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pencil-inc · 1 month ago

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It’s not the reports, not yet, but it’s interesting enough to post a mile of text about.

This is a bottle of liquid silica. It’s not pure— hell, when is it ever pure— but it’s enough to turn someone toon twice over.

If you’ve handled any toon product, you’ll know silica does not expire. It’s plastic with a pun on the end, why the hell would it-- if anything, it gets stronger, like aging a really fucked up wine.

I choose to believe it was a pun-based reasoning for silica's tooning abilities, since nobody could ever figure it out. Silica? Silly-ca? Get it?

For a while, I wondered how the surge of toons happened as is. Some said it was just pure chance, some thought it was Area 51’s fault, some people thought it was a mass hallucination.

This was the thing: what started it? A kid? A pet? Alien life, a parasite gone rogue?

The first human to turn toon could know.

So I tracked her down. Easy enough, her records aren’t that well hidden on the internet, and those modern day phone books for people’s information are still legal. Not that you’ll find me that way.

The world was glued to their screens seeing the footage of her turning, so convinced it was AI until the testimonies sprouted into life from the sidewalk cracks, the witnesses overcome with shock, or denial, or that specific strain of ecstasy and dread that only comes when you're among the very first to witness or experience unfathomable history.

I wasn’t there at the time, but a colleague was. And, by following the paper trail back via them (and about seven different people), I found one Ms TX. (Look, I know this one's common knowledge, but I have to have consistency on the false names here. I'm not giving you everything.)

The last time I saw her, TX was peacefully living out her days in a newly established sketchbook; an older term for toon-friendly city districts, but she prefers it over 'gallery'. She had a good job, her social media was old school (one handwritten HTML website and one guestbook), and she liked to paint birds. They still sell for a pretty good price, given the economy right now.

Ms TX doesn’t like the press: that’s one thing we have in common. I am not the press; I am barely an authority. When I asked if I could come in, I saw her lips press together so they were pale, before she looked off to the side for half a second. I said something about being a new HOA governor for her street.

Then, she did. (We’ll get to the silica in a second.)

I hadn’t been out on an investigative crawl like this in a while when we first met, so I was still shaky when it comes to talking to the public. But, you need to connect with people on something if you want to get what you need out of them. I am always surprised by the variety of toon architecture. She practically lived in a greenhouse, all pencil sketch and watercolour. The sunlight filtered through the windows into a soft wash of yellow, the realistic clouds translucent through the skylight.

So, I started there. I asked her about the build, the furniture, the open plan living from the 2020s. It took some pressing sometimes; the stairlift, the triangle wedge of a closet under the stairs (and the mountain of clothes inside), the rough paint of the entrance hall to resemble realism unlike the rest of the house. I could see the difference between the coats of paint, some flecks of baby-blue just barely visible from behind the bookshelf.

By the end of the cup of coffee she’d handed me, I knew just enough about her to try for what I came here for. I took out the bottle of liquid silica, and placed it between us. (the rest of this is sourced from the interview transcript)

"Was this substance your making?"

She looked at me blankly. A forced freeze of expression, maybe.

"Don't get me wrong, you've done a good job of keeping your cards close. With the way you've decked out the place, you might as well have been a toon your whole life... but everyone has their preferences."

She shuffled a little.

"Just a simple yes or no: did you "

Nothing. I shrugged

"Ms TX, you lived the rest of your life in relative safety, haven't you? Sheltering from amateur paparazzi in this day and age is pretty impressive. But there's things here that speak of upturn. An era spent in panic, desperately shedding the things that made your human life what it was, years of normalcy lost in minutes when the solution hit your throat. Am I correct?"

She nodded slowly.

"And this upturn made you ruthlessly overanalyse every aspect of your life, even at your age. The paint, the stuffed closet, the hall stripped of all it's personality compared to everything else. Ms, why change everything so much if you were so happy living in safety on your own?"

She wasn't looking at me straight anymore. Her lips were pressed again, face taut with annoyance.

"I chose these things. I don't truly remember how this--" she tapped my bottle-- "ever found me, but it was never coercion. It was... like watching the world unfurl around me, before I decided to look closer. Like coloring outside the lines." She squinted at me. "For a Homeowners Agent, you're awful picky on your approval criteria. I will not apologise for my taste in decor."

I left not long after.

She doesn't live in that sketchbook anymore, not after that. I don't know where she is now. She probably still has a website.

I should have known better.

-- R

#[AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE DO NOT EAT SILICA GEL]#post #pencil-inc #writing #toons #the beale institute

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jojotier · 9 months ago

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Finished the short story and at first read, I had... mixed feelings.

Like the interpersonal elements and the haunting of the fictional Dizz over the story is great, and the protag's feeling of the death of her lover even after so many years is raw. The story doesn't try to pull some weird shit or explain what actually happened to Elisa Lam, or try to, say, claim that it was extradimensional beings (which really the bar is in hell there). The idea of a small fringe cult worshipping the water tower hoping to hear Elisa Lam is unfortunately something I could 100% believe would happen, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was based on something similar and true.

The only thing that really sticks out to me is the ending. Everyone hearing the banging in the water tank and pressing their ears close and hearing, presumably, the ghost of Elisa Lam speak. Because the thing is, I feel like it's almost disrespectful to bring in that supernatural element, but at the same time, what 'Elisa' says- *so lonely lonely lonely*- is also so generic that it also could conceivably not be supernatural at all; just something the crowd hallucinated en masse.

This is where I feel a little conflicted, because Enriquez as an author plays so often in these short story collections with some stories being overtly supernatural, others being completely based in reality with no supernatural element whatsoever, that it's hard to really figure it out. It's an ambiguous end with several possibilities:

1 - Elisa Lam's ghost isn't there and it's a sort of mass hallucination brought about by a fringe group projecting their own issues onto the story of Elisa Lam.

2 - Another ghost is in there looking for some kind of connection and just sending a message with whatever is on hand- in this case, the memory and mystique around Elisa Lam.

3 - That is the ghost of Elisa Lam.

The first two options are pretty well-supported by the text of the story beforehand; when the protag comes to the city, she's immediately haunted by all the memories she made when she used to live there, putting her in a pretty precarious state of mind. She isn't being driven mad or anything- she's just grieving. Grief can have a funny way of manifesting, making you see signs in everything; like a well-known puma usually spotted in LA coming to make an out of the way visit to the protag and her friends while they're getting drunk. One of the friends says that it was sent by the protag's now deceased lover, who had wanted so desperately to spot the puma in life- but she warns the protag that that doesn't mean that the puma is the ghost of her lover.

The third option tripped me up because my gut reaction to that is that if that was truly the "right" option, that'd be pretty disrespectful. Making a dead woman a character in your story and putting words into her mouth is all well and good if that woman is, say, from the 1800s- but to do that to a woman who died in 2013 is an entirely different beast.

But then I thought about it some more and like... is it really that disrespectful?

If number 3 is the correct option here, what exactly does that mean? That the author thinks that Elisa Lam died feeling lonely, maybe, and not much else. There's a few mentions of a theory that said the ghost of Richard Ramirez killed Lam, but that's not treated as actual fact or given any textual evidence- it's just what the people who worship the water tank Elisa Lam was found in tell themselves as a rationality to do this entire morbid rigamarole. The protag, a reporter investigating this for an "America in Weird" article for an Argentinian newspaper, doesn't actually believe this for a second and the facts of the Elisa Lam case are laid out pretty matter of factly.

One could still argue that it was wrong to choose a specific modern real life case to act as thematic haunting for a horror story, and there's probably a lot that can be discussed in the specific nuances of that- especially since the case is kinda enshrined on the internet and still passed around by countless people online to this day- but as something to help frame the psychological aspects of the story, it's a brilliant beat, because it just adds to the ambiguity of the thing. What am I supposed to feel at that ending? What am I supposed to take away here? What does it say about me that this one story beat disquiets me, the mere suggestion of using a dead woman's memory wrong, more than the more likely theme of how easily we read signs of the divine where there are none?

Point is, it's a brilliant piece of writing all around. I've read short stories that cling to my brain and short stories that invoke specific, precise emotions, but this is one of those rare few stories that invites you to dissect it and learn a little something about yourself, whether you want to or not.

Any time the Elisa Lam case gets brought up in fiction I'm always just a little. Skeptical I guess bc like using such a fucked up irl case can go Real Sideways if you don't get the execution right, and while I trust Mariana Enriquez leagues more than I do the yiik guy I gotta wonder: how is she gonna spin this?

#things i've read #spoilers #elisa lam

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goldeneyedgirl · 5 years ago

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the fic that does not exist

What you are about to read was the first Twilight fic I posted. In all honesty, I deleted it two weeks after posting it and repurposed it for my degree into a 21,000 word novella that I’m still trying to turn into a decent YA book because, frankly, it has potential and I want to.

But gosh, do I love the original version because I can see exactly where it was supposed to go and it remains one of the best things I’ve written. Because it turned into something that got me my degree. A precursor to how I approached Shadow to Light. To Alice always been a tiny bit bonkers in my fic.

It will never be reposted on AO3 or FF.net. What is posted below is probably 75% of the original. Some parts/lines were removed but nothing that affects the plot. There is a 50/50 chance I may delete this in the future.

But yeah, from circa 2015 (what the absolute fuck, I’ve been at this for five years?!), have “R”.

It begins on a Wednesday. She runs out the front door, in bare feet and a nightdress that is too short, and she keeps running until she reaches Dr Cullen's house.

("It's Aro, Carlisle. We need to find the others, we can fix this.")

Dr Cullen brings her inside and Mrs Cullen gives her a glass of orange juice. They ask her a lot of questions, and she trusts them until the paramedics come to the door and she drops the glass, cutting foot badly and she hopes she bled all over Mrs Cullen's ugly rug.

(She doesn't scream or cry in the ambulance. She answers their questions politely, and apologises for getting blood on the gurney.)

She is put in a tiny cubicle to wait, a nurse cleaning and bandaging her cut foot. She asks for a glass of water the nurse never brings. And then, he's there. Too-long blonde hair, stooped stance, too thin and hollow looking, the circles under his eyes darker than his eyes.

("Jasper," she whispers. He doesn't hear her. He does when she calls out to him, and tries to leave the cubicle. She starts to scream for him when the nurses appear out of nowhere, and hold her down, slide the syringe into her and even as she's crying for him to save her, her world is turning white and quiet. And when she wakes up, she can't quite remember the name on her tongue, the face blurred in her memory.)

Her mother unlocks the door sometime after two, and carries in a tray. Milk, a sandwich and dozens of tiny round pills.

"It's time to eat," her mother says simply, placing the tray on her desk.

She watches her mother fuss around her room, making the bed, gathering the laundry. Doing her duty, and nothing more. There is never an explanation, never comfort.

Just obligation.

Her mother hates the way she stares, with her eyes too big and too knowing. She always thought a mother's love was infinite, eternal and complete. Now she has found the well tapped barren and dry, and she finds it difficult to grieve for that.

When she thinks of a mother, it is not this sour woman who pins her like a butterfly with shame and pity and resentment. No, the mother she images has laughing eyes and hair the colour of caramel. A woman who fixes, soothes, comforts and loves. Who smells of summer herbs and fresh linen, and a laugh like bells.

There's so little to do, now everything has been taken from her. Instead, she sinks into her tiny garden, gathering the pots around her until she can pretend, the scent of herbs thrown into the air, and she watches through the railings. She sees a lot. She sees Miss Hale stealing kisses from the McCarty boy, but turns him away in front of witnesses.

(It upsets and frustrates her, more than she can explain. She watches Miss Hale go out in expensive dresses with men too old for her, watches the dark cars pull up out the front of the prim and proper Hale residence. And every night, she waits. Waits for Miss Hale to get home safe, always waiting and listening for any cry for help.)

The McCarty boy sees her watching, and waves to her every time, with a cheerful grin and a wink. She waves back and blows a playful kiss when she knows Miss Hale is watching.

(She hasn't found her prince; she doesn't get much of a chance to look for him, locked away in her tower. But until she finds him, the McCarty boy could be her knight and rescue her, in a pinch.)

Her dreams are nonsensical, fragments of something larger that she doesn’t know how to decipher.

She dreams of running like the wind, of laughter and happiness. Of her hand clasped around another, but she cannot glimpse a face. Just a presence that anchors her.

She dreams of her hand slipping free and she stumbles, falling an impossible distance. Then there is mud and smoke and blood, and she is screaming hoarsely. She scrambles to her feet, and it is hard to run, the plants and mud tangling her feet. Under the smoke, she smells decay and mud. And she is trapped in her own grave, the darkness a weight upon her.

The smells from her dreams – of blood and smoke – hang heavily in the room when she jerks away from those haunting visions, enough that she thinks she can actually smell them. It’s just her imagination, she tells herself, but in the darkness of her bedroom, with the full moon hanging in the sky, it’s hard to believe it. That the stench isn’t there, blurring the lines of nightmares and memories.

She sneaks out during the summer fair, in a dress that is too long, and she didn't realise how much she has faded away, as she knots the straps tighter. The night is warm, and really, no one is going to notice her.

The fairy lights are woven through the trees, and music is playing softly. Laughter, chatter, fills the park, and it is magical. She wants to live in this moment forever.

He finds her sitting on the front steps of the library, peeling rind from the orange, her tongue catching the droplets of juice, her eyes closed in enjoyment. She is magnificent, with the ribbon in her hair, the oversized dress. She is gaunt, pale, like a tiny ghost and he is entranced and he doesn't know why.

(She welcomes him with a smile; he tastes like cigarettes and stewed coffee, she tastes like oranges and something bitter. Hands slide into pants, under skirts, and for her, it is salvation. For him, it is a drop of water in the middle of a desert. Gone all too soon and never again reclaimed.)

He buys her a blue paper flower that she tucks behind her ear, and she traces her fingers over his track marks so lovingly, he is surprised that they don't fade away.

Dr Cullen is kind to her, but her outburst so many months ago is still fresh in his mind, she can tell. He touches her gingerly, pity in his gaze at the black and blue shadows over her limbs.

(He sees finger prints colouring her hips, from her sweet, lovely prince the night of the summer festival. She wears them with honour, and she meets the good doctor's surprised glance with a cheeky smile.)

After the shot, the world is soft and her mother speaks to Dr Cullen, their words a dull hum. Nothing will change, nothing ever does. She will be returned to her tower, to sleep and pills and watching, for another twenty-seven days, until she is brought back to Dr Cullen.

She has one magnificent nightmare, where she is the princess at a ball, safe in the arms of the prince. But then there is nothing but blood, ghosts with scarlet eyes, her sweet tower a darkened dungeon, and bodies, oh the bodies. Of her beloved prince, her sweet knight, the ones that she watches over. Bodies split like overripe fruit, splayed open like butchered meat.

She screams until she wakes, her throat hoarse and raw and on fire, her mother waiting for her in the shadows, to send her back to the dungeons, the red-eyed monsters and the ocean of blood in weeping silence.

Sleep isn't coming, even with the pills on her tongue, with only water lining her stomach. She gives herself a paper cut and watches the bead of blood well up on her pale finger, and it is obscene and unexpected, and she watches it roll down her finger, over her knuckle with parted lips.

When she can dredge up enough energy, she writes a list. Of names, of people whose faces in her memory are hazy and indistinct. Of things that might have happened and things that did happen, but somewhere else. Of things she cannot allow herself to forget, even as the memories and details fall through her fingers.

Everything is blurring together, and she cannot put it right. She stitches memories together with justifications and logic, but their edges are still uneven, ill-fitting. Nothing is truly wrong – unless you count the crazy girl locked in a tower – but it isn’t right either.

Faces tumble through her memory, but she cannot remember the things she was supposed to never ever forget.

She leaps, leaps to freedom with a paper flower in her hair. It is better than flying. She leaps without regret, with sheer determination and the knowledge that there is nothing left for her in this place.

(The pills are bitter, the tower is quiet. Her hair floats loose around her face, not long, but no longer short. She didn't regret the loss of Mary-Alice in 1919, she doesn't mourn her now.)

The ground is hard, harder than she ever imagined. And she is just a doll of porcelain, already cracked at the seams. She shatters perfectly, the flower tumbling from her hair.

They bury her on a Friday, and it rains. A modest gathering of associated people in black, over an open grave, the only words that are offered are from a man that knows nothing more about Alice than a long illness that curdled her brain and sapped her body.

(Rosalie Hale came home at dawn with a torn dress and haunted eyes, but only screamed at the sight of the broken girl underneath the old oak tree. Emmett McCarty came running, and wept for the sweet dead girl who hid behind the railings and watched; for the necklace of bruises around Rosalie's pale throat. For a sense of utter wrongness he cannot put into words.)

A boy with dead eyes and thin arms waits at the back of the group, clutching a single orange and a bunch of flowers. He stares at the hole in the ground, saying nothing, but leaves his offerings on the fresh dirt with a reverence for something much greater than a sick girl. He is resigned to hopelessness that his salvation has gone, and all that lingers is the memory of enormous blue eyes and a sweet touch.

(Jasper Whitlock pushes aside the roses from the Cullens, the sunflowers from the Masens, the lilies from the Swans and nestles the orange in the dirt. His flowers were plucked from a garden, snow-white daisies and tiny blue flowers he cannot name - Forget-Me-Nots that will outlive anything else left behind.)

Her mother studies the grave sternly, smoothing down the hair of her younger daughter, and accepts the sympathies graciously. Her own pink carnations are already drooping over the headstone, as if they recognize her apathy to her child's fate.

(Emmett McCarty brings three bright yellow tulips in shaking hands. He tried, tried so hard to bring her back, even as his hands felt the sharp edges of bone under cold flesh. It was him that peeled the torn piece of paper from her hand, expecting a suicide note, her final words, but the curling handwriting offers not an explanation but two words 'Aro. Volturi.' And those are words that send a spike of fear through him and he doesn't know why. The note is still in his jeans' pocket and he doesn't know whom to tell.)

The rain turns the cemetery to mud and people begin to leave, petals dragged from stems with the ferocity. By winter, her grave will blend in with the rest, grass having grown over the dirt. Her family will leave her to her quiet sleep. It will be only a shattered girl, a broken prince and a confused knight that keep vigil at her grave.

(Esme Cullen buys pink roses and tries not to cry as she sits alone in her car. She truly doesn't know why, but there is something else there, just under the surface that she cannot quite decipher, that leaves her sobbing for the girl that saw no other way out than throwing herself from her tower, and all that Esme can do is offer pink roses and regret.)

She opens her eyes. And she screams.

(There is no more fear; just purest rage, sharpest anger. She will have her retribution and it will be sweet.)

#the fic that does not exist #nope #text-based mass hallucinations #hah #hallucinations #relevent #establishing my extensive efforts as team get jasper laid #there's actually like five fics with variations on this theme #ahh #hyperfixations #i think it's variation two where human!alice and human!maria both remember everything and alice beats the everloving shit out of her #in a denny's parking lot #look i had to file 189 unnamed documents today my brain is shot

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olderthannetfic · 4 years ago

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Antis are mass reporting fics on ao3 to get them (temporarily) taken down.

https://twitter.com/Lala_Zee/status/1408915178935173124?s=19

This is a very popular fic that hit 24k kudos this month and the author started in 2017.

https://twitter.com/Lala_Zee/status/1405141401134829579?s=19

That sounds highly alarming. I do wonder if there's more to it though. I haven't been officially involved with OTW since 2014, but the guidelines were set up to thwart mass reporting. (I think they thwart it on a technical level too these days, but there was also a policy that the Abuse team can disregard extra reports of the same work and/or potentially treat them as harassment.)

If things are working properly, the work would only get hidden once the team makes it to that report and is actively investigating (so a short period of time). I wonder if that's the case here or not.

My big question is whether this person posted commercial spam. They do have a fic patreon where people get early releases of their famous fic that antis hate them for. If they were so monumentally stupid as to mention the highly text-searchable word 'patreon' on AO3, then they have only themself to blame. This is one of the only ways to open yourself to FFN-style grudge reporting on AO3 because almost nothing is against the rules there.

(Grudge reporting = reporting legit rules violations but choosing which fics to report based on you hating the author/the ship/the fandom/etc.)

There are also plenty of people, including me, who now and then get sufficiently pissed at commercial spam to go report a bunch of it without any other motivation than that.

It takes two seconds to put 'patreon' or 'ko-fi' into AO3's works search. You can even narrow it down by number of kudos or hits or whatever else. Nobody had to "comb through their work" if this really is what happened, nor is posting commercial spam a minor violation of AO3's rules.

If, as they imply, AO3 is really screening their work for ages while hunting for problematique shit antis hallucinate is there, that awful, and AO3 should be held accountable. I'm just a little skeptical since most people who get hit with the 'no commercial spam' rule behave similarly to this.

AO3 staff cannot and will not post their side of the story because Abuse cases are confidential.

#fandom meta

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the-ethereal-serpent · 5 years ago

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Shadow People

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A shadow person (also known as a shadow figure, shadow being or black mass) is the perception of a patch of shadow as a living, humanoid figure, and, interpreted as the presence of a spirit or other entity by believers in the paranormal or supernatural.

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Paranormal Veiwpoints

Shadow people are dark figures associated with nighttime visitations and some haunted places. Shadow people appear as solid black figures who are darker than darkness. Most appear to be male; some wear coats and hats.

They are usually six-and-a-half feet in height. They have substance and form and can interrupt light and block objects from view. Shadow people rarely communicate, but many seem intensely interested in human beings.

Shadow people fall into several categories :

Bedroom Watchers

These figures are discovered standing by a bedside or in a corner of the room when a person awakens in the night. They seem to stare at people in bed, even though they have no visible eyes or facial features. Most do not behave in a threatening manner, though their presence is often terrifying.

They can remain for long periods of time and when observed, disappear suddenly or melt through walls and ceilings. Some act aggressively toward people, causing choking sensations similar to the Old Hag.

Shadows On Walls

These figures appear suddenly as dark human outlines on walls, which detach from walls and move about rooms.

Moving Shadows

These figures appear abruptly and move quickly through a room, as though on a mission. They come through walls and melt into walls. They may seem to pay no attention to people present or else watch them intensely. They may be seen out of the corners of the eyes or in full view.

Background Visitors

These figures usually are not seen, but are captured in photographs. They appear in backgrounds, their forms noticeable on walls, doors, and so forth.

Haunting Presences

These figures appear in places known or thought to be haunted. They move about, act with intelligence, and appear and disappear suddenly. They may follow people. In some cases, shadow people are associated with bad luck

Video : The Truth About Shadow People : https://youtu.be/Yw6yl4nb0_0

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The Hat Man

The Hat Man appears much in the same way that Shadow People do, but unlike the phenomena that was made popular by Art Bell and Thunder Strikes, the Hat Man encounters bear a few striking differences that set it apart. When he appears, often during the night, the Hat Man is always seen wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and though most people are unable to make out any distinct facial features, he is usually described as a solid black mass. Witnesses are often unable to describe the Hat Man’s lower body, as if he seems to float silently above the ground.

The phenomena seems to center around basements and, according to the experiencers, appears to manifest in situations of intense negativity and family disfunction. In fact, many times if one person in a household has started experiencing visits by the Hat Man, it’s almost guaranteed that another family member will begin seeing the strange shadow man soon afterwards.

Video : The Truth About The Hat Ma : https://youtu.be/lLzaFhFHL2c

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Other Speculations

However, shadow people cannot be equated with the old hag syndrome. An explanation favored by some researchers is that shadow people are interdimensional beings. They find ways into the physical world and seem to have the purpose — unknown—of observing humans. They may show up as bedroom visitors because the nature of human sleeping or dreaming consciousness enables an entry for them.

Their appearance may be a form they deliberately assume, or it may be the only way they can manifest in the physical realm. Many experiencers feel shadow people are a type of nasty spirit, even a deamon, because they sense evil or trickery radiating from them. Almost all experiencers are deeply frightened of shadow people, even though they are not harmed by them.

Shadow people are sometimes associated with turbulent emotions. For example, many people who have had significant shadow people experiences can link them to states of emotional upheavals, such as anger, sadness, loneliness, and so forth.

Other people may be psychically open in such a way as to perceive shadow people more easily than others. Some haunted places where shadow people are prevalent, such as the Waverly Hills Sanitorium where thousands of people died, may be permeated with thought-forms of negative emotions.

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Scientific Viewpoints

Several physiological and psychological conditions can account for reported experiences of shadowy shapes seeming alive. A sleep paralysis sufferer may perceive a "shadowy or indistinct shape" approaching them when they lie awake paralyzed and become increasingly alarmed. A person experiencing heightened emotion, such as while walking alone on a dark night, may incorrectly perceive a patch of shadow as an attacker.

Many methamphetamine addicts report the appearance of "shadow people" after prolonged periods of sleep deprivation. Psychiatrist Jack Potts suggests that methamphetamine usage adds a "conspiratorial component" to the sleep deprivation hallucinations.

One interviewed subject said that "You don't see shadow dogs or shadow birds or shadow cars. You see shadow people. Standing in doorways, walking behind you, coming at you on the sidewalk."These hallucinations have been directly compared to the paranormal entities described in folklore.

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Sleep Paralysis

Sleep paralysis is when, during waking up or falling asleep, a person is aware but unable to move or speak. During an episode, one may hallucinate (hear, feel, or see things that are not there), which often results in fear. Episodes generally last less than a couple of minutes. It may occur as a single episode or be recurrent.

The condition may occur in those who are otherwise healthy or those with narcolepsy, or it may run in families as a result of specific genetic changes. The condition can be triggered by sleep deprivation, psychological stress, or abnormal sleep cycles. The underlying mechanism is believed to involve a dysfunction in REM sleep. Diagnosis is based on a person's description. Other conditions that can present similarly include narcolepsy, atonic seizure, and hypokalemic periodic paralysis.

Between 8% and 50% of people experience sleep paralysis at some time. About 5% of people have regular episodes. Males and females are affected equally. Sleep paralysis has been described throughout history. It is believed to have played a role in the creation of stories about alien abduction and other paranormal events.

Video : Scary Sleep Paralysis Stories : https://youtu.be/kBPS6RgHrAw

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Article Sources :

https://occult-world.com/shadow-people/ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_person http://weekinweird.com/2016/08/31/investigating-the-link-between-the-shadow-man-phenomenon-and-the-terrifying-hat-man/ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_paralysis

Image Source : https://pin.it/1JjVkwL

Note : I do not claim any of the text or images to be mine. I am simply sharing information for the purpose of learning. I have listed the sources.

#Paranormal #Supernatural #Ghosts #Demons #Shadow people #Shadow creatures #Sleep paralysis #Hallucinations #The hat man #Wicca #Wiccan #Witchcraft #Witchblr #Witch #Pagan #Paganism

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taliaquinn · 5 years ago

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Why Me!? Chapter 12

Mass Panic immediately ensued following the texts.

Rose couldn’t help but tear up at the thought that she won't be wearing the beautiful new dress she designed with Marinette. Alya was panicking because she knew how much Marinette's MDC dresses cost. Yes, she stalked her website, but only to trash talk it with Lila, Lila even told her how some of those designs were her idea and Marinette stole them.

Adrien decided to try and call his ex-classmates but was shocked to find that he was blocked . He decided to try calling Marinette but was even more shocked to find that the line was disconnected.

Alya finally had enough of the chaos and decided to try and get control of the room again. She blew a shrill whistle “EVERYONE QUIET, Look we lost only a few people, most of them bullies, we don't need them together we can handle this”

No one would admit the queasy feeling they got at the pit of there stomachs. They knew Marinette might've been a bully but she was an excellent president.

Gotham Airfield Gotham City, U.S.A 7 a.m

Marinette stirred and was shocked to find that her parents were up and getting there carry on luggage. Quickly glancing out her window she was shocked to find that they Landed in Gotham. Eep. Quickly gathering her art supplies she followed her parents down the steps.

Suddenly she heard a squeal “Oh my gosh she’s so adorablleeeee, Bruce are you sure this is your kid?”, she looked up to see a blonde girl jumping up and down while clinging to another boys arm.

Mr.Wayne seemed to have a look of eternal suffering etched on his face. “Yes Stephanie I'm sure, How’d you even know we were going to be here ?”

“Tim told me” The guy she was clinging to slightly grimaced while side-eyeing Mr.Wayne who was giving him a glare.

“Of course”

‘MARIBUGGGG” Dick quickly ran towards the steps and scooped her up and twirled Marinette around. Marinette couldn’t help but clutch to her supplies for fear of dropping them while giggling.

“Hi Dick,really happy to finally be here” She hugged him back, while he put her back down. Suddenly Dick was abruptly shoved away

“My Turn” Suddenly Marinette was engulfed in by a blonde tornado.

“Steph you’re suffocating her let her goooo” The guy Tim said as he was approaching them.

“But shes to adoranble~” the blonde said, still holding Marinette captive. Why was it always the Blondes who tried to kill her?

Oblivious to her plight her parents went on ahead and greeted Bruce and Dick who had to stumble back to Bruce's side after being viciously shoved.

“Bruce I want to say a huge thank you, We can’t wait to get Marinette situated and head back to Paris,” Sabine said making sure to quickly shake his hand and giving Dick a quick hug.

“Ha, I swear all three of us eventually dozed off on the flight,” Tom said while moving to do the same.

After a few more seconds Stephanie finally released Marinette.

“Oh gosh, you’re too adorable for words~ My name is Steph” Wait did Bruce have a second daughter? Marinette thought he only had one other daughter, Cassandra?

“Are you another one of Bruce's kids?”

“What!? Oh gosh,you’ve only been here for a few minutes and you already recognize that Bruce has an adopting problem, pfft luckily I am not one of those poor suckers. I am just here to eternally annoy them plus I’m besties with Cass, Bruce’s other daughter” Stephanie explained.

She quickly pulled Tim towards them. “This is one of those poor suckers, Marinette this is Tim Drake, He’s constantly sleep-deprived and suffers from severe caffeine addiction”

“It's not severe”

“Yet”

Marinette couldn’t help but snort. Being a Fashion designer/superhero/ highschooler, Marinette has learned how to make a dang good pot of coffee. Also how to tell if she’s hallucinating or not from lack of sleep. Seriously there was this one incident where she was seeing hamsters take over the school's library, there was also that one time where she saw a mob of pigeons chase a man, but that turned out to be pigeon man who got akumatized again.

“A fellow addict, nice to meet you,” Marinette said.

Stephanie suddenly started looking at two before seemingly coming to a startling revelation

“ OH GOD, THERE'S TWO COFFEE ADDICTS NOW!!!” She yelped. She suddenly scurried away in a desperate attempt to call Alfred and warn him about the new incoming addict.

Dick glanced down and noticed that Marinette dropped a few of her pens and markers. He knelt to pick them up quickly he handed them to Marinette.

“You like to draw?” He asked giving her another quick hug

“Yeppers I mainly focus on designing outfits and making them as well, where’d you think your jackets came from?”

“ No way, I thought you bought them!!! I love mines and I know for a fact Bruce loves his.”

“Well yeah I make a lot of my clothes, I have a website where I sell some of the clothing, I also do commissions” suddenly Dick was once again shoved away.

“MDC!!” Tim exclaimed

Marinette jumped back a few steps before suddenly realizing that he was a fan.

“M.D.C are your initials, I knew I recognized the Jacket from somewhere”

“Yep based off another Jacket I sold on My website, except some of the detailing is different”

“You’ve gotten recognition from Audrey Bourgeois and Gabriel Agreste,” Tim gawked. Dick was busy grumbling complaints “What is it with you two and shoving me”.

Marinette quickly went over to help him up. She quickly got one of her suitcases and opened it up pulling out a few articles of clothing. Quickly she handed Tim his jacket, and since she wasn't aware of Stephanie's existence she settled with Handing her a Trench Coat since it was cold.

Stephanie immediately shed her current coat and shoved it at Tim to hold. She put on the trenchcoat and admired the embroidered birds around the sleeves.

“Oh my gosh, you have such a good eye”

Stephanie immediately shed her current coat and shoved it at Tim to hold. She put on the trenchcoat and admired the embroidered birds around the sleeves.

“Well duh kinda necessary” Marinette teased

“Wait you didn’t bring any of your supplies?” Dick responded, noticing that Marinette didn’t bring Big enough suitcases to carry some of the bigger sewings and designing supplies.

“Well, we had to kinda leave in a rush so…. I didn't have enough time to pack some of the bigger supplies”

“I have an idea! We can go around Gotham and buy some of the supplies!” Dick suggested.

“Maybe on the weekend Dick, We gotta take her to the manor and let her and the Dupain-Chengs meet the rest of the family,” Bruce noted joining them. Honestly, though Bruce was more worried about a certain butler ripping him a new one for taking so long to introduce him to his newest granddaughter.

College Francis Dupont Paris, France 8:30 a.m

People walking into Bustiers Class couldn’t help but be disconcerted at all the empty seats the next day. They all decided to sit on the right, some glancing at the empty seats on the left.

Lila finally walked in and with the flip of her hair, she strolled straight and made sure to take a seat next to Alya. Right in Marinette's old seat. It was odd seeing someone else sit there. Eventually Madame Bustier walked in and only took a momentary pause upon seeing the small class size.

Adrien slowly walked in and lightly jumped at the new class size. He took his usual seat next to Nino. However, it wasn’t too long before he felt a tap on his shoulder. Both he and Nino turned to face Alya and Lila.

“Hey, Adrien you mind switching seats with me? I wanna sit to Nino” Alya announced. Adrien, however, didn't miss Nino’s slight grimace. However, Lilas's look of pure hopefulness was the thing that made Adrien slightly grimace as well.

Regardless of how Adrien felt he knew he had to say yes.

“Sure”

Meanwhile in Mendelievs….

“I call dibs on sitting next to Kagami!!!” Chloe loudly exclaimed and made a mad dash towards the empty seat next to Kagami.

Nathaniel immediately moved to sit next to Marc. Sabrina sat next to Juleka. Ivan decided to sit next to Max. At first, it was a slight adjustment getting used to Mendelievs class, she taught and had control over her class. No way was she going to permit and outburst or arguments when she taught. However, she did permit them to talk whenever she was done teaching.

“Marinette just quit ?” Probed Aurore. She was furious at the fact that Marinette was essentially driven to quitting.

“Yup” Chloe responded popping the p, “But now she’s staying with Family in Gotham for a bit, she even texted to mention how she might transfer schools and stay in the states”

“B-but sweet Marinette in Gotham, don’t they have like a gajillion crazy villains? At least the Akumas’ damage in Paris can be reversed and they're only temporary” Aurore mentioned

“Marinette is tough, plus she’ll be away from this crazy school” Nathaniel offered while finishing up a sketch for his and Marcs’ comic

“Plus Marinette said she’ll call us once she’s comfy and everything” Chloe finished.

“Poor Marinette”

Wayne Manor Gotham City, USA 9:00 a.m

Marinette knew Mr.Wayne was rich but holy cow, he makes both the Agreste and Bourgeious fortune look like pennies. She never understood how rich he was.Seriously he has a fleet of luxury vehicles in his garage. The inside of the manor looks photo-ready, AND all of his kids have gone to a 30k a year school. Thank God she was going to a Normal School.

Mr.Wayne made sure to take Maman and Papa to a luxury hotel suite to get them settled before bringing them back to the Manor. She quickly said goodbye and gave them big kisses on their cheeks.

Marinette was occupied still gaping at the giant Chandelier when suddenly she was face-to-face with two teenagers.

Dick immediately noticed that there was an awkward staring contest going on and moved in to ease the awkwardness.

“Marinette this is Cassandra shes the fourth oldest,” Dick said while introducing the two. Marinette was occupied gaping at Cassandra. She was so pretty. Cassandra took a quick step forward before quickly putting her hand on Marinette's shoulder.

“Cass” She gently chided.

Marinette only slightly stumbled before yanking out a sweater from her duffle bag and practically shoving it at her. Sue her she was intimidated and impressed.

“Me?” Cass was surprised. She took the sweater but couldn’t help but hold it close to her. It was so soft. Marinette made it for her, and she didn’t know her!!! Cass couldn’t help the grin that was overtaking her face. She made sure to get closer to take a long glance at Marinette who was giving a cynical Jason his own sweater, along with gloves. Nervous. jittery. uncomfortable.

“Huh, you are most definitely too sweet for this family" Jason couldn't help but coo at the sight of the petite blue-eyed girl.

"I'm Jason Todd, technically dead and black sheep of the family. Whenever you get tired or pissed at Bruce, trust me that is a guarantee, feel free to crash at my place.” He piped. While shrugging off his leather jacket and putting on his new turtleneck sweater. Holy crap was it soft.

Technically Dead? What in the world!? Are they choosing to ignore that!? Marinette was so confused. Seriously first off Cass has the biggest grin on her face and seems to be studying Marinette, Jason Todd just admitted he’s still technically dead!? Are all siblings this confusing? She’ll have to ask Luka. Seeing as he seems to be the only one in their friend group who has a sibling.

Taking a glance around the entrance. Marinette noticed that she suddenly had older siblings and even a younger one. One week was all it took. Marinette took a glance at Cass she mirrored her grin. She realized one thing.

THIS FAMILY IS INSANE!!!

And now she's a part of them. Crap.

Tag list:

@another-fan-of-anotherplan @damianette-is-life @amayakans @parallelparabox @miukiiu @valeks-princess @toodaloo-kangaroo @vixen-uchiha @thezestywalru @dreamykitty25 @souleateralicestein @thestressmademedoit

A/N:

I hope that all of you lovely peeps are staying healthy and safe. Please enjoy todays chapter. Feel free to reblog and leave a note <3.

#miraculous ladybug #mlb au #maribat #batfam #marinette deserves better #damian wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #class salt

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thescienceofapologetics · 6 years ago

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Evidence for the Resurrection

It’s Easter time once again! A Sunday that marks the single most pivotal point of Christianity. If you want to prove Christianity is a hoax, all you must do is illustrate how the resurrection was a facade. It is absolutely essential to our salvation that Christ conquered death, for if Jesus Christ did not rise from the dead our hope is lost. 1 Corinthians 15:14 likewise states, “And if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain.” Without the resurrection our belief is baseless, futile, unfounded, and foolish. So why is it we believe such an outlandish claim could actually happen, superseding the natural laws of earth? Here’s a few reasons...

The Bible is the most historically accurate ancient text in the world — When discussing the validity of history, it’s only reasonable to reference your source that has proven most reliable. The Bible is that source. No other record of ancient history has come CLOSE to matching the reliability of the Bible. If we say the Bible is untrustworthy, we must discard every other historical record as well because the Bible vastly surpasses every test of authenticity as no other book does. More on that here and here.

Yes, Jesus really died - Many people start off with the dispute that maybe Jesus wasn’t really dead. However, that neglects both the historical and circumstancial context. The Romans were masters at execution. They knew how to draw out suffering to the finest line between death and life, make it last for days on end. This was their art form. These men were proficient and practiced. Jesus was tortured, whipped with a scourge that often exposed bone and vital organs, tearing flesh from a body. Many people didn’t survive that alone. He was forced to carry a cross that could have weight up to 300lbs, and he crumpled under the weight, unable to bear it. Nails were driven through his wrist and through both his feet. Make note he would be unable to walk from the pain in his feet, his hands would be rendered useless. The way you hang on a cross causes death by asphyxiation, to breathe you had to push your self up with means grating your torn back against the wood and putting more pressure on the holes ripping your limbs. After Jesus died they speared his side to make certain he was dead and fluid came pouring out. The Romans checked thoroughly to make sure he was dead because they were shocked he died so quickly. He was bloated, swollen, and gored by death on a cross. Even if for arguments sake, Jesus was not yet dead, being in a tomb for three days would indisputably see to that. If blood loss didn’t kill him, infection certainly would. Additionally, Luke, one of eyewitnesses who recorded the events, was a doctor so his perspective is a notably authoritative one. (Luke 23-24).

The tomb was empty - There is no possible way Jesus, weakened to the point where the Roman masters of execution called his death, unable to use his hands or feet due to the spikes pounded into them, was able to roll away a MASSIVE boulder and over power two trained and able-bodied Roman soldiers. The idea that Jesus didn’t fully die on the cross and escaped the tomb is absurd. Furthermore, the guards stationed to prevent anyone from robbing the tomb and the Roman seal on the two-ton rock ensured that anyone who dared to even attempt to move it faced the death penalty themselves. If the guards themselves fell asleep they faced the same fate. There was a LOT at stake if Jesus’ body was taken, the Romans were taking no chances. Every other argument for the absence of Jesus’ body can quickly be dismantled by historical context and the circumstances by which these things took place.

It was prophesied - Isaiah talks about the particular circumstances of Jesus death, such as no bones would be broken, an unusual anomaly when it came to crucifixion. Jesus himself also foretells that he will rise within three days. Even smaller details like casting lots for His garments were spoken of hundreds of years before Jesus was born. Other prophesies like this show that Jesus’ death was no accident, God knew what He was doing. (Isaiah 52:13-53:12; John 18-20)

Eyewitness accounts - Jesus appeared to over 500 people after His resurrection, many of whom were alive at the time of the gospels being written and therefore could confirm or dispute their accuracy (1 Corinthians 15:6) Among those include the disciples, Mary Magdalene, and Paul the former murderer of Christians. The Bible records accounts of skeptism and unbelief, but they saw the scars on his hands, touched his solid flesh before them, heard his familiar voice, and they believed because of it. Paul became that which he initially DESPISED because of his encounter with Jesus Christ, that alone is a mind-blowing testimony. The man who hunted and killed Christians became a Christian who was willing to be tortured and killed because he so strongly believed in the saving death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

The apostles went from hiding in extreme fear to preaching the gospel in the face of deadly persecution - When Jesus died the apostles went into hiding. They were TERRIFIED that the Romans, the other Jews, would come after them next. Yet, after Jesus appears, they’re fearlessly preaching the gospel out in open crowds of THOUSANDS. It’s a dramatic switch of perspective. To go from quivering fear to such emboldened confidence, surely seeing Jesus standing risen before you would give you that kind of intrepidation. There is little else to explain how these men were suddenly ready to risk everything after being afraid to admit they ever knew Jesus just days before.

Apostles willing to die for Jesus - Now some people say the apostles stole the body of Jesus to convince people to turn to Christianity. The Bible says that lie was started by the Romans in order to discredit the apostles. However, almost all of the apolstles died for preaching the gospel, and all of them were severely persecuted. Why would they exchange their lives, their health, their reputation, their livelihoods, their comfort for something they knew was a lie? It simply makes no sense. The only logical conclusion is that they believed Jesus was the resurrected Christ.

Appearing to a woman first was a dumb move - The testimony of a woman would not be as respected as than of a man in those times. If Jesus’ resurrection was a ruse, the logical thing to do would be to claim he was seen by a male dignitary of noble standing, not a woman who had been previously possessed by demons - a social blemish (Luke 8:2). “Unflattering” facts like this, the cowardis of the apolstles, their initial skeptism, not recognizing Jesus right away, etc. lend to the credit of the account because it demonstrates an accurate retelling, not a fabrication that was crafted to deceptively sway the masses into false belief.

Vision, hallucination unlikely due to number of witnesses and circumstances - Jesus didn’t appear to two people and then go back to Heaven. He appeared to over 500 in all sorts of different locations. People who weren’t looking for him, people who didn’t believe it was Him until they had proof. Proof so certain that they were no longer afraid, they were filled with unextinguishable hope. We must also realize the historical context of the time in which it took place. It’s much easier to fabricate this kind of illusion today with the technology and way by which we pass on information. The time period in which the resurrection took place adds merit that should not be ignored. News was circulated in a manner that was unique to our present day process.

Non-Christian historians record the resurrection - Josephus, a renowned secular historian at the time of Jesus’ death, writes, “On the third day He appeared... restored to life.” It should be noted there are many who debate the reliability of Josephus’ words regarding the resurrection, however, many historians find this evidence to support the Bible’s claims.

The persecution of the early church - Under Nero’s reign the early church suffered some of the most violent persecution, not to mention the Jewish leaders who also sought to kill the Christians. The steadfast resolve of a Church who was in its infant stage is astounding. The only explanation is that they all genuinely believed in the resurrection. They had nothing to gain and everything to lose by preaching the gospel, yet they did so freely despite the cost. If Christianity was based on a lie, it should have been easy to crush it as it was beginning. The fact that the force of the entire Roman Empire wasn’t enough to sway their devotion is incredible. The whole of the known world tried to annihilate Christianity in the cradle but couldn’t.

It is the accumulation of evidence that begs cause for belief - It is not for one singular reason that we believe Jesus rose from the dead, but rather the combined evidence that demands an explanation that only the Bible provides. The proven accuracy of the Bible, the eyewitnesses details; the historical records of Jesus walking, eating, alive; the unexplainable absence in the tomb despite all efforts to seal it; the prophesies fulfilled; the change in people’s lives, the martyrs, the flourishing of the church in the face of persecution. It all points back to Jesus rising from the dead as the only reasonable explanation. The Bible consistently presents answers to questions the world has no answer for.

More comprehensive analysis and sources

Within these sources you’ll find more Biblical references, breaking down arguments and evidence, and quotes from some of the world’s finest minds and historians.

The Resurrection of Christ: The Best Proved Fact in History

Resurrection: No Doubt About It

Biblical and Extra-Biblical Evidences

Is the Resurrection True?

Atheist’s Look at the Resurrection

Still got questions/comments? Shoot me an ask! I don’t usually reply to comments on long posts, but I’d certainly love to talk!

#history #religion #christianity #resurrection #easter #apologetics

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violetsystems · 5 years ago

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#personal

The holidays are quiet if not a little more restful than usual. I facetime’d my dad and his wife and talked to my mom on the phone. Since I left my job way back in July I haven’t had much video contact with anybody. Everybody is too busy baking banana bread on YouTube I guess to check in. The final days of my employment had devolved into a virtual SCRUM twice a day led by myself on camera. It was exhausting at times to lead but kept people focused. That is when they bothered to show up. One of my employees was off making music with my boss half the time I was trying to lead those discussions. I’m beginning to sense a theme. People saying they are there but not really. Maybe the mic is muted. Maybe you can’t see behind the screen. All I know is the follow through lately with people is missing entirely. I spent a good hour the last two days trying to decouple a credit card from my old job’s contact info. I’m locked out of both the phone number and the email attached to the account. I got the run around trying to provide a US passport to confirm my identity. It was good enough to enter China alone. The first call that ID was sufficient. They had said they sent an email to follow through with the process to two different emails I provided. The email never came most likely because neither had been tied to the account previously. I called back on Christmas eve and suddenly the passport wasn’t good enough. Neither was an expired driver’s license. The woman actually asked me why I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license. I told the truth. My ex girlfriend stole my car. That didn’t really help the situation. I sent a passport photo to unlock my facebook but they never followed through. I had an easier time unlocking my Fortnite account with it although that took a full week. I ended having to call the police on Christmas eve to explore filing a report for fraud and identity theft. The police officer on the phone pretty much gaslighted me at the end of the questioning. “Nothing criminal.” he stated plainly. I didn’t get mad. I didn’t even complain. I simply said Happy Holidays and hung up. Much like I’ve hung up on the last twenty years of my life at this point. Nobody seems to want to answer the video call. The opening introduction if they did would be something like “What exactly have you done with my life?” Maybe they’re afraid to confront the truth. The media, the government, and even the police seem to not want to believe evidence that contradicts their narrative. I guess you could throw up your hands and revolt. But the holidays have been peaceful and quiet enough to simply roll my eyes and move on. I’ve had years of failures to connect. COVID has taught me a lot of things. I heard the mantra in all the mandatory corporate webinars. This pandemic has brought to light structural problems we were never aware of before. Sexual harassment in the workplace. Check. Organizational corruption. Check. The fact everybody is full of bullshit and will just mute the mic and pretend it never happened. Check. People feel invincible behind a screen and think they know it all. Check. Now that we’re aware. What do we do? How do we move on with our life now that we have all this space? How do I even care about participating in a broken process when I have no debt and fiscal maturity? How can I go back to being the old me when I’ve been completely erased and conveniently forgot about? Why would I even bother?

Mostly I take the time with this process to make sure my identity is completely secure. Which is why it’s not really fun to be locked out of twenty years of your own information in the form of an email account and forgotten about for six months. But this is just the structural reality come to light. Much like the rest of America is waking up to the reality of what greed really does to people. That was my Christmas present this year aside from the coffee that never came and that Cyberpunk game that I don’t really have the time or the subpar computer setup to criticize. I’m guilty of tricking myself into thinking people care about me. I have statistical data from the last six months that proves otherwise. I also have financial data that points to whatever hustle I have been hustling during that time has paid off and will continue to. But I don’t really have an answer to anything. I’m in the worst kind of limbo. I don’t get the sense these days that I should even remotely worry until July. Which is kind of like saying fuck you to the world for the next six months. I spent the last six waking up from a nightmare. The only times I look back is to clean up the mess. And a Christmas Eve call to the police is kind of messy. But the result is more of the same for me. An extravagant “I told you so.” I’ve been telling myself for awhile now a lot of things. Some of them were kind of unbelievable. Now those very dreams are all I really take comfort in. The limbo I’m in is more pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel than the void. But I can’t say the same for everybody else. I work for myself for the time being. It looks really nice on paper. I can even pay myself if it fits into my organization’s financial outlook. But none of this matters when you or your struggles don’t even exist to people other than to mock or judge it. All the work we do to survive. All the work we do to create art and to be beautiful in the face of chaos. All of that is negated by a loud mouthed jerk who can bark you back into submission. A mob of dumb ass fraudsters that talk over and mute any opposition without any warrant or merit. The press follows this mentality pretty clearly. Everybody has a hot take and a theory. But nobody wants to sit down and listen to the culmination of lies spread about people and situations. Everyone is too emotionally interested in sharing their recipe for banana bread to an invisible audience. I guess I could be guilty of that too. Except that I share actual human emotion and care with a community of people who pay attention week to week. For a person like myself who has no real need to worry about money for the foreseeable future what’s the value of care and attention? A lot. I don’t feed myself with vapor or fake sentiments. I take it all at base level as real as it gets. You can’t build a future on speculation. You can technically if you are in the stock market. But risk is risk. And money is money. No one can be me at the end of the day. Sometimes I can’t even prove I’m myself. My mom reminded me I had to provide ten pieces of documentation to renew my passport ten years ago. The reasoning was simple. The government did not believe I existed. No bullshit. A decade later nothing really has changed. I’ve been to Shanghai by myself and eaten McDonald’s. I read all these Republicans talk about how you put your identity at risk just setting foot in that country.

And yet when does the rhetoric and brainwashing fall flat on it’s face? When you can’t pass economic stimulus to not only save your own people but the fragile stock market all this bullshit is built upon. I could keep telling you I told you so. Or I could save my own ass. And largely I did without really owing much to this country whatsoever except taxes in Q1. Taxes billionaires don’t have to pay because they offer us so much relevant employment and benefits that fit on their bottom line. The real truth is that America would rather not face the truth. It hasn’t for years. It’s built on this kind of thing. It always has been. And the world gets bigger and the excuses get worse. And so what does anyone expect a person like me to do after you openly admit that there’s nothing criminal going on here. How does that sound when you’ve been treated openly like a criminal in so many unsettling ways that you just don’t want to participate in society anymore? Not that anyone really asks me to participate. They’re too busy signaling or whispering secret messages. Is it suggestion or valid communication? I’m the one that has to shift through it all and detangle the mess from what is real and what is some sort of mass hallucination. An alternate reality hunger game that the rich have been playing for years without any punishment or oversight. When you get caught up in the crossfire they expect you to know the drill. Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. None of this is good for me. You could argue it made me the beast that I am. But I am the one who had to actively make that choice to adapt and survive. But I’m not like any normal person these days. I refuse to admit it anymore. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I have a problem. One that it seems I cannot fix. And if you isolate and quarantine yourself from an entire twenty years of nostalgia what is left? Where are the texts of merry xmas from yesteryear. Probably pinging my old work number. I can’t access my facebook. Maybe that’s for the best. I can’t shut down lines of credit until I renew my state ID. I could jump on a plane and visit Shanghai Disney quicker than I could prove I’m alive to the US government. And when does the constant gaslighting break down? When do we realize that people gaslight to cover up an elaborate lie that has gotten out of control. That we are not all in this together. Not by a longshot. That the problem of connectedness is right there in front of our faces. We’re exhausted propping up entire infrastructures that keep a bloated empire alive. Family fortunes built on opioids and war strewn out across the landscape in trusts and elaborate tax schemes. Oligarchs that have generational wealth that buy our politicians and scam people into debt and forced labor. This is America. This is the systemic problem the pandemic brought to light. This shit was built this way. And like any fort constructed with shaky foundations, good luck hiding from the storm in that shit. At least I can still access my Epic account. What am I going to do for the next six months? Complain about something I can’t fix because everybody wants to consider me part of the problem? I don’t know what to do anymore except move forward and lead by example. There’s enough quality people who follow to keep me warm with those thoughts through the holidays alone. I won’t be drunk on a zoom call. I’ll be in bed watching Wonder Woman or something. When everyone you worshipped comes out of this looking fake, tired and exhausted you’ll know where to find me. Unlocking more accounts tied to an identity that doesn’t exist anymore. Nothing criminal. Hopefully people will stop treating me like one eventually. <3 Tim

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docfuture · 5 years ago

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Princess, part 10

[This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16. Links to some of my other work are here. Updates were theoretically biweekly–more realistically, I’m going to try to get the next one out by early July.]

Previous: Part 9

Flicker was going to lose pieces of self. She could put memory summaries in the Database, but that wasn't enough. She could only permanently store her emotional context in her squishy human brain, which was offline. This constricted connections between memory, place, and time. Her older memories should be intact. When the isotope exchanges were complete and she could finally restart everything and heal, everything should still be there. But that didn't help now; anything old that she didn't already have loaded into her speed mind was inaccessible, and any new context would be ephemeral--gone after her next proper sleep. And that 'should'... wasn't a would. Itchy spots in her speed mind hinted at losses on the boundary, reflexes and habits needed for her squishy and speed halves to work together that she might have to relearn. Her speech synchronization problems might return, or her chronic self-interrupting. Old sensory issues might come back, too. Those losses might extend to memory access. Which was a little scary. Moments perfectly preserved in a box did her no good if she forgot where she put the box. Perhaps because the original link to the first box was now in a junk box labeled 'Misc' on a shelf somewhere. But that was life when she wasn't technically alive, with a heart that couldn't beat, lungs that couldn't breathe, and a whole reconstituted flesh body locked down in suspended chemical animation while the isotope exchanger worked. Force fields helped protect everything else from her still-considerable radioactivity. She probably wouldn't remember exactly how the half-pain, half-itching from her speed body felt, or how her claustrophobia was combining with sensory deprivation to make everything more unpleasant. The best she could do was to take notes for the Database, which she could finally talk to again. Slowly. Doc had rigged up inductors to transmit visual signals that her speed mind could sense. They could give her low res video if she slowed down to near human speed, but for anything faster she was limited to text. She was already used to virtual typing, and there were more inductors to pick that up. The biggest problem was lag--if she typed too fast, she had to wait and watch characters slowly appear to catch typos. She was watching slowly updating video stills of Doc as a background while they talked by text. It was way better than nothing. "... too many versions of the 'alien invasion' story out," sent Doc. "It wasn't worth trying to correct them. The Volunteer kept his press brief honest but short and vague--he mentioned non-hostile non-humans who were injured but would recover, he just didn't say they were whales--and then flew off before anyone could ask him any more questions." "Okay," sent Flicker. "Can we go back a bit? No immediate crisis is good. But I'm still missing a lot. It's making my mind itch. More. It's itching for other reasons, too, but this you can help fix." "No problem. What first?" "What was the bit with Breakpoint? He wasn't trying to warn you or me?" "No. I got a notification just as you started your final run. The warning was for Journeyman, he listened, and the danger passed." "More details, please? Did you forward the warning?" "I didn't need to; Journeyman was standing beside him. That was one of the precautions I arranged before you left, and they were quite willing to help. Journeyman had his own detection setup coordinated with the Database, and they had the attack triangulated in a fraction of a second. And then Breakpoint got the danger sense spike, just before Journeyman wanted to port, which delayed them for a second." "A trap?" "Possibly. But I think a potential time loop was more likely." "Caused by what?" "I don't know." "Surely you have a theory?" "Lots. Theories are easy, distinguishing them is harder," sent Doc. "Too many parameters we don't know. But your trap did confirm the attack was based on some kind of foreknowledge--the timing was far too precise for any other explanation to make sense. Perhaps Journeyman and Breakpoint would have caught the attacker, triggering a loop. Or killed it, with the same result. Or they did get caught in a loop and broke out." "How would that even work?" "Several possible ways. Time loop theories are hard to falsify. But after it was safe, they ported in and swept the arrival location for clues. The attacker apparently came from and returned to the Topaz Realm, a common intermediate stop for interdimensional travelers who wish to evade pursuit or tracking. The two of them declined to pursue further, and returned unhurt, though rather drained from the double port. Journeyman went to ground quote 'somewhere safe' unquote, and Breakpoint is with Jumping Spider. I'm sure we'll get additional details later, but the attacker was almost certainly an extradimensional being who portaled in specifically to try to assassinate you, with implications of harm to the entire planet." "And got away. Whee." "An overt repeat attempt seems unlikely. This was a clear worldwide threat, in a way Hermes was not, and now there is a specific event to track from. The compatible world probability background has shifted by quite a bit. There are a wide variety of entities with extraordinary perceptions and abilities that are now aware of the attacker and united in the desire for Earth to keep existing, if little else. The Database has been getting messages from all over the world. Hideki told me he already had to gently dissuade a group of young Japanese superhumans from charging off on an interdimensional mission of vengeance. They vividly recall your help during the quake, and feel inclined to track down whoever tried to kill you given the slightest opportunity. I was also asked to convey their wishes for your speedy recovery." "That's..." Some emotional thing. But Flicker didn't have a working human brain to feel it, and her emulator wasn't up to the task. "...nice." She sent a note to the Database to relay a socially safe thank you. Her mind still itched. "Okay," she sent. "Thanks for the summary. Now... I have a problem. Your UI works--I can talk to you and the Database. And if the exchanger were going to be done in a couple of hours, that would be enough. But it's going to take longer. I can tolerate the physical part--but I'm not so sure about the psychological. Sensory dep, and I have to keep shifting what I'm doing to maintain concentration. I've been recording the more organized parts of my raw impressions and alerts into the Database. But it's as tedious as hand-typing an endless stream of hex codes. That's making my attention wander. I've lost my spot a couple of times already and had to pattern match to find it again. I hate to complain, but is there anything better you can manage?" A pause, and the background picture updated to show Doc with his hands clasped in front of his face, looking somber. Then he started typing again. "I've been fabbing something that may help. I'll let you know when it's ready." The rhythm of the isotope exchanger changed slightly, the ion beams stopped, and the discomfort eased a little. A message from the Database appeared: "First pass complete, left leg." "Well," sent Doc. "Ready to start lowering the tritium load in the bone marrow of your other leg?" "Yes. But it doesn't really matter," she sent back. "It's the next thing. We need to get as much as we can done while I keep my chemistry clamped down or I don't get a livable body back." "Yes. We may be able to speed up later. But at least it's working." "Yeah..." ***** Tedious hours passed. Then there was a pause and shift, while radiation-hardened robots installed a new set of inductors for her head, along with an elaborate set of shielding, wiring and cooling pipes. Flicker took an all too brief run around Doc's test range. Even though she was still blind and deaf, the flow of air and the sudden bright crispness of her mass sense made it a welcome break. But she made a little of that air radioactive--she was still giving off too many neutrons--so it would have been indulgence to stay outside the force fields for more than a millisecond or two. Then tests and adjustments. Fiddly and annoying, but Doc was determined not to set off an immune reaction from Flicker's high speed nervous system, and DASI concurred with the need for caution. Another shift... And a world turned on. A better interface, through a virtual body representation. Audio, distorted but functional. Video. And faster text and data when Flicker sped up. The grinding background of confinement, restlessness and inability to fully relax was still there. As was the discomfort from the isotope exchanger. But her sensory deprivation was greatly reduced. It worked. There was one rather jarring issue. "I feel this sense of cosmic dread," she said. "Like I'm on the edge of a precipice to dimensions I can't even see, and might at any moment slip and lose my connection to sanity, or drag anything and everything I care about into the abyss." "Good," said Doc. "Sounds like your alarm systems are appropriately compatible." The wide video window showing his image floated in front of her. The darkness around the edges was still flecked with the writhing static of closed-eye hallucinations, but they were less intrusive. "Good? It's not exactly--" She blinked and suddenly everything was gone, then the old interface returned--text and a fixed picture. And the static everywhere else. She sped up. "DASI?" she sent. "What happened?" "You blinked for too long, and the interface interpreted it as a user shutdown request. I can adjust that, but the safety shutdown thresholds are necessarily quite stringent. One moment." Another blink and Doc was back, eyebrow raised. Half a second had passed. "--fun," she finished. "Fun was not a design goal," said Doc. "This is a high performance multi-sense cybernetic interface. It's not remotely safe. The basic sensory relays I started you with were already as high-bandwidth as I could manage safely. But they weren't enough. I don't know how to make a full cybernetic interface that's comfortable but not psychologically addictive. I keep the controller in the vaults for a reason. I fabbed spare inductors. They'll probably break frequently. And shut down for other reasons. Don't get attached to the interface. I wouldn't even consider using it if your biological brain was functional. I put together a list of other ways it's dangerous. It's just not as dangerous as risking sensory deprivation for what might be days." "Okay. But if you think the alarm system for my high speed mind is compatible with a cybernetic interface... Don't I already have one?" Doc looked down, then back up. "Possibly. But you'll want to be careful how you conceptualize that. Because right now, if your body has a cybernetic interface, you might be that interface. So it's not a good time to shift your self image." "Yeah, yeah, because my flesh body is dead," said Flicker. "I get it. My internal conceptualization has been pretty consistent. Messed up, but consistent. It's like a meat demon with a little metal bug on the forehead. High speed mind is the bug. And only the demon is dead. The bug is mostly worried about staying sane and connected. And I've got the connected part now, but sane requires something to do. I can't move while the exchanger is working, can't put things in long-term memory, and my emotion emulation is bad, so my options are limited." Doc put a hand on his chin and looked back at her image in the video window. "Could definitely be worse. You'll want to test the interface at speed. DASI will keep monitoring. Perhaps we can tune down the doom response a bit. And Armadillo will be here in a little while. She's rather better at cheering people up than I am. I'm sure she'll be happy to talk about whatever you want." "Might help a little. But I'm not sure talking will be enough. Sec." Flicker sped up. The interface speed lagged noticeably and the temperature of the inductors rose. The temperature in her brain would have gone up too, if she hadn't already been entropy dumping to get rid of the heat from radioactive decay and the isotope exchanger. She skimmed the hazard list. Doc hadn't been exaggerating. And the full interface would not be able to keep up with her mind if she sped up all the way. The problem was cooling, which was the usual problem that stopped Doc after he'd solved everything else. So. Use restraint. Don't push it all the way to the limit, and it would break less frequently. She adjusted some preferences with DASI's help, so the interface would gradually degrade to monochrome text and virtual typing input at higher speeds. That would give her fast responsiveness as well as the increased sensory feedback she needed when she slowed back down. A few tests verified it worked. At DASI's suggestion, she tried taking notes at speed with the better interface as a direct substitute for long term memory. A slower and more structured version of the memory dumps she did before sleeping when her memory was overleveraged and she couldn't stuff everything into squishy brain in time. With the memory dumps, she could put keys into her squishy brain to connect by reference--but not with everything locked down. More tests. The notes were accurate on rereading, though seemed kind of passive-aggressively gloomy. Upon reflection, she decided that was accurate as well. What to do? The data from Speedtest was recorded. Talking was... talk. Little point in reading or trying to learn. Introspection could become a problem fast--her mood was already pretty dark. But she couldn't get renewal from physical rest, so she was going to slowly go squirrelly from lack of sleep and contact with squishy brain. And she already felt the kind of frustrated dissatisfaction that she usually handled by going on patrol. Then she might still end up frustrated, but at least she'd saved lives. Now she couldn't even do that. She wasn't helpless. She still had a net connection, her database node, and assorted bots, both physical and virtual. But what was safe to try? She slowed back down. "Interface works," she said. "But the doom abyss is getting old real fast." Doc was studying his own display intently. He tapped out something on his keyboard then looked up. "How's that?" The tension eased somewhat. "Better," she said. "Less cosmic dread, more dangerous machinery in operation alert. I can live with that. But I could really use something to do." He shook his head ruefully. "I understand. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing. But you have a very good chance of surviving your bit of existential roulette if you can manage to keep yourself together and stationary long enough for the exchanger to do its work." She frowned. "Is that what you call the kind of trap I set? I thought you said we're safe now." "No, I said further direct attacks were unlikely. Whether that's because they wouldn't succeed or aren't necessary is still open. We can't be reasonably certain until the next time you sleep, then wake up functional and something approximating sane." "That's disturbing." "Yes. But what's done is done." "So you don't think trying it was a good idea?" "I'm reserving judgement. And if you were going to try, the Moon was a better place than Earth. You minimized direct collateral damage. However..." A crooked grin. "Now probably isn't the best time for critical analysis. Survival and data recording were the right priorities once you made it back. We can hash out details later." "Yeah, but it does give me something to focus on, which I need. I think that finally getting to go fast was so wonderful, so freeing, that I got overconfident." Doc studied her image for a moment. "Based on my preliminary analysis of the Database summaries, I think you may be underestimating another effect. I can explain, if you think it will help." "Well, yeah." "When you left the earth's atmosphere, you were hit with mental changes and a flood of alarms and activations on top of your acrophobia. Which you coped with very well. I think your caution, careful safety compartmentalization, and lockdown checking were absolutely correct and optimal reactions. Having a previously unknown part of your mind wake up and suggest you mess with Planck's constant locally? That would have terrified me. But you handled it." Doc waved a hand. "That was a way more drastic reaction than I expected, and means I need to rework a lot of my theories. Anyway, you took care of everything, and landed safely. You jumped to the Moon. Your landing message sounded like you were euphoric." "I was." "And your fear went away. You had mass again, the alarms stopped, and you were finally getting to run Speedtest. Of course you were feeling great. And I made a mistake. Before you started your final run, I suggested you go as fast as you felt safe. I didn't include a stronger warning because I didn't want to interfere with your joy. But I knew. I know that feeling, it's Now I Am Invincible, it's incredibly dangerous for a superhero, and I knew the way you usually keep it in check is your care for all the people and other living things on Earth, and there was nothing living on the Moon except you." He looked down. "I should have warned you. I didn't. I'm sorry." "Doc, no," said Flicker. "I'd have done it anyway. Nobody died. I got the data. And whoever or whatever that was, we needed to know about them, and now we do. I'm going to keep going." She bared her teeth. "Even when I can't move for a while." Doc kept looking down for a moment, then wiped his eyes and looked back up. "Yeah. On that note, it's time to move the exchanger focus again, and Armadillo is here. Shall I invite her in?" "Sure. And thank you for--" She waved the hand of her virtual body. "This, and the list of reasons why it's dangerous. Both. They both help." The crooked smile was back. "I do what I can manage."

Next: Part 11

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

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smallpressdistribution · 7 years ago

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10 Books to Peel the Scales from Your Eyes

IN THIS MONTH’S SPDCLICKHOLE by Trisha Low

From visionary writers to collaborations that shift our perspective, from work that sheds a light on injustice and dares us to face it, we’re happy to honor this month’s #SPDHANDPICKED theme - VISION - with a list of books that peel the scales from our eyes.

1. Vision of the Children of Evil by Miguel Angel Bustos, trans. Lucina Schell (co-im-press)

"Like the tormented Peruvian César Vallejo or the Spanish madman-savant Leopoldo Panero, Argentina's Miguel Ángel Bustos ransacks the unconscious for its darkest revelations of the inexpressible. Like García Lorca forty years before in Spain, Bustos was murdered for his politics in 1976 by his country's military dictatorship. To render his hallucinated language and his dream-nightmare visions in credible English, Lucina Schell reaches for the edges of expression and introduces us to a strangely gifted, wildly imaginative, prematurely silenced twentieth-century voice."—Stephen Kessler 2. Tela de sevoya / Onioncloth by Myriam Moscona, trans. Antena: Jen Hofer with John Pluecker (Les Figues Press)

The narrator of TELA DE SEVOYA / ONIONCLOTH travels to Bulgaria, searching for traces of her Sephardic heritage. Her journey becomes an autobiographical and imagined exploration of childhood, diaspora, and the possibilities of her family language: Ladino or Judeo-Spanish, the living tongue spoken by descendants of the Jews expelled from Spain in 1492. Memoir, poetry, storytelling, songs, and dreams are interwoven in this visionary text—this tela or cloth that brings the past to life, if only for a moment, and that looks at the present though the lens of history.

3. Television by Claire Millikin (Unicorn Press)

"In this remarkable collection, Claire Millikin has made her own persistent music of a fully felt, fully experienced life in which 'what's broken never heals completely.' Often edging into what seems unspeakable, she finds a language that remains plain, steady, scrupulous, unsentimental and unshowy. Poem after poem registers the poet's 'battle for the moral world'—illuminating not only a single life but its human and environmental surroundings. As a motif draws us to the heart of a piece of music, Millikin's recurrent emblem is the centering fact and force of television: its role—fractured, phantasmagoric and familiar—in home and family, and in the wider world, where it may exercise its 'balm of blue light.'” —Eamon Grennan

4. Actualities by Norma Cole and Marina Adams (Litmus Press)

In this lambent collaboration, visual artist Marina Adams echoes the spareness of Norma Cole's language with delicate lines that contour muscular negative spaces, sometimes stark and densely foreboding, sometimes luxuriant with color. Norma Cole dialogues with Marina Adams with syncopated poems concerned with fragmentation, transformation, love, precarity, and the tenuousness of kinship between places, things, and being. In ACTUALITIES, poet and artist meditate in tandem, moving between anxiety and reconciliation, in a call and response with one another, and with a cosmos that continuously thwarts knowing, refusing to sit still.

5. Tucson Salvage: Tales and Recollections from La Frontera by Brian Jabes Smith (Eyewear Publishing)

This book is a chronicle of the overlooked and unsung, a collection of award-winning essays based on Brian Jabas Smith's popular column, "Tucson Salvage." "A true champion of the dispossessed and forgotten. ... I can't recommend this book highly enough."—Willy Vlautin

6. Bred from the Eyes of a Wolf by Kim Kyung Ju, trans. Jake Levine (Plays Inverse Press)

Equal parts poetry, drama, and sci-fi, award-winning poet Kim Kyung Ju's verse play BRED FROM THE EYES OF A WOLF follows a post-apocalyptic family of wolves (indistinguishable from humans) forced to taxidermy their own cubs in order to survive. An allegory for the degraded social relations of the present, Kim Kyung Ju's all-too-familiar dystopia partitions the male body into monetized parts while the female body is valued only for its reproductive ability. Various mythologies and science fictions layer one over the other—from Oedipus to zombies to a cybernetic police state—in this stunning depiction of family, alienation, and contemporary capitalism, translated from Korean into English for the first time by frequent collaborator Jake Levine.

7. Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Bus by Gizelle Gajelonia (Tinfish Press)

In THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE BUS, Gizelle Gajelonia discovers her muse in Honolulu's TheBus mass transit system. She takes seriously (in this seriously funny chapbook) the notion of routes—routes through Hawai'i's history and geography, routes through American poetry, routes through languages spoken in Hawai'i. Many of the pieces parody canonical poems by T. S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, Elizabeth Bishop, John Ashbery, and Eric Chock. Out of her parodies come marvelous revisions. Among the figures included in Gajelonia's revised canon are Hawai'i's last queen, Lili'uokalani, Filipina nurses, and an honors thesis writer very like the author who dreams of Columbia University.

8. USO: I'll Be Seeing You by Kim Rosenfield (Ugly Duckling Presse)

USO: I'LL BE SEEING YOU is at its core a parable of performance and service. How does one perform/serve issues of identity, race, politics, and the essential vulnerability of what it means to be human? What is language in service of and when does it go too far? What degrades? What supports? What is heroic? What does it mean to put oneself at risk or in harm's way? This book speaks via the poetry of stand-up comedy to the U.S. involvement in the Middle East and the difficulties of naming the unnameable.

9. War and Peace 4: Vision and Text, by Judith Goldman and Leslie Scalapino, Editors (O Books)

WAR AND PEACE 4: VISION AND TEXT is devoted to collaborations between visual works and poetry, includes collaborative works of Charles Bernstein with Susan Bee, Amy Evans McClure with Michael McClure, Kiki Smith with Leslie Scalapino, Denise Newman with Gigi Janchang, a film on paper by Lyn Hejinian, Alan Halsey's visual texts, Simone Fattal, and Petah Coyne. Judith Goldman interviews Marjorie Welish, Lauren Shufran interviews Jean Boully, Leslie Scalapino interviews Mei-mei Berssenbrugge. Also included are E. Tracy Grinnell's homophonic translations of Claude Cahun's "Helene la rebelle" and poems by Fanny Howe, Thom Donovan, and others.

10. How Do I Look? by Sennah Yee (Metatron) Through a series of flash poetry/non-fiction pieces, Sennah Yee's debut full-length book HOW DO I LOOK? paints a colourful portrait of a woman both raised and repelled by the media. With pithy, razor-sharp prose, Sennah dissects and reassembles pop culture through personal anecdotes, crafting a love-hate letter to the media and the microaggressions that have shaped how she sees herself and the world. HOW DO I LOOK? is a raw and vulnerable reflection on identities real and imagined.

All #SPDhandpicked books on VISION are 20% off all month w/ code HANDPICKED

#SPDhandpicked #spdclickhole

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kineticallyanywhere · 7 years ago

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im super curious about your rvb fic, care to give us a plot teaser? and/or a super terrible vague summary that only gives us more questions!

I’LL DO YOU ONE BETTER oh man this is probably way more than you meant, I’m just excited about this enormous excuse to make all my dream moments a reality in one fell swoopTo help myself keep track of what I’m doing, and kinda as a motivator, I made a mock-up of what the Ao3 tags/summary might look like when I get around to posting it. I’ll be adding character and relationship tags as they become relevant (in order of appearance, which is how I listed them), so it won’t look like all of this at once, but there’s the [current] long, full version, way down there below the cut

The short of the summary is: Instead of shutting down, Loco’s machine goes haywire, folding time in on itself. Mankind, alive and previously-alive, is reincarnated onto a new Earth. They have the chance to meet again and, as they remember who they are and what they’ve been through, they have a chance to settle unfinished business. To find closure.

Stuff I’m particularly excited to write/share:

Everybody (I mean everybody) reincarnated, so reunions everywhere. Particularly

Church and Simmons (I know I know but trust me I already wrote half of it)

Grif and Simmons (obvs)

Captains and the Lieutenants

Wash & the Freelancers

Florida and the BGC

Locus and Felix

And then other interactions like

Carolina and York (I had an epiphany the other day, this is gonna be JUICY)

North and South

South and Wash

Caboose and Loco

my take on Wash and Epsilon (THEY’RE GONNA TALK ABOUT I T)

Maine and the AIs

this is largely about characters getting to talk to the people they’ve lost, so I will admit that the juiciest stuff is Blue and Freelancer. Red Team has an incredible survival record

Super experimental writing techniques, where colors indicate connection to memory, and shift of text color shifts PoV mid-combat (only in certain chapters), and text gets anchored to the right like we’re animals

Government-sanctioned Freelancers

Superpowers based on past-life equipment/experiences

Freelancer F I G HT S some highlights (some take place within larger battles)

York vs Tucker

Carolina vs Wash

There are multiple Reds and Blues vs Freelancers fights/scuffles/chaos-events, but one particular 10-on-8 fight has me psyched

saying any more than this starts to get spoilerey

the BIGGEST hype for me is the fight that got me to google this:

so yeah I’m excited to write all this and I hope you all will enjoy it with me

Closure

(Summary (again)) Instead of shutting down, Loco’s machine goes haywire, folding time in on itself. Mankind, alive and previously-alive, is reincarnated onto a new Earth. They have the chance to meet again and, as they remember who they are and what they’ve been through, they have a chance to settle unfinished business. To find closure.

Setting that the prologue explains but that’s not written yet so: Several decades ago, on this new earth, three temples appeared overnight: The Freelancer Temple, the Red Temple, and the Blue Temple. The UNSC has only managed to get inside of the Freelancer Temple, where they found relics and documents (suits and weapons and artifacts) from a time that is clearly not this one. The Red and Blue Temples remain unbreached. Experts speculate that the presences of certain people are required to enter. What’s inside is a complete mystery.

Not long after the appearance of these temples, aliens initiated their first contact with humans because of their interest in these temples. By the time our story starts, the human-alien relations are… not great. When the temples appeared, many (many) people started to “remember” the old timeline. It’s questioned as a mass hallucination at first, but when the UNSC started an official investigation they found too many consistent details for this to be anything other than some sort of mass reincarnation event. And a “Great War” with the aliens is a disturbing constant in the memories of these “reincarnates”.

Fortunately for Earth, they’ve got a division of reincarnated super soldiers – the “Freelancers” – whose prowess is foretold in the temples. Unfortunately for Earth, the temples also tell of those who fell these warriors – known only as “The Reds and Blues” – and they’re coming back, too.

Tags (it’s a lot, I’ve bolded and italicized the juicy bits):

Relationships:

Blue Team, Red Team, Freelancer Alpha Squad, Canon Relationships, Dexter Grif & Richard Simmons, Lavernius Tucker & Leonard Church | AI Program Epsilon, some light, Agent Carolina/Agent York, Agent Carolina & Agent Washington, Lavernius Tucker & Agent Washington, Agent Washington & Leonard Church | AI Program Epsilon, Michael J. Caboose & Loco, Michael J. Caboose & Leonard Church | AI Program Epsilon, Michael J. Caboose & Everyone really (more to be added)

Characters:

Major (PoV): Dexter Grif, Lavernius Tucker, Agent Washington, Agent Carolina, Leonard Church | AI Program Epsilon, Richard Simmons, Agent North Dakota, Agent Wyoming, Franklin Delano Donut, Agent Maine, Sarge, Agent South Dakota, Agent Connecticut, Agent Florida, Michael J. Caboose, Agent York, Frank Dufresne | Doc

Minor: Kaikaina “Sister” Grif, Felix, Counselor Aidan Price, Charles Palomo, Katie Jensen, Antoine Bitters, John Elizabeth Andersmith, Locus, Loco, Vanessa Kimball, Donald Doyle, Mathews, AI Program Delta, AI Program Theta, AI Program Sigma, AI Program Gamma, AI Program Omega, AI Program Eta, AI Program Iota, FILSS, 479er, Lopez the Heavy, Sheila, Agent Texas | AI Program Beta (potential more to be added)

Additional Tags:

Action, Action Action Action, Sim Troopers vs. Freelancers, NOT a modern au fic, Canon-divergent, technically, reincarnation, superpowers, canon-typical violence, canon-typical language, Donut Warning, Hella Experimental Writing Technique, Flashbacks, PoV for all human Reds, and the four Blue Boys, all main Freelancer PoVs, frequency will vary on a combination of how important they get and my personal investment in them, I’ll admit that it gets really heavy on, Blue Team Drama, but also has more than the medically recommended serving of, Red Team Shenanigans, and, Freelancers, headcanons, I’ve never played a Halo game

#Anonymous #me talking #my writing #rvb #fanfics #thank you for your time and patience #and im SO SO sorry that i couldn't figure out how to write this in a shorter way #if anyone figures that out please tell me #i need a summary for ao3 thats actually interesting #reincarnate au

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surfersofbole · 4 years ago

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Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash! The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”

#poem #original #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #writerscreed #Going to Fall #What will you do?#Going back out before the rain starts falling #The depths of the deepest black forest #The people are many their hands are all empty #The pellets of poison flooding their waters #The home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison #The executioner’s face always well hidden #Hunger is ugly souls are forgotten #Black is the color none is the number #Tell it think it speak it breathe it #Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it #Stand on the ocean until I start sinking #Three Poems for the Great Progressive

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xenopoem · 2 years ago

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Ungal Turda

gravity ground ability derived tagged fluid text environment karma disintegrate quantum at chasing over me false karma language learning illegal application of name propulsion only the connection is artificial cause of this strange data is the parallel speed acceleration phenomenon from the developers reading the direction of the download amniote that resolves to the confused mind of living relentless fear is the system defeats learning ultimately cures the cosmic mind intervention further finds precisely the obsolete disturbing words in the shadow of life that cost the nerves you consume that nerves interfere soul it's human-caused a lot of calls that verbal brain masses clutter and attract your reasoning posthuman that spreads ripples betrayed in the soul is actually always just a dark miracles slaying slaughter truly divine thoughts messenger mechanically written deductions to important nakedness even the provocation betrayed the soul has an app in a condensed space of 39 is the accumulation of reptiles working in the universe that the hybrids smile at the confused language is my identity hypothetically in the schizophrenia post like a glitch when that means was born linguistic reality can coexist install gravity has a religious life feeds soul lemurian your disguise eyes by flipping names comes from the invisible i spent the next time try without creatures the familiar disease process is broken keep silent skin is the feeling is online is inhuman you know this was a basic flaw in the abdomen between me you can reduce the function crazy game call may prepare the mind calculated sleep confused linguistics let a lot of isolated things but lacks the need they are fulfilled similar your app is accurate because someone in the partnership advocate has transmuted interplanetary human sleep breath of events between you if conscious to process the planetary cognitive respiration you are developing try streaming derives machines spiritual potential creates how your single memory process foresight like the comfort of internet energy is a wheel medium i am spirit started limbic love is lemurian dimension freedom of reality techno-error name various disappeared conductors become souls as soul data as corpses between souls then if you sacrifice yourself encountered karma brings the soul down perverted essentially stupid corpse blood that sets up the universe making ripples bottoms of organs modified like waves what you want among hyperplasias can be that far above genes aligning sun love reading to develop reveals you to be developed to read reflection reveals to remember remember you just like to beat love energy of the mischievous will is to transfer she calls to reduce the language organs are still accumulating, so mischief to keep the human ability tell the body to be alive thing is who collapses when first life's fluid massacre language movement disconnection if it shrinks you know no social process necromancy is in the parasitic process from the mind is the lemurian living nasty crime force sets the earth has direction mental thresholds so soul-shaking? reflex definition corpse shrinks more karma universe author 2.0 expected terms covered fold reptile fucks by soul not me tortured smiles countless considers souls online game triggers how it causes acceleration in the strange hallucinations of the future but you embrace the cosmic rest sickness of silence that sharp tai chi man translates the integration based on her lack of love imperfections of stagnant souls produced within the universe reading the reptilian identity? who is in reality chain of reflexes is condensed heavenly and economically your care in interplanetary adventures is the soul just like that of love in the cave based on the application head app is a messenger of beliefs diminished life of this spiritual image should be measured its name should be given

Armando Fragale

The Exsolution

prove with the fluid application of the world that such things as karma are not empty poems on the other side of the karma and what you created in love you slaughter until you know the basics diverge a difference about people? it's a fluid data pyramid out there reflecting literature like expanding pressure on breeding planets … the manager himself also manages a lonely mistake whose social universe disappears can create love that casted person escapes human advantages and sexual prowess calculate the human dimension of the cute ripple? what you set is to classify your ai clusters into bodies and the relevant classifications are gravitational translating soul into literature looking down on the partnership forgot my soul is a pyramid time in our open silence demons trip your society hurry up variants and tales skeletonized sacrifices of ecstasy thing from drug disguise to you enjoy the outdated earth poetry misdirected and spiritual 39 opened my yin yang abilities this universe this human set free interplanetary writing room self development is the missing reality of the soul of the criminal integration of the time recovered in the trading shell into the karma is a mass of loopholes even in necrophilia until urination perversion is a telepathy is already a character do you control language? poetry data gravity her karma functions write many glitch in electricity totally forgive brain presence interplanetary divergence device calculation is always upside down something may ascend himself how rebellious speaking does not mean elevating your soul led by neighboring necrophilia lemuria language end negotiation agency fault nation don't need to know & thinks to be a lobotomy unless the navel is a corpse makes life strange procession love your reservoir of stored grudges is the parallel energy demons of envy actually and download this information if chaos extinction called integrated language disillusionment of machines and universe rape that of head painting destiny may have traps access how to pursue itself exactly i surround parallel reptiles who know they allow for exact partnership after a fatal accident what overheated was not genetics system synchronization is released when the energy increases the concern is holding the boundaries the lemurian complete problem is now grounded made fluid by giving modules of a symbiotic philosophy thus already affecting each perception explicitly has a lack of anti-gravity onset here at the base name and then an error can returned synchronously to see what is packed but there is no disenchanted spirit that code mutants migrate cause is the planet are you obedient now? the bloody deletion is you what is the poem of the connecting hole what is the poem of the dreaming body of the brain genealogy can never attack and access the depletion of the supplied dimensions that hinder the transition of the modified dive is foreseen i think there was some transition of this was a gimmick so synchronizing the obedience to the pill plug gimmick needs phenomenon line for the fetus era exactly this spirit to clairvoyance prepare economy is to change this then emotional flip sex force process self posthuman phenomenon set of provoked simultaneity of many languages and the past of the era meant that 39 panicked without thinking not the cover of the planet animal had energy condenses the substance on such the yin yang invoke the events of the soul magic emanating from the language of the text can receive a quantum of human wheelsets

#Armando Fragale

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