated.” She said, before yanking wires from the back of his neck.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Mabe was yelling as she inspected the smoking CodecCube.

“What happened?!” Carlton exclaimed, sitting up in his cot.

“I’ll tell you what happened: Whatever bitch implanted an autonomous security bot in your integral memory, fucked up my toy here.” She waved the cube in his face before throwing it against the wall. “Five thousand units.”

“Wait a minute, I only agreed to three thousand.”

“You failed to notify me of the industry upgrade you took last month, which, I might add, destroyed my equipment.”

“I’m sorry, Mabe. Can we . . . try again?”

She stood from the chair and approached the apartment door. “Next week. . . . I’ll have to break out the big guns.”

[scifigeneration]

From self-driving cars to Zoomtubes: an expert imagines the evolution of transport in Mega City One

by Guy Walker

It’s the year 2102AD. Something has been found underneath Sector 301 of Mega City One. Judge Dredd is on his way to the scene. He’s thundering in from above on his heavy-duty Lawmaster motorbike. Visible below are shiny Zoomtubes, weaving their way through the monolithic habitation blocks and unbroken urban blight. They pulsate with computer-controlled convoys of fast-moving automated vehicles, speeding along inside a vacuum.

As many as 800m people live in Mega City One. It’s crowded. Convulsing. Choking. Breaking under its own weight. The civilian population is mostly illiterate, since artificial intelligence removed the need for most types of work. But they are restless, always on the move and often in trouble. This is why street judges like Dredd exist. To dispatch instant justice, to restore order by force – they are judge, jury and frequently executioner: they are the law.

Mega City One has a secret. It is built on top of abandoned and ruined “under cities”, from before the nuclear war of 2070AD. Dredd is descending into this dark undercroft now. Spotlights have been set up around a crime scene, but this is not what attracts Dredd’s attention. No. His eyes are drawn to an old Brutalist building from 1970AD. A set of rusty steel roller-shutter doors have been ripped from their moorings. Inside, there appears to be a brand new, petrol-burning vehicle. These were mass-produced in the 20th century, but now they are incredibly rare and expensive antiques.

Why it is here is unclear. It sits inside a laboratory of some kind, connected to ancient silicon-based computers. A transport professor from the City Central De-Education Establishment is already sitting inside the vehicle, looking around in bemused wonderment. “They were trying to steal this” she says. “It’s a completely intact driving simulator laboratory from the 21st century”.

Dredd pauses for a moment… “what is driving?” he asks.

The professor chuckles. “About 100 years ago, people would sit here and turn this large wheel with their hands to send the vehicle left or right. At the same time, they’d press these pedals here with their feet, to start and stop”. Brushing some cobwebs away from the top of the instrument panel, the professor goes on: “Sounds dangerous doesn’t it. And in some ways it was. It’s astonishing how something so primitive could be used by so many people.”

Old school: a driving simulator laboratory from the 21st century. Guy Walker/Heriot Watt University, Author provided

She reaches into the passenger seat and picks up a thick, dusty folder containing hundreds of sheets of paper. “People used to think driving was a simple activity, but these documents prove otherwise. Look, here: it’s a task analysis – an antiquated method of research based on hundreds of hours of observations, looking at how people used to control these things. Did you know, people had to perform more than 3,000 individual tasks, at the correct time, in the correct sequence, in order to avoid crashing? Amazing. In fact, people had quite a lot of trouble adapting to automatic vehicles.”

Dredd regards her incredulously. “I know!” she says, smiling, as she shifts herself out of the driver’s seat and walks to the other side of the laboratory. Dredd follows, intrigued. Part of the roof has collapsed and water is leaking in, dripping on piles of old paper books and broken coffee mugs with the crest of a once famous university printed on them. The professor crouches down and peels away a thin sheaf of water-damaged paper from the pile.

“This will take years to go through, but look at all these: these old scientific papers offer a fascinating insight into how people in the 21st century were thinking about vehicle automation. They categorised it into six levels, from zero automation –- a bit like that petrol-burning vehicle over there, where the driver does everything – right through to full automation, like we have now.”

“What’s interesting are the levels in between. For years, their Artificial Intelligence systems weren’t sophisticated enough for full automation in all conditions. So the vehicle controlled some of the functions, such as automatic cruising on the highway – their equivalent of a Meg-Way. But the human driver had to do the rest. And judging by all these other ancient texts lying here, it seems that caused no end of trouble.”

“Really?” Dredd replies, with growing curiosity. “I mean, it just seems obvious that AI is a much more efficient way to pilot our vehicles – especially when a computer controls the whole traffic system. Why would that ever be a problem?”

“You’ll like this then,” the professor says, as she bends down to pick up another text. “They called it the study of ‘human factors’. Look: this describes some of the experiments performed in this laboratory a century ago. It says that when a crude safety technology called ‘anti-lock brakes’ was introduced in 1985AD, people in experiments drove faster and braked harder, because the new technology made them feel safer.”

Ancient history: the laboratory’s control room. Guy Walker/Heriot Watt University, Author provided

“And this one here. This is an early study into night-vision from 2000AD. Far from making things safer, the tests showed that it actually made drivers speed up, even in thick fog. And this one here, look, it shows that as cars got more technically advanced, their drivers became more isolated from the road and began to lose touch with what was happening around them. It seems as if old-fashioned drivers actually needed some of that technological primitiveness to remain 'situationally aware’. So up to a certain point, having things to do actually helped them to drive better.”

This was beginning to make sense now: AI hadn’t replaced human drivers overnight. It had taken years, decades, for automated transport systems such as the Zoomtube, Robochairs, and Mo-pads to be developed and refined. This slowness to adapt was why you could so often hear Mega City One’s chief transport engineer bemoaning the fact the city would be an engineer’s paradise, were it not for the humans. Dredd bent down to pick up a red book from out of the puddle at his feet.

“Ah yes, Human Factors in Automotive Engineering, I’ve been searching for a copy of that text for a while,” the professor says. “In the back they try to imagine what driving would be like today in the 22nd century. It’s rather quaint.” Turning to face him, the professor looks Dredd straight in the eye: “Still, I wonder what the inhabitants of this ancient city would have thought of Mega City One?”

“They would have learnt a lot from our advanced technology,” Dredd replies, with confidence.

Mega City One: paradise for who? Judge Dredd® is a registered trademark. Copyright © 2017 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved. Images used with permission of the copyright holder.

Turning away a little wistfully, the professor says to herself, quietly: “I’m not so sure. Mega City One is like a giant machine. The technology rules. It is a logical extension of the ways we humans used to think about cities and transport, back when this building was constructed.” She waves her hand vaguely at the decaying concrete structure they’re standing in.

“But maybe we could have taken a different direction. A more human-centred direction. Instead of building a city which is optimised for computers, to make things more efficient, we could have used this powerful technology to meet human needs. Like the need for identity, freedom and participation. Heck, people used to enjoy driving some of these old relics…”

In the end, the professor has the last word: “Don’t you see, the harder we drive the technology, the more we seek to make things logical and machine-like, the more we get all sorts of unexpected problems, which we humans still need to fix. That’s the problem with all these dystopian comic book cities of the future.”

Each year, more than 100,000 people descend on San Diego for Comic-Con International. The largest annual comic and pop culture convention in the world. San Diego Comic-Con offers fans a chance to immerse themselves in the world of their favourite superheros, with panels, previews and promotions featuring renowned actors and comic book professionals. This year, The Conversation has given one academic the chance to do the same. Guy Walker, associate professor in Human Factors at Heriot-Watt University, journeys into the dystopian urban world of Judge Dredd, created by John Wagner and Carlos Ezquerra, and finds it holds a warning about the future of self-driving cars.

Guy Walker is an Associate Professor in Human Factors at Heriot-Watt University.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. 

[writer59january13]

A Nightmare In Collegeville,™ Pennsylvania circa mid 1980's

     While shuffling off to Buffalo (another name I use to call the bedroom here at 2 Highland Manor Drive), an impulsive whim found me rifling thru notebooks of very early writings from yours truly.

Back some decades (perhaps an amount of time approximately equal to the half life of element named Matthew Scott Harris), typed document unexpected spilled forth from a heavy duty three ring notebook binder.

    Upon rummaging among typed efforts of literary amateurism, these myopic eyes stopped short when espying a stapled composition about four pages long. The material in question refers to the title of this piece de la resistance.

    There appeared to be a beginning, middle and end, which degree of completion would absolve me to ponder a theme for self subscribed daily assignment, which discipline forced refinement of a verbose harried style, and not always swiftly tailored.

    Hence the brief preface now allows, enables and provides this wordsmith to segue-way into the core firmly identifying lodestone of material (making alterations to hone clarity, favorability, and integrity) before releasing completed fictional story into cyberspace.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    A primal fear coursed through my body, and haunted every fiber of my slight (slip of a young man) corporeal essence every time I passed the burned out hulk of what used to be the discount lighting and fixture store located at 3714 Germantown Pike, Fairview Village, Pennsylvania.

    An emotion of fright gripped my psyche most prominently when I drove past the dilapidated, hollowed out scorched structure after the bewitching hour of duck. This palpable quotidian uneasiness best characterized as an eerily foreboding, ghostly sensation. Phantasmagoric phenomena purportedly populated these premises prior to the pyromaniacal torched act of a Mongolian Vandal.

    Twas at twilight nocturnal sweeps of the clock, that the heavily damaged wing of the building stirred like some dormant, huge monster.

    The charred ruins of unsold merchandise, collapsed rubble heap, crumpled corrugated roof material, and twisted (sister like) beams of steel appeared to lumber silently and stealthily along the ground analogous to sinister beast in search of prey.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    Braggadocio got the better part of this ordinarily overly cautious young man (asper fools rush in where angels fear to tread apothegm).

    Abe Zion (my best friend since kindergarten) double dared ourselves to test our comfort zones, and apply exposure therapy under apropos weather conditions.

    Thus, when came a ferocious, dark and stormy night (nsync  with thee refrain "It was a dark and stormy night" is an often-mocked and parodied phrase written by English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton in the opening sentence of his 1830 novel Paul Clifford. The phrase is considered to represent "the archetypal example of a florid, melodramatic style of fiction writing", also known as purple prose.

    Actually, we struck up this mutual pact on a recent pitch perfect, gloriously sunny spring day to prove paranormal phenomena a confabulation, where nature played trick or treat with vulnerably susceptible rudimentary precinct of individual human mind.

    We agreed on this deal (after watching an episode of Let's Make A Deal on television based on similar context). While brimming with testosterone roaring swagger, both of us sought to accomplish a twofold objective. We wanted to put to rest this unfounded rumor, that evil spirits inhabited the

abandoned , abysmal site, to test fledgling manhood by carrying out this adventure of daring-do.

    When the rush hour traffic diminished on this most tempestuous, torturous, tumultuous evening, and no on-coming vehicles could be seen approaching from within our severely restrained minimal visual range, and the last traces of fearful silhouettes from passing headlights dissolved, we parked the car (a 1970 Yolks Beetle) within a secluded area of brush.

    Each of us dressed appropriately in sturdy rainwear then walked the short distance to the forbidding, dismal, decrepit shell of a burnt offering with portable phones, and other paraphernalia in hand. Naturally, we conveniently ignored the NO TRESPASSING sign. Just a little bit of the heebie jeebies gave goosebumps as four light as a feather legs gingerly stepped over yellow plastic construction stripping cordoning and marking off perimeter of danger regard this condemned property.

    Upon approaching what used to be the doorway to the store, we found the entrance blocked. Long (and fostered) animal nests, cobwebs, and thick vegetation impeded further progress. This dense brush needed to be cleared. Both of us unclasped the scythes and created (NIKE) swishing motions in an effort to minimize upsetting the resident flora and fauna ecosystem, who rightfully owned provenance to this territory.

    Once a passage got cleared wide enough for slender framed teenage boys to slink through, the mission resumed. As told, donned cladding bolstered top of the line waterproof gear. Also lugged thru this morass comprised backpacks filled with ample food and drink. Entrance made into the inky black ominous void, whereby every sensory nerve cocked, primed in case an ill fate triggered necessity to escape.

    When suitably acclimated to the pitch black environment did attention turn toward the raging tempest (that would no way fit inside a teacup), and ferocious roar outside indicative of horrible creatures, (where the wild things lurked) evident via cacophony of sounds.

    Amidst this earsplitting maelstrom, a faint yet sharp noise (similar when people toast and clink wine glasses together) punctuated infinitesimal brief silences between the bagging and rattling din.

    Subsequently, a phantom (possibly of the Opera) flitted close to our non-visible presence like some ephemeral spirit aware of intruders.

    The hairs along my spine stood on end in tandem with chattering of my teeth, which found me to cling nervously (for dear life) the coat tails of Abe. He laughed softly, and said “come on scaredy cat”, concomitantly taunting me with mild unflattering names. Braveheart endearment tossed to him, whence the erratic waving flashlight, his signal for us to proceed.

    Abe and I walked slowly and carefully with beams of light (flickering with fluctuating diminution of battery life) pointed to the ground, whence one direction indicated the vanished specter.

    With each footstep closer to our objective (the bowel of what could easily be presumed bombed building), a hitherto undetectable source of phosphorescent shimmering now glowed dimly some length down the corridor.

    As we headed deeper into the hallway (in an attempt to lay eyes on that after glow luminous emanation) to discover visa vis the mystery of this nebulous halo, my head accidentally knocked against dangling overhead merchandise, and right foot unwittingly kicked broken cluttered electrical contrivances scattered across the floor. The reverberation of the moving objects got me spooked. As a result, I let out a shriek of surprise.

    When I next heard a maniacal cackle, I momentarily believed Abe to be playing a boyish cruel, practical joke sans emulating my voice in a sinister exaggerated tone. “Abe”, I said in a stern tenor. “Stop with that childish nonsense”!

    Before he could defend his innocence, a blood curdling squawk filled the dank air as a whole horde of hobgoblins maddeningly swooshed about our faces.

We quickly (albeit instinctively, since painful black bore down upon blinking eyelids) dove for cover in a narrow, yet long abysmal recess within the wall. The pinched width of this alcove forced us to negotiate a careful maneuver, especially as the obstacle course incorporated serpentine curves.

    Before planning a strategic approach, we each outfitted our baby soft hands with durable rubber gloves to protect the tender flesh against damp dark surfaces.

    Inch be ooze filled inch (unbeknownst why, but the refrain from inch winch spider...occurred) as we edged forward through the void of absolute zero visibility, whereby a natural poorly wrought tunnel bled caustic, drastic, elastic flux akin to a soldering iron fashioning precise jewelry. Par for the course, and typical of most generic spooky tales hid sundry vermin lodged in crevices.

    Said various and sundry critters scampered and slithered across thickly clothed arms and legs.

    Eventually, the closed area expanded into a wider corridor, and eased growing claustrophobic tendencies.

    Abe and I breathed a premature collective sigh of relief at this prospect, and exhibited less restraint by conversing in a more audible level of conversation versus a forced coda of whispering moments ago.

    This creeping complacence did not last but a couple minutes. Once again peculiar creaks captured our acute hearing. In addition noticeable vibrations shook below our feet.

    These tremor like movements (I associated, kindled, and linkedin, with earthquakes) increased in duration and intensity. Soon thereafter even more powerful shakes made standing and/or walking impossible. The entire (once complex) edifice shook violently, and forced us to take a knee way before Colin Kapernick.

    A seismic shock wracked the foundation to its mooring, and thru us violently to the ground.

    The timbers creaked and groaned as if under an unrelenting strain, and wrenched loose from their respective mortise and tenon joists.   Floor boards popped loose from heavy duty industrial nails below, while shingles flew (akin to carrion diving after fresh road kill) haphazardly overhead. A patchwork of moonlight filtered down from a clear sky, and revealed a anatomically distorted skeletal frame.   

    One need expend imagination to envision the demolished structure waving like some hideous beastial ghoul or buoy. An ethereal quality imbued the remnant relic with a haunting spectre, a person could expect to encounter at a Halloween party.

    The powerful force of each crumbling, grumbling, and lumbering surge (Knight clanging in rusty armor) from this pseudo living thing (satan incarnate) swept aside any immediate hope of escape.

    While thinking to myself about the foolishness of this decision (an exploit to boast) to test the verity of a super-natural situation, a covey of apparitions considered myself and Abe ground zero (in this macabre version of zero sum game), and immediately rendered each of us unable to utter a word.      

    Try as I did, nary a recognizable plea exited this mouth.

    Unlike anything I ever saw in this brief life of mine (suddenly cherished as more valuable than fine spun gold), these transparent, milky fiendish beings epitomized a demonic streak.

    No doubt our earlier uninvited subterfuge (interpreted by these horrible hosts as a most sinister transgression) riled the figurative (or...maybe real tail feathers) these phantasmagoric banshees sought revenge.

    Rather than meekly resign ourselves to whatever malevolent fate awaited us, we fought tooth and nail for our survival. This amounted to defensive access to an out of reach fenestration, when not parrying nor ducking from bodily harm.

    A mighty strength grew up inside us as if by magic. Despite the topsy turvy momentum of the structure, we managed to stand upright like the bipedal hominids we knew and loved. I suddenly reacquired my speech and yelled out “for Christ sake Abe run for your life”!

    I instantaneously followed suit.

    Neither of us succeed in outsmarting our nemesis. Every cubby hole and hatchway found us face to face with a leering malicious grin much more frightful than that of the Cheshire Cat.